. The choice works of Thomas Hood, in prose and verse. the banquet were scrambledfor by the Arcadians—how they danced round the Maypole,not tripping themselves like f dries, but tripping one another—how theHonourable Miss Rasherly, out of idleness, stood fitting the notch oian arrow to the string, and how the shaft went oft of itself, and lodged,unluckily, in the calf of one of the caperers. I v\ ill leave to the imagi-nation what suits were torn past mending or soiled be) ond washing—the lamentations of old Jenkins—and the vows of Lady Rasherlyand her daughters thnt there should b
. The choice works of Thomas Hood, in prose and verse. the banquet were scrambledfor by the Arcadians—how they danced round the Maypole,not tripping themselves like f dries, but tripping one another—how theHonourable Miss Rasherly, out of idleness, stood fitting the notch oian arrow to the string, and how the shaft went oft of itself, and lodged,unluckily, in the calf of one of the caperers. I v\ ill leave to the imagi-nation what suits were torn past mending or soiled be) ond washing—the lamentations of old Jenkins—and the vows of Lady Rasherlyand her daughters thnt there should be no more May-days at Pork-ington. Suffice it, that night found a//the Arculians at the Rose andCrown : and on the morrow, Diana and her nymphs were laid up withsevere colds—Doily ^^ iggins was out of place—Hobbinol in a surfeit—Alexis before a magistrate—Palemon at a surgeons—Billy in thepound—and Pan in the stocks, whh the fumes of the last nightsliquor not yet evaporated from his grey gooseberry eyes. CREAM OF THE COMIC ANNUALS. A pastoral in A flat THE PUGSLEY PAPERS* HOW the following correspondence came into my hands mustremain a Waverley mystery. The Pugsley Papers were neitherrtscued from a garret, like the Evelyn,—collected trnm c;;rtridges, likethe CuUoden, nor saved, like the Garrick, from being shredded intoa snowstorm at a Winter Theatre. They were not snati hed from atailors shears, like the original parchment of M. gna Charta. Theywere neither the Legacy of a Dominie, nor the communicitions of MyLandlord,—a consignment, Iikt the Clinker Letters, from some Dustwich,— northe waifs and stra\ s of a Twopenny They were not unrolled from ancient papyri. They werenone of those that line trunks, clothe s ices, or paper the walls of oldattics. They were neith-r given to me nor sold to me,—nor stolen,—nor borrowed and surreptitiously <opied,—nor left in a hackney-coach,like Sheridans play, nor misdelivered by a carr
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