We cannot say whether any one does send anything. A few pounds may drop in occasionally, but we suspect that the majority of the sums, sent in the name of A. B., or X. Y. Z., and the other popular initials of the alphabet, are forwarded by the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER himself. It is a financial dodge for inducing reluctant tax-payers to do that as a matter of "conscience," which they will not do as a pleasure.
Among the many novel systems of medicine for which the present day is remarkable, there is one distinguished by a name that, at least, seems very appropriate. It is called Coffinism. This is candid. The term, however, is so comprehensive, that it might, with great correctness, be applied to all manner of therapeutical schemes which deviate from true medical science. There is one right method of treating diseases, and there are many wrong ones; to all whereof the denomination of Coffinism is justly applicable; since it indicates, with exactness, the tendency of each of them; every improper way of attempting to cure people being a path which leads to the "bourne from which no traveller returns:" in short, which terminates in the elm box.
We hope we have heard the last of the EMPEROR OF RUSSIA'S Ultimatums, or Ultimata, just as you like to call it. We trust the EMPEROR will bear in mind the old Latin injunction of "_Ne sutor ultra crepidam_", which, for his own particular Imperial use, we beg to alter into "_Ne sutor ultra Ultimatum_."
CURE FOR A CUT.--Buy a new suit of clothes.
No. 2.--THE SONG OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVER.
Wearily spins the web of life; Dismally London's streets I tread: I've got at home a consumptive wife, And two small children lying dead. (_Aside._) I must indulge a quiet grin-- I shall feel better when I've laughed; My wife's at home consuming gin, While the children sleep with an opium draught.
If my wife and children you could see, I'm sure you'd help me, good Christians all; Believe my wretched tale, and on me In halfpence let your compassion fall. (_Aside._) If my wife and children you wish to meet As soon as she's sober, you'll mayhap Find her in the adjoining street, With the well-drugg'd infants on her lap.
A Weaver I've always been by trade, From the time when I was eight years old; But I've been unfit for labour made, By hunger, over-work, and cold. (_Aside._) Yes, I am a Weaver, I'll stick to that; And my skill will often myself surprise, When I think what precious yarns I spin, And what wondrous webs I weave--of lies.