[Extracted From A Well-Known Annual.]

O CURIOUS reader, didst thou ne’er Behold a worshipful Lord May’r Seated in his great civic chair So dear? Then cast thy longing eyes this way, It is the ninth November day, And in his new-born state survey One here! To rise from little into great Is pleasant; but to sink in state From high to lowly is a fate Severe. Too soon his shine is overcast, Chill’d by the next November blast; His blushing honours only last One year! He casts his fur and sheds his chains, And moults till not a plume remains-- The next impending May’r distrains His gear. He slips like water through a sieve-- Ah, could his little splendour live Another twelvemonth--he would give One ear!

LONDON FASHIONS FOR NOVEMBER.

REMARKS.

NO season has offered such variétés in costume as the early part of the present month. Fancy dresses of the most outré description have appeared, even in the streets. Short waists and long, full sleeves and empty, broad skirts and narrow, whole skirts, half skirts, and none at all, have been indifferently worn. For the Promenade, rags and tatters of all kinds have been in much favour; very few buttons are worn; and the coats, waistcoats, and pantaloons, have been invariably padded and stuffed with hay or straw. We observed several exquisites making morning calls in scare-crow great-coats; the skirts, lappels, collars, and cuffs, picturesquely, but not too formally, jagged à la Vandyke. The prevailing colours--all colours at once. Wigs have been very general--both en buzz and frizzé; these have been commonly composed of deal shavings; but in some cases of tow, and sometimes horse-hair. For the evening party, a few squibs and crackers are stuck in the perruque or hat, and the boots and shoes are polished up with a little pitch or tar; sometimes a Catherine wheel has been added en coquarde. Frills, collars, and ruffles, of papier coupé, have entirely superseded those of cambric or lace, and shirts of every description are quite discarded. Paint has been in much request, and ruddle seems to have been preferred to rouge; patches are also much worn, not on the countenance, but on the clothes; for these the favourite matériel is tartan, plush of any colour, or corduroy. Several dandies appeared on the 5th with gloves, but they are not essential requisites to be in the ton: canes are discarded; even a riding-whip would be reckoned to evince mauvais goût, but a half-penny bunch of matches “à la main” is indispensable to a fashionable aspirant. The old practice of being carried abroad in chairs has been universally revived; and it must be confessed, that it exhibits the Figure to much advantage.

Amongst the Nouveautés, we observed the following Caractère, as making a felicitous début. The coast was à-la-militaire, of the colour formerly so much in vogue under the name of fumée de Londres, turned up with flamme d’enfer. It was garni with very dead gold; and slashed à l’Espagnole, back and front. The pantaloons were equally bizarre; one leg being composed of Scotch tartan, and the other of blue striped bed-ticking, made very full, en matelot, in compliance with the prevailing taste for navals. The wig was made of green and white willow shavings, with a large link for a queue, tied on with a nœud of red tape. The hat, brown, somewhat darker than the Devonshire beaver, but disinclining to black. It had no brim, and was without a crown. A tarnished badge of the Phœnix Fire Office, on the bust, gave a distingué air to the whole Figure, which was going down Bond-street, and excited a sensation quite à-l’envie by its appearance in the World of Fashion.

N.B.--We are requested to state that the above described figure was entirely invented and manufactured by little Solomon Levy, of Hollywell-street, Strand, who has a variety always on show, about the metropolis.

SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION.

“An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could only belong to a Boney-parte.”--Life of Napoleon.

TIME was, I always had a drop For any tale or sigh of sorrow; My handkerchief I used to sop Till often I was forced to borrow; I don’t know how it is, but now My eyelids seldom want a drying; The doctors, p’rhaps, could tell me how-- I fear my heart is ossifying!

O’er Goethe how I used to weep, With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet, When Werter put himself to sleep With pistols kiss’d and clean’d by Charlotte; Self-murder is an awful sin, No joke there is in bullets flying, But now at such a tale I grin-- I fear my heart is ossifying!

The Drama once could shake and thrill My nerves, and set my tears a stealing, The Siddons then could turn at will Each plug upon the main of feeling; At Belvidera now I smile, And laugh while Mrs. Haller’s crying; ’Tis odd, so great a change of style-- I fear my heart is ossifying!

That heart was such--some years ago, To see a beggar quite would shock it, And in his hat I used to throw The quarter’s savings of my pocket: I never wish--as I did then!-- The means from my own purse supplying, To turn them all to gentlemen-- I fear my heart is ossifying!

We’ve had some serious things of late, Our sympathies to beg or borrow, New melo-drames, of tragic fate, And acts and songs, and tales of sorrow; Miss Zouch’s case, our eyes to melt, And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing. But Lord!--so little have I felt, I’m sure my heart is ossifying!

THE POACHER.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country’s pride, When once destroyed can never be supplied.

GOLDSMITH.

BILL BLOSSOM was a nice young man, And drove the Bury coach; But bad companions were his bane, And egg’d him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds, And how to noose the hare; And with a wiry terrier, He often set a snare.

Each “shiny night” the moon was bright, To park, preserve, and wood He went, and kept the game alive, By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore That he had this demerit-- Give him an inch of warren, he Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice; And many, large and small, Without Hall’s powder, without lead, Were sent to Leaden-Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer, From forest, park, or lawn; And without courting lord or duke, Used frequently to fawn.

Folks who had hares discovered snares-- His course they could not stop: No barber he, and yet he made Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe, He tried the keeper’s nerves; They swore he never seem’d to have Jam satis of preserves.

The Shooter went to beat, and found No sporting worth a pin, Unless he tried the covers made Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth, In Surrey not a button; The Speaker said he often tried The Manors about Sutton.

No county from his tricks was safe: In each he tried his lucks, And when the keepers were in Beds, He often was at Bucks.

And when he went to Bucks, alas! They always came to Herts; And even Oxon used to wish That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual Hants, Old Cheshire laid his plots: He got entrapp’d by legal Berks, And lost his life in Notts.

SKETCHES ON THE ROAD.

THE SUDDEN DEATH.

THERE are several objections to one-horse vehicles. With two wheels, they are dangerous; with four, generally cruel inventions, tasking one animal with the labour of two. And, in either case, should your horse think proper to die on the road you have no survivor to drag your carriage through the rest of the stage; or to be sent off galloping with the coachman on his back for a coadjutor.

That was precisely Miss Norman’s dilemma.

If a horse could be supposed to harbour so deadly a spite against his proprietor, I should believe that the one in question chose to vent his animosity by giving up the ghost just at the spot where it would cause most annoyance and inconvenience. For fourteen months past he had drawn the Lady in daily airings to a point just short of the Binn Gate;--because that fifty yards further would have cost sixpence; a sum which Miss Norman could, or believed she could, but ill spare out of a limited income. At this very place, exactly opposite the tall elm which usually gave the signal for turning homeward, did Plantagenet prefer to drop down stone dead: as if determined that his mistress should have to walk every inch of it, to her own house.

But Miss Norman never walked.