Within five-and-twenty years from this date most of the existing morning journals were established, and their advertising columns put on a guise closely resembling that which they now present. We need not therefore pursue our deep trenching into the old subsoil in order to turn up long-buried evidences of manners and fashions, for they have ceased to appear, either fossil or historical; we therefore boldly leap the gulf that intervenes between these old days and the present. The early part of the present century saw the commencement of that liberal and systematic plan of advertising which marks the complete era in the art. Princely ideas by degrees took possession of the trading mind as to the value of this new agent in extending their business transactions. Packwood, some thirty years ago, led the way by impressing his razor-strop indelibly on the mind of every bearded member of the empire. Like other great potentates he boasted a laureate in his pay, and every one remembers the reply made to the individuals curious to know who drew up his advertisements: "La, sir, we keeps a poet!" By universal consent, however, the world has accorded to the late George Robins the palm in this style of commercial puffing. His advertisements were really artistically written. Like Martin, he had the power of investing every landscape and building he touched with an importance and majesty not attainable by meaner hands. He did perhaps go beyond the yielding line of even poetical license, when he described one portion of a paradise he was about to submit to public competition as adorned, among other charms, with a "hanging wood," which the astonished purchaser found out meant nothing more than an old gallows. But then he redeemed slight manoeuvres of this kind by touches which really displayed a genius for puffing. On one occasion he had made the beauties of an estate so enchanting, that he found it necessary to blur it by a fault or two, lest it should prove too bright and good "for human nature's daily food." "But there are two drawbacks to the property," sighed out this Hafiz of the Mart, "the litter of the rose-leaves and the noise of the nightingales!" Certainly the force of exquisite puffing could no further go, and when he died the poetry of advertising departed. Others, such as Charles Wright of Champagne celebrity, have attempted to strike the strings; and Moses does, we believe, veritably keep a poet; but none of them have been able to rival George the Great, and we yawn as we read sonnets which end in the invariable "mart," or acrostics which refer to Hyam and Co.'s superior vests. Twenty years ago some of the daily newspapers admitted illustrated advertisements into their columns; now it would be fatal to any of them to do so. Nevertheless, they are by far the most effective of their class, as they call in the aid of another sense to express their meaning. All but the minors of the present generation must remember George Cruikshank's