Apropos of dwarfs--William Evans, porter to King Charles the First, who was two yards and a half in height, “dancing in an antimask at court, drew little Jeffrey the dwarf out of his pocket, first to the wonder, then to the laughter of the beholders.” Little Jeffrey's height was only three feet nine inches. But even the gigantic William Evans, and George the Fourth's tall porter whom we remember to have seen peep over the gates of Carlton House, were nothing to the modern American, who is so tall as to be obliged to go up a ladder to shave himself! --hare that beats a drum; * the Savoyard's puppet-shew; the mummeries of Moorfields, ** urge thee forward on thy ramble of two centuries through Bartholomew Fair, which, like 'Th' adventure of the Bear and Fiddle Is sung--but breaks off in the middle.'” * Ben Jonson, in his play of Bartholomew Fair, mentions this singular exhibition having taken place in his time; and Strutt gives a pictorial description of it, copied from a drawing in the Harleian collection (6563) said to be upwards of four centuries old. ** Moorfields, spite of its “melancholy Moor Ditch” was formerly famous for, “Hills and holes, and shops for brokers, Open sinners, canting soakers; Preachers, doctors, raving, puffing, Praying, swearing, solving, huffing, Singing hymns, and sausage frying, Apple roasting, orange shying; Blind men begging, fiddlers drawling, Raree-shows and children bawling-- Gingerbread! and see Gibraltar! Humstrums grinding tunes that falter; Maim'd and halt aloft are staging, Bills and speeches mobs engaging; 'Good people, sure de ground you tread on, Me did put dis voman's head on!'” “The Flying Horse, a noted victualling house in Moor-fields, next to that of the late Astrologer Trotter, has been molested for several nights past, stones, and glass bottles being thrown into the house, to the great annoyment and terror of the family and guests.”--News Letter of Feb. 25, 1716. As the Lauréat closed his manuscript, the door opened, and who should enter but Uncle Timothy. “Ha! my good friends, what happy chance has brought you to the business abode and town Tusculum of the Boskys for half-a-dozen generations of Drysalters?” “Something short of assault and battery, fine and imprisonment.” And Mr. Bosky, after helping Uncle Timothy off with his great coat, warming his slippers, wheeling round his arm-chair to the chimney-corner, and seeing him comfortably seated, gave a detail of our late encounter at the Pig and Tinder-Box. The old-fashioned housekeeper delivered a note to Mr. Bosky, sealed with a large black seal. “An ominous looking affair!” remarked the middle-aged gentleman.