** This is the age of progression. Intellect and steam are on the quick march and full gallop. Butchers' boys, puffing cigars, and lapping well-diluted caldrons of “Hunt's Roasted,” illuminate with penny lore the hitherto unclassic shambles of Whitechapel and Leadenhall. The mechanic, far advanced in intelligence and gin, roars “animal parliaments, universal suffering, and vote by bullet.” And the Sunday School Solomon, on being asked by meo magister, “Who was Jesse?” lisps “the Flower of Dumblain!”--“When was Rome built, my little intelligence?”--“In the night, sir.”--“Eh! How?”-- “Because I've heerd grandmother say, Rome warn't built in a day!”--“Avez vous du mal, monsieur?” was the question put to a young Englishman, after a turn over in the French diligence.--“Non” replied the six-lessons linguist, “Je riai qu'un portmanteau!” But we have since advanced to the learning of Mr. Lane; like the lady, who complained to the limner that her portrait looked too ancient for her, and received from Mr. Brush this pertinent reply, “Madam, you will grow more and more like it every day!” _Ingleby_, * “emperor of conjurors,” (who let his magic cat out of the bag in a printed book of legerdemain,) and Gyngell played, only with _new variations_, the same old sleight-of-hand tricks over again. The wizard's art is down among the dead men. * “Theurgicomination! or New Magical Wonders, by Sieur Ingleby. He plays all sorts of tricks upon cards; exhibits his Pixidees Metallurgy, or tricks upon medals; and Operation in Popysomance, being the art of discovering people's thoughts. Any gentleman may cut off a cock's head, and at the Sieur's bidding it shall leap back to its old quarters, chanticleer giving three crows for its recovery!” As “dead men” died on the Laureat's lips, the joyous presence was announced of Mr. Hercules Hatband and Mr. Stanislaus Stiflegig. Uncle Timothy proposed a glass round; and to make up for lost time (in a libation to mountebanks), tumblers for the mutes. “Our nephew is fat, and scant of breath we will give him a few minutes to recruit. Marma-duke Merripall, I call upon you for a song.” “An excellent call! Uncle Timothy,” shouted Deputy Doublechin. Up jumped Borax Bumps, Esq. and running his shoulder of mutton palms with scientific velocity over the curly-wigged cranium of the comical coffin-maker, he emphatically pronounced the “organ of tune” to exhibit a musical Pelion among its intellectual nodosities. “I should take your father, sir, to have been a parish clerk, from this mountainous developement of Sternhold and Hopkins.” “My song shall be a toast” said the comical coffin-maker: “TOASTED CHEESE!” Taffy ap-Tudor he couldn't be worse-- The Leech having bled him in person and purse. His cane at his nose, and his fee in his fob,