While thus hastily sketching the peculiarities of Airay and his associates, it would be unjust not to state in conclusion, that their performances were always of a moral character; if any indelicate sentiment or expression occurred in their plays, it was omitted; nothing was uttered that could raise a blush on the female cheek. Nor were the audiences less moral than the manager: not an instance can be recorded of riot or indecency. In these respects, Tom Airay’s theatre might serve as a model to the patent houses in town, wherein it is to be feared the original intent of the stage, that of improving the mind by inculcating morality, is perverted. Whenever Airay takes a retrospective glance at his theatrical management, he can do it with pleasure; for never did he pander to a depraved appetite, or render his barn a spot wherein the vicious would covet to congregate. T. Q. M. [23] In Craven, the hay is not stacked as in the south, but housed in barns, which from this custom are called hay-mows. * * * * * ~Literary Novelty.~ “THE SYBIL’S LEAVES, _or a Peep into Futurity_, published by Ackermann, Strand, and Lupton Relfe, Cornhill,” consist of sixty lithographic verses on as many cards, in a case bearing an engraved representation of a party in high humour consulting the cards. Thirty of them are designed for ladies, and as many for gentlemen: a lady is to hold the gentleman’s pack, and _vice versa_. From these packs, each lady or gentleman wishing to have “the _most important_ points _infallibly_ predicted” is to draw a card. The idea of telling fortunes at home is very pleasant; and the variety of “the Sybil’s Leaves” assists to as frequent opportunities of re-consultation as the most inveterate craver can desire. A lady condemned by one of the leaves to “wither on the virgin thorn,” on turning over a new leaf may chance to be assured of a delightful reverse; and by a like easy process, a “disappointed gentleman” become, at last, a “happy man.” * * * * * [Illustration: ~The ancient River Fleet at Clerkenwell.~] Lo! hither Fleet-_brook_ came, in former times call’d the Fleet- _river_, Which navies once rode on, in present times hidden for ever, Save where water-cresses and sedge mark its oozing and creeping, In yonder old meadows, from whence it lags slowly--as weeping Its present misgivings, and obsolete use, and renown-- And bearing its burdens of shame and abuse into town, On meeting the buildings sinks into the earth, nor aspires To decent-eyed people, till forced to the Thames at Blackfri’rs. *