_In the course of time_ we really do not know what is not to happen in America. Jonathan promises to grow so big, and to do such wonders in a day or two, that no bounds can be placed to his performances _in the future tense_. Everything will of course be on a scale of grandeur proportioned to his country, which, as he observes in his Travels in England, is "bigger and more like a world" than our boasted land; instead, therefore, of going about in confined, close carriages as people do here, the Americans will rattle through the streets to their routs and parties in their houses. One tenanted brick building will be driven up to the door of another. A further improvement may here be suggested. Jonathan is fond of chairs with rockers, that is, chairs with a cradle-bottom, on which he see-saws himself as he smokes his pipe and fuddles his sublime faculties with liquor. Now by putting a house on rockers, this trouble and exertion of the individual on a scale so small and unworthy of a great people would be spared, and every tenant of a brick building would be rocked at the same time, and by one common piece of machinery. The effect of a whole city nid-nid-nodding after dinner, will be extremely magnificent and worthy of America. As for the feasibility of the thing, nothing can be more obvious. If houses can be put upon cradles for launching, they can be put upon cradles for rocking; and if tenants do not object to being conveyed from one part of the city to another in their mansions, they will not surely take fright at an agreeable stationary see-saw in them.--_London Magazine._ * * * * * GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON. Thus runs the world away.--HAMLET. Good-night to the Season! 'tis over! Gay dwellings no longer are gay; The courtier, the gambler, the lover, Are scatter'd, like swallows, away: There's nobody left to invite one, Except my good uncle and spouse; My mistress is bathing at Brighton, My patron is sailing at Cowes: For want of a better employment, Till Ponto and Don can get out, I'll cultivate rural enjoyment, And angle immensely for trout. Good-night to the Season!--the buildings Enough to make Inigo sick; The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings, Of stucco, and marble, and brick; The orders deliciously blended, From love of effect, into one; The club-houses only intended, The palaces only begun; The hell where the fiend, in his glory, Sits staring at putty and stones, And scrambles from story to story, To rattle at midnight his bones.