hand and Malefactors are dropping in every line--Soverins is scars and Peeples ready to tear each other to peeces for um--We want some change----In the Naborhood of Manshister thirty thousn Wafers are in a state of Risibility which is no laughin matter, havin struck for more Wags tho' they get therty shillins a Weak and are always in Labor!--this abolition of feelin shold be checkt, for if it is to go on it will most likly continew----As you observe, the Rag for Chang is grate--as they say The Scullmasters Abroad and the Scull all in confushon--Old Head devices done away with and Hairy Cassles supplyin the place--Aspics on the Continence seem very embracing--tho the Trials in France is over the People are in Truble--I hope the Rising in the Low Kantrys is over--The Poles seem to be makin head again the Rushons in great Armd Bodis--bent on Deth or imprisonment to get Liberty--In short all Eurups in Harms; but nothins so Barberus as Civil comoshins Hopin all is over with You, and restin asshurd Stuck Puggys is not likely to rise again, I conclude remaining Your sincer Frend and well wisher A HUMPHRIES. [1] From the _Literary Gazette_. See Notice of the _Comic Annual_--_Mirror_, No. 467. * * * * * SOME PASSAGES FROM THE DIARY OF THE LATE MR. ST. JOHN LONG. "Aye--there's the _rub_."--HAMLET. "'Tis all one!" said I, laying down the newspaper on the breakfast table, after reading an erroneous representation of myself and the Marquess of Sligo:--"I am resolved to remove this stain from my character, and, if _hard-rubbing_ can do it, I may hope to succeed." I had scarcely pronounced these words, when my servant entered the room to inform me that a person had arrived in breathless haste, imploring my assistance for a gentleman in a dying condition. Heedful, as I ever am to attend to the sufferings of others--a pursuit in which I have found ample fee-licity--I drew on my boots and followed the applicant to the house of the suffering gentleman. This was situated in a picturesque part of the metropolis, and, on knocking, the door was opened to me by a man who might be six and forty years of age--there, or thereabout. Guessing the purport of my visit, he said nothing, but led me up to his master's room, when a spectacle of the most appalling character met my eyes. A gentleman in the prime of life, lay extended on a bed--his hair dishevelled, his dress disordered, and his complexion a midway hue between the tints of chalk and Cheshire cheese. His tongue hung out of his mouth, loaded with evidence of internal strife. I naturally believed that the present was a confirmed case of _phthisis pulmonalis_, and I accordingly had recourse to my well known, and, with-few-exceptions-always-successful remedy of inhaling. In this instance, however, it did not answer my expectations. Instead of benefitting the _trachea_, it produced a sympathetic affection of the stomach and