conferred, and the same thankfully acknowledged, if the auctioneer will be so kind as bring the next market town ten miles nearer and carry the coach and the waggon once a day past the door. Earnestly requesting early attention to the above, and with sentiments of, &c. R. PUGSLEY, Sen. P.S. Richard is just come to hand dripping and half dead out of the Nene, and the two apprentices all but drowned each other in saving him. Hence occurs to add, fishing opportunities among the desirable items. [Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT:--MADAME PASTY.] AN ANCIENT CONCERT. BY A VENERABLE DIRECTOR “Give me _old_ music--let me hear The songs of _days_ gone by!”--H. F. CHORLEY. Oh! come, all ye who love to hear An ancient song in ancient taste, To whom all by-gone Music’s dear As verdant spots in Memory’s waste! Its name “The Ancient Concert” wrongs, And has not hit the proper clef, To wit, Old Folks, to sing Old Songs, To Old Subscribers rather deaf. Away, then, Hawes! with all your band; Ye beardless boys, this room desert! One youthful voice, or youthful hand, Our concert-pitch would disconcert! No Bird must join our “vocal throng,” The present age beheld at font: Away, then, all ye “Sons of Song,” Your Fathers are the men we want! Away, Miss Birch, you’re in your prime! Miss Romer, seek some other door! Go, Mrs. Shaw! till, counting time, You count you’re nearly fifty-four! Go, Miss Novello, sadly young! Go, thou composing Chevalier, And roam the county towns among, No Newcome will be welcome here! Our Concert aims to give at _night_ The music that has had its _day_! So, Rooke, for us you cannot write Till time has made you Raven gray. Your score may charm a modern ear, Nay, ours, when three or fourscore old, But in this Ancient atmosphere, Fresh airs like yours would give us cold! Go, Hawes, and Cawse, and Woodyat, go! Hence, Shirreff, with those native curls; And Master Coward ought to know This is no place for boys and girls! No Massons here we wish to see; Nor is it Mrs. Seguin’s sphere, And Mrs. B----! Oh! Mrs. B----, Such Bishops are not reverend here! What! Grisi, bright and beaming thus! To sing the songs gone gray with age! No, Grisi, no,--but come to us And welcome, when you leave the stage! Off, Ivanhoff!--till weak and harsh!-- Rubini, hence! with all the clan! But come, Lablache, years hence, Lablache, A little shrivell’d thin old man. Go, Mr. Phillips, where you please! Away, Tom Cooke, and all your batch; You’d run us out of breath with Glees, And Catches that we could not catch. Away, ye Leaders all, who lead With violins, quite modern things; To guide our Ancient band we need Old fiddles out of leading strings!