7. That the parish beadle, for the time being, be authorised to stand no nonsense. 8. That his Majesty’s mail be permitted to pass on the night in question. 9. That all animosities be buried in oblivion, at the Parish expense. 10. That the ashes of old bonfires be never raked up. (_Signed_) { WAGSTAFF, High Constable. { WIGSBY. [Illustration: AN ANTI-CLIMAX.] _Narrowtiv of a High Whitness who seed everything proceed out of a Back-winder up Fore Pears to Mrs. Humphris._ O Mrs. Humphris! Littel did I Dram, at my Tim of Life, to see Wat is before me. The hole Parrish is throne into a pannikin! The Revelations has reeched Stock Poggis--and the people is riz agin the King’s Rain, and all the Pours that be. All this Blessed Mourning Mrs. Griggs and Me as bean siting abscondingly at the tiptop of the Hows crying for lowness. We have lockd our too selves in the back Attical Rome, and nothing can come up to our Hanksiety. Some say it is like the Frentch Plot--sum say sum thing moor arter the Dutch Patten is on the car-pit, and if so we shall Be flored like Brussels. Well, I never did like them Brown holland brum gals! Our Winder overlooks all the High Street, xcept jest ware Mister Higgins jutts out Behind. What a prospectus!--All riotism and hubbub.--There is a lowd speechifying round the Gabble end of the Hows. The Mare is arranging the Populous from one of his own long winders. Poor man!--for all his fine goold Cheer, who wood Sit in his shews! I hobserve Mr. Tuder’s bauld Hed uncommon hactiv in the Mobb, and so is Mister Waggstaff the Constable, considdering his rhummatiz has only left one Harm disaffected to shew his loyalness with. He and his men air staving the mobb’s heds to make them Suppurate. They are trying to Custardise the Ringleders. But as yet hav Captivated Noboddy. There is no end to accidence. Three insensible boddis are Carrion over the way on Three Cheers, but weather Naybers or Gyes is dubbious. Master Gollop, too, is jest gone By on one of his Ant’s Shuters, with a Bunch of exploded Squibs gone off in his Trowsirs. It makes Mrs. G. and Me tremble like Axle trees, for our Hone nevvies. Wile we ware at the open Winder they sliped out. With sich Broils in the Street who nose what Scraps they may git into. Mister J. is gon off with his muskitry to militate agin the mobb; and I fear without anny Sand Witches in his Cartrich Box. Mrs. Griggs is in the Sam state of Singularity as meself. Onely think, Mrs. H., of two Loan Wimin looken Down on such a Heifervescence, and as Hignorant as the unbiggotted Babe of the state of our Husbandry! to had to our Convexity, the Botcher has not Bean. No moor as the Backer, and We shold here Nothing if Mister Higgins handn’t hollowed up Fore Storys. What news he brakes! That wicked Wigsby as reffused to Reed the Riot Ax, and the Town Clark is no Schollard! Isn’t that a bad Herring! [Illustration: BREAKING THE NEWS.]