being "the funniest book of the present reign." Heavens! It is only necessary to mention Pickwick, which is replete with such real fun, as makes the reader roar with laughter irrepressible, besides being full of genuine humour.

Baron de Book Worms.

"I believe," said Mrs. R.'s nephew, meditatively, "that Paris will have a 'Directory' again." "Why not?" retorted Mrs. Ram. "Why shouldn't Paris have a Directory? London has—Kelly's Directory—and most useful it is!"

THE LAY OF LAWRENCE MOOR!

In the Nick of Time.—His Excellency, the Chinese Minister, Lew Chui Fun, has left London for Paris, to present his credentials to President Carnot. At this festive season of Merry Christmas, Frenchmen of all parties in politics will welcome such an Opportunist as Fun.

Shortly to be published, The Life of Sims Reeves, compiled from his own notes.

PICCADILLY PLAYERS.

A few evenings since, I assisted at a Members' Concert in Piccadilly, where a very fair exhibition of Amateur Musical talent was displayed by the "Strolling Players." The vocal part of the entertainment was especially good, thanks to the really charming singing of the Misses Agnes Janson and Hamlin. The geniuses in the Orchestra who are for all time, and any tune, managed occasionally to get a little out of hand in spite of Mr. Norfolk Megone's earnest conductorship. Taken all round, "The First Members' Concert" was so good that I should not have the smallest objection to attending the Second.

The Ancient Mariner with Mr. J. F. Barnett's brilliant music at St. James's Hall last Thursday night, held entranced a large audience which listened "like a three ears child" ("Had I three ears I'd hear thee," says Macbeth. Did Coleridge write Shakspeare?—however, this has nothing much to do with the cantata, and so on we goes again)—so "the Mariner hath his Will" (which is almost conclusive evidence that Coleridge's Mariner was written by Will Shakspeare) and we were all delighted. I hadn't a book. Who was Albert Ross that the Mariner shot? Madame Patey sang "O Sleep, it is a Genteel Thing!" (I think these were the words) with great feeling and expression. Beautiful idea, "sleep a genteel thing!" Somebody told me I was wrong, and that the poet wrote, "O Sleep, it is a Gentle Thing!" which anybody could have said, without being a poet. So I prefer my own version. The recitative (Santley) and chorus (Everybody), about "the coming wind did roar," and something (I didn't catch what) was "like a sledge," and "the Moon was on its side and then upon its edge," which sounds just what a harvest moon would do after a good day's harvesting, were excellent.

Then followed Mr. C. V. Stanford's Symphony in F Minor, "The Irish" as my neighbour informed me, to which I replied, "Oh, indeed!" and appeared, as I hope, much interested; though what he meant I haven't the smallest idea. Who was my neighbour?—a very learned person who kept on drawing my attention to the excellent instrumentation, and the admirable use which the Composer had made of his "strings"—I didn't see that he had any "strings," but I said, "Ah, yes,"—his "Wood-wind and Horns." "Just observe his horns!" said my neighbour enthusiastically. He spoke of Mr. C. V. Stanford as if he were drawing the portrait of Ancient Nicholas, as portrayed by Cruikshank when illustrating The Lay of S. Médard, in the Ingoldsby Legends. A Composer with Strings, Wood-wind ("comest thou with blasts from——" &c., as Baconspeare hath it) and "horns" is the man to write a cantata entitled "Herne the Hunter," and I am not at all sure that there isn't a Herne already in existence, and that that Herne isn't His'n. After a