The clerk forgot his master's presence and shut his notebook with a bang, 'Congratulate you, sir,' says he, quite pert to Maskew; 'you are the landlord of the poorest pothouse in the Duchy at 200 a year.'

Rutherfordis dead; and that we have received a most heart-broken letter from her motherleft with four grandchildren, orphans of a living scoundrel lurking about the pothouses of Little Russell Street, London: they and sheGod help 'em!at