is, about ten minutes, if as much.  The compact orchestra, under the directorship of Mr. ASHER, discourses excellent accompaniments, and the music of the CHEVALIER’s songs—­composed, I believe, by himself—­is not the least among the attractions.  The CHEVALIER, who, as he takes more than one turn every evening, may be termed a Knight Errant, is certainly the Coster’s Laureate and accepted Representative in the West; the mine, which is his own, is inexhaustible.  He is a magician in his own peculiar line, and may write himself ALBERTUS MAGNUS.

* * * * *

“AL FRESCO,” the Lightning Artist, whose full name is “ALFRED FRESCO,” writes to suggest that the Alhambra under Mr. JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD’s management should start a Rotten Row Galop and Kensington Gardens Quadrille to follow as in a series the highly successful Serpentine Dance.

* * * * *

NOVEL QUARTETTE.—­At the next Hereford Festival there will be performed a concerted piece by four Short Horns.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  STARTLING DISCOVERY ON THE YORKSHIRE COAST.

Young Tripper (on his first visit to the Sea, becoming suddenly conscious of the ebbing Tide).  “HI!  BILL!  JACK!  T’WATTER BE A RUNNIN’ OFF!  BY GUM, LADS, BUT AI BET SHE’S BRUSSEN SOMEWHERES!”]

* * * * *

THE POOR VIOLINIST.—­AN EPISODE, IN THE STYLE OF STERNE.

“Le Luthier de Cremone,” observed EUGENIUS, “is a pathetic story.”

“Indeed, EUGENIUS,” replied YORICK, “it is extremely touching.  I protest I never read, or hear it, without emotion.”

“The violin,” pursued EUGENIUS, “most sensitive, and, as it were, soulful of human instruments, lends itself, with particular aptness, to the purposes of literary pathos.”

“Dear Sensibility!” said I, “source inexhausted of all that is precious in our (poetical) joys, or costly in our (dramatic) sorrows!”

“It were well,” continued YORICK, drily, “if it were also the source inexhausted of more that is quick in our sympathy, and practical in our beneficence.  It is scarcely in the columns of the daily news-sheet that Sensibility usually seeks its much-sought stimulus.  And yet but lately, in the corner of my paper, I encountered a piteous story that ‘dear Sensibility’ (had it been more romantically environed) might deliciously have luxuriated in.  I protest ’twas as pathetic as those of MARIA LE FEVRE, or LA FLEUR.  It was headed, “Sad Death of a Well-known Violinist.”

“Prithee, dear YORICK, let me hear it,” cried EUGENIUS.