And that's the day that comes betwixt
The Saturday and Sunday.

For then oh! drest all in my best,
I walk abroad with Sally:
She's the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley."

The Hall is of opinion that, although it is not
here openly avowed, that the lovers do not go
to church, there is yet a certain vagueness
about this "walking abroad," which renders the
song unfit to be sung within that Temple of
Hum—ility. It is also on record that the
national song of "Rule Britannia" is forbidden
within its walls: not because it is a somewhat
stupid and boastful piece of poetry, but because
in the chorus to the song are to be found the
words "Britannia rules the waves." Now it is
not Britannia, says Exeter Hall, that rules the
waves.

After this, we may drop the subject of Humbug,
dreading anti-climax.

GAZETTING EXTRAORDINARY.

QUIEN SABE? Who knows? is an exclama-
tion constantly in the mouth of every Spaniard,
from the hidalgo to the water-carrier. Que
sçais-je? What do I know? perpetually asks
Michael de Montaigne in his Essays. When they
prated of the universal knowledge of some one,
to Archdeacon Paley, the old theologian bade
them ask their friend if he knew how oval frames
were turned. We are told that the cobbler should
stick to his last, and that, provided he is
acquainted with all the appliances of his trade, the
mysteries of under and double-soling, welting,
pressing, fronting, clumping, taking up,
screw-pegging, and bevelling the edges, he need not
bother himself about flints in the drift, or waste
his midnight oil in endeavouring to find an antidote
to disinfecting fluid. But suppose he does
not know all about his own trade—suppose
the cobbler has not got the length of his last
properly in his mind—suppose there are combinations
of cobbling of which he is ignorant—a
style of boot-making of which he has never heard
—what then? This is just where the. shoe
pinches the writer who has now the honour to
address you. The desk is his lapstone, the pen
his awl, the ink his thread, the paper his material.
He calls himself a skilled workman, and as such
he ought to know all the branches of journalism,
the trade to which he is affiliated. He thought
he did know them all, in knowing the ordinary
daily papers, the weekly press, the "organs" of
various classes, the " sporting organ," with its
singular phraseology and recondite lore; the
illustrated papers, wherein are always to be
found exactly the same crowds of blob-headed
faceless people staring with the same interest at
royal processions, railway accidents, volunteer
reviews, or the laying of foundation-stones, and
wherein, week after week, with singular pertinacity,
are presented engravings of trowels used
in the last-named operation, engravings of ink-stands
presented to mayors, and engravings of
other deeply-interesting trophies. He knew
that architects and builders, booksellers and
publishers, had periodicals specially devoted to
their interests, and well conducted; and he
once saw The Grocer, and learnt from its pages
that there were groceries called manna-croup
and melado, and cheeses known as Gouda, Kauter,
and Edam, new milk. But it is only
within the last few days that he has become
acquainted with the existence of two publications
of very peculiar qualities—organs steeped from
the title to the imprint in matter relating to
poverty and crime. They are both worth
glancing through.

The first is owned by, edited by, and bought
by, our—your—everybody's—uncle. Here it is
(London edition), price threepence, or ten shil-
lings per annum, eight large quarto pages,
The Pawnbroker's Gazette. Not "News," or
"Journal," or "Herald," but "Gazette," as if
to pleasantly remind its readers, of bankruptcies,
and unredeemed pledges, and forced sales
consequent thereupon. Printed and published in the
highly legal and erst Insolvent Court locality of
Serle's-place, Lincoln's Inn, this valuable organ
has pursued the pawning tenor of its way for the
last twenty-five years, gladdening the hearts of
its subscribers by appearing with unfailing
regularity once in every week. It bloomed into existence,
therefore, concurrently with chartism and
other national benefits; perhaps dilated on the
eternal fitness of pawnbrokers, on the occasion of
the Queen's marriage, the Duke of Wellington's
funeral, and other great celebrations wherein
portable property changed hands, and is now
ably deprecating "the restrictions upon trade
which are contained in the twenty-first section
of the Pawnbrokers Act." We learn from the
number before us that "recent events naturally
attract attention" to these restrictions, and
ignorantly wonder what these "recent events"
can possibly be. Carefully perusing this leading
article, we come upon what seems the
self-evident proposition, that "pawnbroking is a
delicate operation," and are at once plunged into
a reverie on the delicacy of pawning. We, in
our utter ignorance, read " pawnbroking" from
the outside point of view. Irresolute pacings
in front of the shop, mock interest in the articles
for sale, affectedly careless swaggerings through
the front or purchaser's door, and furtive dartings
into the private entrance round the corner, are
the only images the phrase "delicate operation"
conjures up. What can you expect of a man who
never heard of the baleful twenty-first section,
and who had no notion of pawnbrokers save as
stern appreciative beings, mysteriously blessed
with an unlimited supply of ready money, and
entertaining, to a man, cynical doubts as to the
value of jewellery, and an unpleasant distrustfulness
as to the quality of gold. But this
"delicate operation" refers, not to the tendering,
but to the acceptance of pledges, which,
says the Gazette, "calls for great experience and
knowledge of the world in those engaged in it."

We believe this so implicitly, that we find