"FINIS."
(By an Old-fashioned Novel-reader.)
Oh! when we finished a tale of old,
The thing was through, and the story told.
But when we shut up a tale that's "New,"
There's little told, and there's nothing "through."
With neither beginning, middle, nor end,
We do not part with the book as a friend.
Finis! The word seems ironical sport,
It is not finished, but snapt off short,
Like the poor maid's nose by the blackbird's beak
In the "Song of Sixpence." That tale was weak,
Ending in nought, like an alley blind.
But our story-spinners appear to find
Their moral there. Their tales don't close,
But break off short—like the poor maid's nose!
Ah me! for a few of the fine old chaps
Who gave us meals, not mere dishes of scraps!
"Post Obit."—The Sheffield Daily Telegraph announces that the first piece of patronage in the district which has fallen to the new Postmaster-General is now being competed for. It is that of medical officer to the local post-office. Our contemporary announces that the applications, which are said to be very numerous, have all gone in. It is generally understood that the gentleman ultimately selected to undertake the duties of the post will not necessarily be connected with the Dead Letter Department.