which was lately recorded in the public papers. It appears that when Van Amburgh travels, the large elephant goes on foot in the night, attended by four East Indians, men of negro complexions, in white dresses,—three of them riding on the elephant's back, and one on his tusks. One night as they were passing over Worksop forest, the party arrived at a toll-bar that was closed. The call "Gate" was raised, and out came the toll-keeper in his nightcap. Now it is suspected that this unfortunate individual had been long anticipating the coming of a gentleman in black, whose name is never mentioned to ears polite; for observing the monstrous and unlooked-for spectacle that then presented itself to his drowsy eyes, he, instead of opening the gate, was so terrified, that he ran back into the house, exclaiming in frantic tones, "He's come at last!"
"Frightened at an elephant," cried Mr. Cavil, with a profusion of pishes! "At an elephant merely! I wonder if he ever saw a young lady—young ladies such as I have seen! I was never afraid of a woman while she wore her hair turned up, powdered, pomatumed, and frizzed like my mother's and grandmother's; but only imagine the terror of a sensitive mortal on encountering a specimen of the fashions of the present day; on meeting a sample of the feminine gender, who, not satisfied with milliner's 'whiskers,' must exhibit to the affrighted gazer a face
Frightened at an elephant! Bless his five wits!—if he were only to come to London!"
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND TIMES OF MRS. SARAH TODDLES!
BY SAM SLY.
It is customary with the romancists and novelists of the day to track their heroes and heroines to some mysterious origin, for which purpose they either draw them from the foot of the gallows, or the precincts of the palace, and the jail returns are ransacked, and the old Court Guides dissected, for suitable titles and localities. Thus, whilst one will unkennel his favourites from workhouses, and obscure holes and corners, another finds his pet in the queen's best bed-room, or sleeping in state in a golden cradle. It is lucky for us we are not obliged to run to either extreme. Sarah Toddles' life lies in a nutshell. And here again we cannot help expressing our satisfaction, that we should be more fortunate than those who have to beat about the hedge, and make long speeches, and fill volumes in hazarding and conjecturing respecting nurses and birth-places. There is nothing at all remarkable about the dawning of Sarah; it was the most simple, natural, straight-forward, and legitimate birth imaginable: there was neither ringing of bells, nor flourishing of trumpets. Mrs. James was the nurse, Mrs. Sarah Gunn the mother, and Mr. Timothy Gunn the father. He was a gingerbread-baker, and lived at Bow—Mile-end Bow—and kept a shop not far from the bridge, and baked "Banburys" as well as "parliament" for the fair. Over the bow-window of this shop, and a little to the left, Sarah first saw daylight, and heard Bow bells—not at that interesting moment, because we have already said the elements were quiet. Sarah was an only child, the gun never went off but once—at least Sarah was the only "living shot."