Some of the uninitiated in the art and mystery of book-making conceive the chief tax must be upon the compiler’s brain. We give the following as a direct proof to the contrary—one that has the authority of Lord Hamlet, who summed the matter up in three
“Words! Words! Words!”
In one column we give a common-place household and familiar term—in the other we render it into the true Bulwerian phraseology:
| Does your mother know you are out? | Is your maternal parent’s natural solicitude allayed by the information, that you have for the present vacated your domestic roof? |
| You don’t lodge here, Mr. Ferguson. | You are geographically and statistically misinformed; this is by no means the accustomed place of your occupancy, Mr. Ferguson. |
| See! there he goes with his eye out. | Behold! he proceeds totally deprived of one moiety of his visual organs! |
| Don’t you wish you may get it? | Pray confess, are you not really particularly anxious to obtain the desired object? |
| More t’other. | Infinitely, peculiarly, and most intensely the entire extreme and the absolute reverse. |
| Quite different. | Dissimilar as the far-extended poles, or the deep-tinctured ebon skins of the dark denizens of Sol’s sultry plains and the fair rivals of descending flakes of virgin snow, melting with envy on the peerless breast of fair Circassia’s ten-fold white-washed daughters. |
| Over the left. | Decidedly in the ascendant of the sinister. |
From the nobleman who is selected to move the address in the House of Lords, it would seem that the Whigs, tired of any further experiments in turning their coats, are about to try what effect they can produce with an old Spencer.
As the weather is to decide the question of the corn-laws, the rains that have lately fallen may be called, with truth, the reins of government.