Brutus. Tell us the manner of it, gentle CASCA.
Casca. I can as well be hanged, as tell you. It was mere foolery, I did not mark it. I saw the people offer a cocked hat to him—yet 'twas not to him neither, because he's only an Alderman, 'twas to the Mayor and Town Clerk—and, as I told you, he put the things by thrice; yet, to my thinking, had he been Mayor, he would fain have had them. And the rabblement, of course, cheered such an exhibition of stern Radical simplicity, and STOREY called the wig a bauble, though, to my thinking, there's not much bauble about it, and the cocked-hat he called a mediæval intrusion, though, to my thinking, there were precious few cocked-hats in the Middle Ages. Then he said he would no more serve as Alderman; and the Mayor and the Town Clerk cried—"Alas, good soul!"—and accepted his resignation with all their hearts.
Brutus. Then will not the Sunderland Town Hall miss him?
Casca. Not it, as I am a true man! There'll be a STOREY the less on it, that's all. Farewell!
"Not there, Not there, My Child!"
By some misadventure I was unable to attend the pianoforte recital of Paddy REWSKI, the player from Irish Poland at the St. James's Hall last Wednesday. Everybody much pleased, I'm told. Glad to hear it. I was "Not there, not there, my child!" But audience gratified—
"And Stalldom shrieked when Paddy REWSKI played,"
as the Poet says, or something like it. I hear he made a hit. The papers say he did, and if he didn't it's another thumper, that's all.