FUN has always-and in my opinion very properly-avoided any reference to religious questions. "Popery" and "No Popery," "Ritualism" and "Anti-Ritualism" (how prone pious people are to slang and abusive epithets!), are not topics for discussion in a comic paper. But I hope I may be allowed to refer to the religious press in its social relations without being suspected of any intolerance. I am sorry to have to protest against the manner in which the Guardian is conducted. That journal is supposed to be the organ of a class of educated gentlemen, but of late it has descended to a line of conduct which is only worthy of a set of scandalous, vixenish old maids. The ordinary penny-a-liner, so much abused, is as a rule remarkable for good taste and good feeling in his avoidance of all that may give pain to individuals in their private capacity. But the clerical gentlemen who do short pars for the Guardian have no such decent reticence. The "dog-doesn't-eat-dog" principle is the last rule they attend to. They gossip about private affairs without scruple, and all the more virulently if the subject of their talk have the misfortune to be in any way connected with the clerical world. FUN has joked DR. CUMMING smartly enough in his public capacity as a prophet and bee-keeper,

but it is reserved for the Guardian to intrude on his private life, and inform its readers that he was blackballed at the Athenæum Club. It is time that the gentlemen for whom the Guardian is intended should let its managers know that they consider the raking-up of private scandal is not strictly within the limits of controversial theology.

THE magazines are out. The Cornhill contains an illustration by MR. BURTON-a figure-subject by one who is best known for his excellent landscape-work. It is a clever composition, admirably drawn, and well-engraved. I can't say as much for the other illustration, which is loose in execution and not well cut. "The Satrap" is respectable verse, and "Ravenna" is an interesting paper. "In the Austrian Service" strikes me as a most extravagant fiction.

Routledge's Magazine for Boys is varied and amusing as ever. I see MR. Ross has adopted the plan of Pictorial Double Acrostics, first exploited in Five Alls and the Christmas number of FUN, & figure of "Obi" being apparently suggested by one of the drawings in the latter. It is a pity he does not take a few lessons in drawing.

Belgravia is better this month, as far as literature goes. There is a fair and honest critique on the state of the Drama, a capital essay, "St. Paul's to Piccadilly," and a brace of good stories by DUTTON COOK and WALTER THORNBURY. The "poetry" is poor. In "Lyrics of the Month," the writer winds up with a verse wherein "well" and "farewell" are offered as rhymes. MR. ASTLEY BALDWIN's verses are slovenly and feeble:-" caught," does not rhyme with "short," any more than a "mast-head" can "go by the board." I am astonished the author of the DORE article, who is evidently an artist, should praise the steel engravings of his works. The author of "Circe" gives some portraits of critics and painters in the course of his second chapter. He would do well to avoid lending himself to publishers' squabbles as he does in one passage here. London Society seems to be afflicted with smaller type and fewer leads every month. It is fair enough in point of illustration, excepting those by G. BOWERS, which have all an amateur's faults. Some verses by Rux are very queer. The Argosy has some interesting notes on "Poetry and Poets,"-interesting and valuable, I should say. "Shoemaker's Village" goes on admirably. Ampola" is good, and "Crimping Sailors" should help towards curing the evils it indicates. In Temple Bar, MR. YATES gives us one of his plucky papers on the Drama, honest, and sound, and manly. "Subjects of Song," is a specimen of what magazine verse should be Messieurs the Editors of Belgravia and London Society. For the rest, there is a story of the Greek insurrection, an essay on "Debt," and "The

Man who lived by his wits," which, I suppose, is not an autobiography. The Family Friend seems up to its mark, but one of the artists might be dispensed with to the advantage of the magazine. I hope the number of Cassell's Magazine which I have received is not a fair specimen, for the printing, especially of the cuts, is very poor. The literary matter is right enough, and the Editor is evidently up to his work, but his labours will be thrown away if not better seconded. The Gardener's Magazine, which I imagine every one who loves his garden takes in regularly, is full of valuable information this month.

Charles F. Browne.

POOR ARTEMUS WARD is dead! In him we have lost a kindly humorist, and a "gentle man," in the honest old sense of the word. Short as has been the time since he arrived in England, he leaves behind him a large circle of sorrowing friends, for he endeared himself rapidly to all with whom he came in contact, by his sensitive consideration for the feelings of others, by the generosity and manly honesty of his character. The keen, quaint wit, who never gave a wound to a living creature, was popular with the public as he was beloved by those who knew him in private life. His last contribution to literature was an article in the Savage Club Papers.

The extreme and sudden changes of the late severe winter were too trying for a constitution always delicate, and taxed at the time to the extent of its strength by the fatigues and anxieties of the entertainment which delighted so many. ARTEMUS WARD was compelled to close his room, and retire to Jersey to rest and recruit. But the disease, Consumption, had made too certain progress to be arrested. He crossed back again to Southampton, in the hope of being able to return home to America, to his only living relative, his mother. But the hope was not to be realized. On Wednesday last death-for which he was fully prepared, and which he met in a cheerful, manly spiritclaimed him. He was born at Waterford, in the State of Maine, and he dies at the early age of three-and-thirty. It is proposed that he shall be buried at Kensal-green. His funeral will be largely attended, no doubt, but there will be few there who will not sincerely and deeply lament his loss.

THE CITY OF PRAGUE.

Scene: "Bohemia: a desert country near the sea."-SHAKESPEARE.
I DWELT in a city enchanted,

And lonely, indeed, was my lot;
Two guineas a week, all I wanted,
Was certainly all that I got.

Well, somehow I found it was plenty;
Perhaps you may find it the same,

If-if you are just five-and-twenty,
With industry, hope, and an aim:

Though the latitude's rather uncertain,
And the longitude also is vague,
The persons I pity who know not the city,
The beautiful City of Prague!

Bohemian of course were my neighbours,
And not of a pastoral kind;

Our pipes were of clay, and our tabors
Would scarcely be easy to find.

Our tabors? Instead of such mountains,
Ben Holborn was all we could share,

And the nearest available fountains
Were the horrible things in the square:

Does the latitude still seem uncertain?
Or think ye the longitude vague?
The person I pity who know not the city,
The beautiful City of Prague!

How we laughed as we laboured together!
How well I remember, to-day,
Our "outings" in Midsummer weather,
Our winter delights at the play!
We were not over-nice in our dinners;
Our "rooms" were up ricketty stairs;
But if Hope be the wealth of beginners,
By Jove, we were all millionaires!

Our incomes were very uncertain,

Our prospects were equally vague;
Yet the persons I pity who know not the city,
The beautiful City of Prague!

If at times the horizon was frowning,
Or the ocean of life looking grim,

Who dreamed, do you fancy, of drowning?
Not we, for we knew we could swim.

Oh, Friends, by whose side I was breasting
The billows that rolled to the shore,

Ye are quietly, quietly resting,
To laugh and to labour no more!

Still, in accents a little uncertain,
And tones that are possibly vague.

The persons I pity who know not the city,
The beautiful City of Prague!

L'ENVOY.

As for me, I have come to an anchor;
I have taken my watch out of pawn;

I keep an account with a banker,
Which at present is not overdrawn.

Though my clothes may be none of the smartest,.
The "snip" has receipted the bill;

But the days I was poor and an artist
Are the dearest of days to me still!

Though the latitude's rather uncertain,
And the longitude also is vague,

The persons I pity who know not the city,
The beautiful City of Prague!

FROM OUR STALL.

AN adaptation, by MR. GILBERT A BECKETT, from Nos Bons Villageois has been produced at the Haymarket. It seems that the brilliant VICTORIEN SARDOU has pledged his whole career to the task of ringing the changes on the fracture of the seventh commandment. His present variation upon this improving theme is hardly worthy of its authorif, indeed, it be fair to form an opinion of its merit on a translation that appears to have been hastily or carelessly made. When a couple of polite Frenchmen contradict each other flatly, they seldom express their affirmations and negations in the form of isolated monosyllables; the oui and the non are softened by a mais. But MR. A BECKETT never hears-except in Diamonds and Hearts-a pair of argumentative Britons contradicting each other with a "But yes" and a "But no!" Englishmen are too conscious of the value of time to use two syllables when one will express their meaning. Such trifles as these betray the 'prentice hand. Much as we dislike adaptations from the French, we dislike them none the more for being cleverly turned. If Nos Bons Villageois was witty at Paris, we fear that its wit must have been washed overboard in its passage across the Channel. The success of Diamonds and Hearts must be shared amongst the ladies and gentlemen who played in it; and the largest slice must be given to MISS NELLY MOORE, who played with such grace and earnestness as to bring the house down more than once. MISSIONE BURKE looked very pretty as the indiscreet and penitent wife. MR. Howe played the part of the injured and vindictive husband forcibly; and MESSRS. CHIPPENDALE and FARREN were well fitted with characters. The scenery was charming.

Another adaption from SARDot has been brought forward at the St. James's under the title of A Rapid Thaw. The piece was not received very favourably; and we hope that its writer, MR. T. W. ROBERTSON, will abandon adaptation for ever, and commit no more treason against the intellect which gave us Ours and Society. Why should a man who carries a full purse in his pocket go about borrowing half-crowns? We need scarcely say that the dialogue of A Rapid Thaw is neatly written; an utter want of interest in its characters and plot was the cause of its cold reception. The acting was not of a high order (Hector was almost inaudible); perhaps a better performance might have saved the piece. The dresses and scenes were perfection. A series of "Sensation Concerts" has commenced at St. Martin's Hall. The salle is tastefully decorated and brilliantly illumined. Music, vocal and instrumental, is judiciously varied by a little tumbling and contortion. The LEVY and DISTIN Instrumental Union is well worth going to hear.

"Britons never-never-never!"

WHERE'S the Jamaica Committee, and has it time, amid the Christian delights of the prosecution of a man who only did his duty, to step in and put a stop to an attempt to re-establish slavery in England? If so, here is the chance. We quote an advertisement which appeared in the Manchester Guardian the other day :

NOTICE. A Gentleman, having occupied apartments at No. 53, C- Road, and having left a Few Articles, three months ago, ií not taken away within seven days, will be sold to defray expenses.

"A gentleman" is not a commodity to be picked up every day, and we can easily conceive the competition that will take place when he is put up for sale. We entreat our anti-slavery friends to step in at once and prevent the inhuman barter!

THE AGE OF ELECTRO-PLATE.

WE sigh that the times are so terribly bad,
As we shut up our pockets and purse;
But it's easy to see how a "fashion or "fad"
Makes them very decidedly worse.
We can tell, if we try to examine a page,
Of the book which is ticketed "Fate,"
We have bartered the gold and the silver age,
For an Age of Electro-Plate!

Who cares for the cant of degenerate days
That of facts not of theories sings,

We have authors of stolen Parisian plays,
And fingers for Brummagem rings.
The crosses and lockets for feminine throats,
May be purchased for "seven and eight."
There are flowers of paper to stick in our coats,
In the Age of Electro-Plate!

Not a barber exists but exhibits a yard
Of exceedingly dubious hair,

Which is twisted or plaited or shown on a card,
Ready dyed for the dark or the fair.

Soft faces are plastered with powder and paint. Bald patches made black as the grate,

The dresses so low that our grandmothers faint,

At the Age of Electro-Plate!

WHY is a choleric man like a handsaw? Because directly he gets hot he loses his temper.

THE REAL COMMERCIAL DOCKS.-Discounts.

Flat or Sharp ?

THE assertion of musicians that they can by descriptive instrumental music conjure up a picture has been often sneered at. Cynics have defied them to fiddle a landscape or play purple on a piano. But an advertiser in the Daily Telegraph the other day threw the composers of oratorios and sonatas in the shade completely. This second Orpheus is for fiddling a best Brussels-to be swept (like the harp) by "Music, heavenly (parlour) maid ?" Nor is that all-he wishes to fiddle gilding -but our readers shall judge for themselves:

TO CARPET WAREHOUSES and GILDERS.-A well-known Professor of Music requires a Brussels carpet in exchange for a first-class MSICAL EDUCATION. Also some Glasses Regilded on the same terms.-Musica, Post-office, &c. It remains to be seen whether any sensible "warehouse" or "gilder" will feel inclined to accept Musica's shrill trebles in lieu of those other crisper and more tangible notes issued by the Bank of England.

SPRING.

Go along with your rubbishing verses to Spring,
You pastoral pipe-playing throng

Of poets, who love of her beauty to sing,-
Can't you see your descriptions are wrong?

You talk of her light gauzy garments that fly
In the breezes. Shut up, if you please!
The description's-I see at a glance-all my eye!
Why bosh!-the material's freeze!

NATURAL HISTORY.

A CORRESPONDENT notices the letters in the papers referring to the lengthening hours of light, and the arrival of the swallow, as prognostics of spring. He says that he saw a very long DAY and MARTIN in Holborn in the very depth of Winter.