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PROM A CONTRIBUTOR.
[Wi print portions of the following poem as a curious illustration of how much can be made of very little. To print the work in its entirety would be to swamp the number, as it runs to two hundred and thirty-three verses. On the whole, it is not good; and having morally cut it up, we find ourselves compelled to physically cut it down. Our contributor explains to us that he lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. We can assure him that he won't be allowed to lisp in any more of ours, for fear they should not go.—Ed.]
Dear Editoh-teditoh,—You say you want four columns immediately. Here are twelve. Take them. May they make you happier than they have made me ! You will observe that some of the lines are not quite filled up, just finish these for me, and oblige,
I Have chambers up in Gray's-inn,
Turning out from Holborn-bars,
As in Dublin there are cars.
You from Gray's-inn-lano can enter,
Or from • • among the trees,
Or from * * , if you please.
[Here follows, in thirteen verses, a list of the various approaches to Qroy's-inn.)
I am on the second story,
Where my name, in sable tint,
Of the largest Roman print.
If you'd like to know what others
Live within the same domain,
Then there's Pogson, Coos, and Crane.
Then you come to
[Here follow, in seven verses, the names of our contributor's fellow-lodgers.)
One fine morning I was sitting
On my pleasant window-sill,
As I nibbled at my quill,
Not of Mexico revolving,
Nor of Portugal and Spain,
Nor of smashed excursion train.
[Here, in twenty-seven verses, follotcs a list of subjects of which our contributor was not thinking.)
For of .Mexico I'm weary,
Parliament's a thing of nought,
Trains of passengers or thought.
[Here, in nineteen verses, he explains his reasons for not thinking of the subjects enumerated in the preceding twenty-seven.)
Well, as I was sitting idly
On my pleasant window-Bill,
On my aunt's unopened will,
I perceived a silent student
At a window, quite at home,
Over a Tremendous Tome.
As I watched the youth pursuing
His * • * I exclaimed,
And I wonder how you're named!"
P'rhaps to orders you're proceeding,
P'rhaps I've found a lawyer keen—
Possibly your name is Green.
[Here, in thirty-five verses, he speculates on the youth's possible prospects, and suggests a variety of names, all or any vf which may be his. He then, rather artistically, changes his metre, and bursts into the following impassioned appeal) :—
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
A Self-taught Scholar.—Your "Latin without a Master," speaks for itself. It is quite evident there's no mastery in it. For instance, your translation of tho Ode to the Joint-Stock Companies, "pursy Co's, oh dio! Poor apparatus," is so close as to be almost suffocating.
A-gush-ta.—Your "Ode to the Moon" is beautiful, but a little faulty in the paltry matter of rhyme. "As you were" does not rhyme with "lunar." Try "Arnvoou and Spooxer," it may be a little difficult to bring in, but it is perfect as a rhyme.
A Gardener.—Tho society is so very discursive that, as you say (though we don't think you intended a joke), it is tho Aught-icultural Society.
J. W.—Your complaint is a just one. The South Kensington authorities ought not to have closed the miniatture collection against photography. Your photograph ought to be admitted because it is in a minute-you're taken.
Thomas Baxter (footman).—We must gratefully decline exclusive Baxter's information about fashionable movements. Such tittle tattle is not only undignified, but even ridiculous, unless more than strix-ly accurate, and wo have no desire to go a 'owler from mere love of contradiction.
Cheering Election Intelligence.
Fun is always glad to applaud and encourage virtue whenever found —even in tho higher classes of society,
The following letter has just been cent to all the tenants under His Grace The Duke op "wellington :—" Strathfleldsaye, June 1, 1865,—Dear Sir, I think it right to explain clearly to you my feelings regarding the exercise of your vote ; it is a trust imposed on you for the advantage of the country, and the reppensibility of the proper exercise of it rests ou yourself alone. It is committed to you—not to me; and I beg you distinctly to understand that no one has my authority for stating that I wish to bias you in favour of any candidate.—I am, dear sir, yours truly, Wellington."
Bravo! May his Grace the Duke find many imitators. To encourage others to follow his example we hereby announce that his Grace will receive every week a copy of Fun gratis, in token of our approval of his conduct.
THE CRUSADER'S FAREWELL.
HEN Kino Dick tho lion - hearted, packed his luggage up and started (Vide Hume and Smollett passim) for a trip to Palestine,
Tall young men, though half unwilling to accept the offered shilling, Left their wires and little children, and enlisted in tho line.
Wot ye well that there was grieving when those tall young men were leaving;
Wot ye well that there was business being done in locks of hair; Wot ye well that rings were broken, and presented as a token
By the noblest of the noble to the fairest of the fair.
Said a soldier, on the shady side of forty, to a lady,
"By my halidom, I'd rather, as a husband and a father,
"Yes, I know as well as you, dear, it's tho proper thing to do, dear;
And I'm not afraid of fighting (as I think I Baid before); But it's not without emotion that I contemplate the notion,
Of a trip across the channel in a British man-of-war.
"No, it's not at all a question of alarm, but indigestion;
Not tho lances of the Paynims, but the passage in the gale, When the awful cry of 'Steward' from the windward and the leeward,
From a hundred lips arises, when a hundred lips are pale!"
"Yes, I know you're very sickly," said his lady, rather quickly;
"But you'll take a glass of sherris or a little Malvoisie, When you get as far as Dover, and when once you're half-seas over,
Why you'll find yourself as jolly as you possibly can be."
So her lord and master started, just a trifle chicken-hearted,
But whether he got sick, or felt the better for the liquor
A Cannibal Conundrum.
The following was picked up in the Strand the other day between Exeter Hall and Bell's Life office. It had evidently been dropped from some one's pocket; but whether it belonged to a missionary attending the meetings at the one locality, or a betting man looking out for the odds at the other, we know not. Nor does it matter—if the missionary's we will hope it belonged to a good man: if the other's, it clearly pertained to a better. We found it, and hasten to lay it before our readers:
"Why is a cannibal exulting after dining off a missionary' wife, like tho finest race horse of the present year f "Answer.—Because he's Glad-hc-ale-her!"
Tho original manuscript, with some real Strand mud still adhering to it, as a proof of the truth of our statement as to where we found tho above, may be seen at our office Wo make this announcement because we should be sorry to have it thought that the conundrum was our own.
The Bight Place For A Choir.—The Cathedral of liheims.
Fable 1.—Thb Fox And The Grapes.
An artless fox went out for a morning walk, and, casting up his fine eyes quite promiscuous-like, beheld a bunch of grapes hanging just above his innocent little head. He imprudently ate several, but was very soon attacked by a most violent fit of indisposition. "I now begin to perceive," said he, "that I have done something rash. However, I will try to console myself by supposing that those grapes were not at all sour."
Moral.—Never touch early fruit unless you are quite positive that you have a lively imagination.
Fable 2.—Thb Doo And The Shadow.
A Doo was crossing a wooden bridge, with a slightly underdone mutton-chop in his mouth, when he beheld his reflection considerably magnified in the stream beneath. A common dog might have dropped the solid meat with a vague notion of getting the Bhadow into his possession; but this was not a common dog, or I should never have taken the trouble to write a fable about him. "Ah," said he, "this is evidently an optical illusion, which will be explained some day by Professor Pepper at the Eoyal Polytechnic Institution. In the meantime, it is clear that although yonder chop is larger than mine, yonder dog is also larger, and consequently stronger, than I am; therefore, it would be imprudent in me to stand the chances of a fight." And ho went over and calmly ate his chop upon the other side.
Moral.—Cultivate tho Polytechnic, and never strike a person who is bigger than yourself.
Fable 3.—The Fox And The Crow.
A Crow, perched on an arbutus eaetijlora, held a Dutch cheese in his beak. To him enter a fox, unsuspecting as all foxes are wont to be. "Would you like a piece of cheese f " inquired the crow. "Thank you, not at present," replied the fox. "The fact is, I have been reading a very pretty pamphlet by a party called Banting, who doesn't think much of Dutch cheese. Besides, to tell you the truth, I haven't dined yet." "Well, don't go about saying that I never asked you," returned tho crow, whose sensitive nature was rather wounded by rejection.
Moral.—There are some people in the world who prefer Stilton cheese to Dutch. To such people this fable is not addressed, because it would only be thrown away upon them.
HORACE IN LONDON.
Book III. Ode IX. "donec Gratus," &c.
He.—I told you I loved you so dearly,
He.—I met little Lettt at Brighton,
She sings like an angel, I swear; She enters—the room seems to lighten, And, oh, how she does her back hair! She.—Ah, well! we at Scarb'ro were staying, Where Cousin Fred gave me this fan, He quotes from Tom Moore—I was saying I thought him a duck of a man!
He.—Good-bye, dear; you know who my pet is; I meet you to-night—don't be hard; Your singing's far better than Letty's; You'll keep me a place on your card. She.—Oh, yes! you can't guess what I suffer, You knew that my heart's ever true; My cousin's what men call a " duffer;' My darling! there's no one like you
Nothing like Leather.
A Firm of cloth manufacturers is advertising a new tweed a8 being " a beautiful euir brown." Those who don't know tho difference between tweed(le), dit in French, and English tweed, '11 dumbfoundered be by this rum colour.
It was that which drove, me to guilt and misery. What ia that? A demonstrative pronoun. But I never was demonstrative. Gloom was my nativo element.
But I loved! Oh! Hairybblla—how—how could you—yet stay, I must not yot reveal that mystery.
Light as the footstep of the young gazelle, or tho Zephyr coat at ten-and-six, wore tho curls of my adored one. And tho rest of her features were in proportion; for tno ratio of her eyes to her nose—hut hush! I am rambling. This must not bo.
I Wa'ndered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill. Not that there is a brook with a side or a mill for anything a side in tho immediate nc ighbourhood of St. Mary Axe, but the poet has said so and ho is ever instinctively right
I waited for her. She did not como. So I went.
I Galled at the residence of my adored one. As I nearod tho door a mysterious individual, if I may be allowed the expression, and his was a most forbidding one, emerged from the mansion. Ho carriod in his hand a small parcel. With tho quick eyo of lovo, and through a hole in the paper, I saw ono of my adored one's golden tresses! Ha! Agony! This—this individual—I repeat tho chargo and defy him to disprovo it—this individual had been presented with a lock of hor hair. Ho was my rival, c He must die!
I Engaged him craftily in conversation. He was artless and confiding. He was anxious, he informed mo, to start a new and gigantic jointstock company, withtwo-and-six penco paid up capital (limited), to bo called the House-to-Housc-Telegraph-and-Hair-Brushing-by-Machinory Company. By tho application of telegraph wires to the rotary brushes he intended to apply tho electricity ovolved by friction from the human head to the conveyance of messages.
It was a noblo schemo. And not impracticable, for doubtless tho natural philosopher who peruses theso pages has rubbed a black cat's fur the wrong way ia a dark cupboard. It was a noble schemo.
But he was my rival. That tioss! It must not be! Ho must dio. I told him so. Ho said ho did so frequently, and he defied any one to detect any difference from the natural colour. It was evident that in his terror his mind was wandering. I must put hijn out of his misery.
I Blew out his brains with a roll of kamptirlieon, and buried him unnoticed at the foot of tho Nolaon monument. His mangled re-1 mains—nay, I err! They were ironed, for his mother hod boon* driven by cruel penury to part with tho domestic engino.
The effect upon Hairydilla was terrible. In a single night her hair turned raven black. This was, perhaps, partly owing to the fact that the murdered man was her hairdresser, to whom sho had given her knot of baok hair to do up. And I mistook him for a lover! Rash and irremediable error. But of course he couldn't bring the knot back, for he was buried beneath the base of the Nelson Monument. Aid besides, he was dead. So sho borrowed her aunt's wig.
CHAPTER VTX I Ax still at a loss to account for his silence. If he had only told me that he was her hairdresser. But it is too late. My Hairybblla'b hair U now permanently jet-black, and I am an erroneous homicide. I will erect a gorgeous memento of the injured inventor of the Houseto-House-Telegraph-and-Hair-Brushing4)y-Machinery Company. All subscriptions may be addressed to tho care of the editor. When I have a sufficient sum I shall deliver myself up to the police. But why —why did he not tell me ho was her hairdresser? Dreadful doubt! perhaps I didn't give him time.
We hear from Devonshire that Mr. Cave, the ex-shoriff, is about to contest Barnstaplo in tho Liberal interest. Tho motto tho Tories of that borough will havo to adopt is likely to be " Cave in."
A candidate for Lichfield, named Dyott, has discovered a novel reason for aspiring to represent that city, namely, a dosiro to gratify his ancestors f We heartily hopo that he may be returned before the dissolution. For although from the tone of his address he does not soem to have anything in common with a liberal and constitutional Diet, ho is probably well fitted to represent a short Commons.
I. —THE LAST OF THE WHITE MEN.
As Cuingachoook, the 154th Emperor of North America, pushed his way through the thick umbrage of the forest glade that led to Lake Maizena, a sceno of marvollous loveliness was outspread before him. On all sides nothing met his eyo save the glassy surface of the liquid lake, the cloud-streaked sky of heaven, and tho sunlit solemnity of the eternal woods. But theso wero a good deal! Scarcely could ho see an opening into the dense thick covert of tho forest that fringed tho inland sea; a girdle of vivid verdure, green and glorious, was clasped around tho waist of Maizena; and as if to intensify the triumph of the trees, thero wore long and sombre shadows from aspen, and hemlock, and pine. You would have Baid that the hand of man had never yet polluted or profaned its sanctity of sylvan solitude. But what an awful fool you would have been to say so!
Crouching on tho margin of the lake, idly playing with tho broken wires of an electric telegraph, and squatting on his haunches, was the last of tho famous tribo of tho White Men! Tho poor, hapless, and dreary creature was tho very picture of abject miser}' and utter failure —tho mere embodiment of a forlorn fiasco. There is always something pathetic about the extinction of a people; and Ghingacuoook tho 154th nearly dropped a bitter tear as he saw how the White had been fondly dallying with his former toys.
Not far from the unhappy victim of civilization, a locomotive was deeply embedded in the mud; and the Mohican sighed as ho thought of tho sad old savage tinio when people travelled by railway or stagecoaches. But his sorrow scarcely lasted a minuto; for high in the air abovo him he recognised his own, his bright, his beautiful balloon!
A hundred idlo reminiscenses of former days were evoked by tho sight of this one dismal derelict of a ruined race—this horriblo examplo of an almost extinct ethnology. Tho poor creature wore a black hat, with coat, waistcoat amd trousers of tho same dismal hue; and, piously faithful to a childish custom of his tribo, his hands wero gloved. Ho had parted his hair in the middle.
How wonderful is that untutored instinct of the savago which invariably leads him to mako some rough parodies of our civilised appliances and means! This wretched man, who had never heard of autophotography, had a tawdry old camera by his sido, branded with the once familiar name of " Mayall!" The obsolete "fire-arms" (so called) were also lying near him. It was almost pathetic to watch him as, with eyes dimmed by tho filthy reeking odours of Regalias and Moselle, he feebly endeavoured to construct a bow and arrow!
Gently and softly ,the 154th Emperor stepped towards him and patted him upon the back. There was something of barbaric dignity about the way in which tho White recoiled from the Emperor's touch.
"Wagh!" he cried. "Life is real, life is eameBt; and tho modicino of my red brother is great. Look! theso woods, aro they thick? Can a hauk ncim i Wagh! I wish to goodness you'd keep your dirty old hands off mt!"
For an instant tho Emperor looked wistfully at the littlo bottlo of arsenicated strychnine which ho always carried in his belt; but he could not degradte himself by slaying so weak an enemy. Ho let tho Last Man moon on.
"Wagh!" repeated tho White. "Once my people wero as numerous as—as—as possible And they builded cities, and they builded ships—and deuctd well they did it too, old cock! Can a hawk ttvim t This is tho forest primaeval: tho murmuring pines and the hemlocks —eh, twig? Dear, dear, hoir times do change to bo sure! .... I don't see that I'm of much uso. Life is real, life is earnest. The wilderness is very dreary when you haven't been properly brought up to it. I guess the best thing I can do is just to jump into tho blessed water There, thoro, I calculate F vo lived too long!"
And the heart of tho Mohican monarch was touched as ho heard the convulsive querulous Bobs of tho degraded white; but ho sternly remembered the grand aphorism that wherever the Red Man goes the Pale-face must disappear—and (being himself Red) he reverently submitted to the Will of Fate.
"Onoe," sobbed tho White, "jthere was no ono who could beat me in flying tho kite or in drawing the accommodation-bill! I failed four times in petroleum and twice in pickled pork: I robbed the haughty widow, and I was firm in my dealings with the indignant orphan— those happy times aro gone-, to return no more. Only ono plan remains!
Chingachgook. expected that ho was about to commit suicide. Faithful to the traditions of his tribe, however, tho White Man simply said:
"You haven't got such a thing as a half-a-crown about you, have you, eh t"
Ovn Fcturb Commercial Grxatxsss.—By-and-by.
[we must apologise to our readers for the very unsatisfactory nature of the following report. Our Lymphatic Contributor who suffers from heat and is very sensitive to the charms of nature, was unluckily sent to Sydenham, and this is the result.]
The Crystal Palace, whether we regard it as a place of recreation for the population of London, or as a retreat for the overtaxed literary servant of the public, is a delightful spot where pleasure
No, I won't; that's flat. Why do they send a fellow down to such a jolly region if he's to be expected to write a report? Why didn't they let me evolve the account in the office, where the mention of tho word " pleasure" could not remind one that it is possible to lie down on one's back on the grass, smoke a pipe, and ask oneself feebleminded riddles. Pleasure! As if I were going to make a toil of a pleasure, and bother my head about reports. No, I am not that enterprising greengrocer in the Gray's-Inn-road, who has called hi* pleasure van (excursions to Epping Forest every Monday) by tho clearly erroneous title of "Industry."
The Crystal Palace certainly is jolly, whether you prefer to consider yourself a melon, and wander about inside it, or look upon yourself like a stern moralist, and, because all flesh is grass, lay yourself out as hay on the slopes.
I have lunched like a humming bird. Champagne and a basket of lotus are the sort of thing this weather, and I have been regaled on these—in imagination, first because I'm too lazy to go in and have the former, and second, because I don't suppose they keep the latter. But a vivid imagination with a contented mind is a perpetual feast and a dessert too.
I came down here to report the concert. Well, here's a splendid concert of singing birds here. I'm not familiar with the music but it seems tome like a choice bit from The Creation.
It certainly is very warm, but it is not too warm if you are careful
not to move. I am. My only efforts have been mental for the last oh,
bother time! what do minutes matter? I have been fancying myself that purple water-lily in the pool at the further end of the nave. Hang work! The only active employment I could bear now would consist in being a sherry cobbler. Delightful blue that sky! I wonder which of those two white clouds will pass over my head first? I'll
back the right-hand one. No, I won't, though—it's too great exertion wishing he may win.
That small green beetle who has crawled all up my left arm is an idiot. Why on earth should he walk so far this weather? I wonder
what species he no, I decline to wonder to please any one.
Mere existence on a day like this and in a place like this, is so jolly, that if it wasn't so jolly it would be too much trouble to exist even, here. That sounds like a sophistry, or philosophy, or something or other, I shan't try to think what.
The normal position of the human creature is clearly on its back on the grass. Evidently, it is just the opposite of the position of the lower animals. Now, if an act of volition could fill and light my pipe, I might consider it done. The vesuvians are in my left hand vest pocket, the tobacco in my coat pocket. But it is so far to go for them.
I'll visit the concert in the spirit—and water; it is too hot to move even mentally, without being diluted and iced. They certainly mm sing. I've heard 'em so often it is no trouble to think I hear them now. Go on!" Music is the food of love," as I once said to a young lady who would thrust an extra "spoon" on me as I was taking my jelly at supper somewhere. Where f Oh, I'm not going to trouble myself to remember.
How a clever person like Professor Tyxdal " could consider heat as a means of motion," I can't understand. Did he ever try lying on his back on the grass at tho Crystal Palace f It is about the nicest place going. (They'll say at Number Eighty that that phrase is too colloquial. Let 'em. Eighty always was the goddess of strife, and wouldn't enjoy lying down peacefully on the grass and watching the sky and the clouds and listening to the birds—there ought to be another parenthesis here somewhere, but it is really too much trouble to try back and think where. Very jolly things these concerts at Sydenham!
The newspapers inform us that two peregrine falcon has been recently captured alive near the residence of Ma. Alfred Tennyson. This is the result of fame! See how the Laureate gets hawked about.
Printed by JUDD & GLASS, 89, Fleet Street, and Phoenix Works, St. Andrew's Hill, Doctors' Commons, and Published (for the Proprietors) by THOMAS BAKER,
at 80, Fleet Street.—July 1, 1865.
HORACE IN LONDON.
Book I. Ode IX. "vides Ut Alta," &c.
Bt Jovb, how the snow has been falling,
And loading the trees in the squares; We'll look out our skates for to-morrow,
I know that the Serpentine bears. I call this uncommonly cozy,
Put coals on, we'll have up " one more;" Ah, John, will you bring up another,
The red seal.—You like '34 P
We leave all the rest to Dame Fortune,
You know my philosophy well,
For penny-a-liners to tell;
As long as it brings us the dance,
And gives us the maiden's soft glance.
We'll ride in the Row that's called Rotten,
When spring brings the season once more And wander in Kensington Gardens,
And whisper of love told before; And then at the ball in the evening,
Pretending to treasure the flower, We'll gain one more trophy of conquest,
And throw it away in an hour.
A SOBE(D) POINT.
To The Editor Of Ftjn.
Sir,—I am a Highlander. I am an ensign in the
F ty S d Highlanders, and I will tell you what I
said the other day. Alister Mcalister Roderick Dhu, of ours, fell over his sword last Friday. Alister Mcalister Roderick Dhu, of ours, is always falling over his sword last Friday.
So I went up to him and said, "alister Mcalister, &c, don't you find that 'Res est solliciti plena timoris claymore," which I think was good.
The great lexicographer whose memorable saying, "Sir, let us take a walk down Fleet-street," will probably be quotedas long as—we will not say the English language, but at any rate, as long as the Temple Bar Magazine endures—published a work, which though somewhat ponderous, and as the Scotchman who went straight through it from Title-page to Finis declared," unco' dry reading," was still considered at the time a very tolerable exposition of what the English language was in Samuel Johnson's day. But tempora mutantur (wo must needs be classical while writing on Johnsonian matters) the mutability of I human diction, with the unscrupulosity of innovators who would com- | pensato by pompous verbosity for their innate lack of profundity, and who opine that the language of this decennovacy, or as it is commonly called, nineteenth century, must of necessity be superior to that immediately antecedent thereto—[but here wo break down. We can't manage these hard words. In fact, to use a modern phrase, we can't " stand Sam" any longer. Let us try Andrew.]
Sam Johnson was a real hoss in his day. Yes, sir. There's no mistake about that, any how you fix it. But we, Bpoaking editorially, rather calculate he and his style of writing is played out. Uncle Sam was death on the English language for the benighted period when I he wrote. But we, still speaking editorially, slightly guess there's another Uncle Sam—so called from the initialising of the United States—that has a word or two, if not more, to say to John Bull about what the bust-up aristocracy of the old world call the English, but which we maintain to be tho American language. Yes, sir. Uncle Sam Johnson was, as we don't negationatc, a right down coon in his time, but a great poet has written,
* A Neat and Complete Dictionary of the English Language: Containing many new Meanings of Words never before Published. By Andrew Johnson, President of the United States of America. New York: Published for the Author.
Nor did the late lamented Dr. Johnson. [We feel our incapacity to sustain either the grand sesquipedalian ponderosity of Samuel, or the gushing natural utterance of Andrew.] Tho Doctor himself " didn't know everything." In the work now under review, there are meanings attached to words, meanings of which Dr. Samuel never dreamed, but which President Andrew has established beyond question.
We will content ourselves with quoting the following from the new Johnson's Dictionary:
"Amnesty. A general pardon, graciously accorded to such as have done nothing to need forgiveness, on condition they don't do it again, but not extending to any others.
"Belligerent. A fighter; consequently, when the enemy is conquered and can fight no longer he can no longer bo recognized as a belligerent, so naturally becomes a traitor. Q. E. D.
"Blockade. A 'bogus' notification addressed to the maritime powers, but from its inherent absurdity more fitted for 'telling to the marines'
"Equality (of rights of citizenship). 'Two blacks don't make a white.'
"Mercy tempered with justice." The meaning attached to this phrase by the illustrious author has not yet been declared. For the credit of the mighty people he governs we trust he will be enabled to arrive at a proper understanding of the words.
A Legal Puzzle. How strange it is, that tho counsel for the prisoner in Criminal Law pleases his client most when he acts in direct opposition to that client's conviction.
Literary.—Shortly will be published, "The Modern Two-pair Back," by the author of the "Old, Old Story." "Hits; a Selection of Contributions to the Human Frame." By Jem Mace, Tom King, and other literary celebrities.