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Years ago—let a jestor beg permission, for a moment, to be serious at Christmas time—years ago, I remember how, being then a child, I Wail dangerously ill.

The memory of pain, no matter how acute, soon passes; that of pleasure lives longer. I can hardly recall the suffering; but I recollect, as though it had all happened a week ago, how, one day, the darkened room grew lighter; how the vague forms that had been hovering round my bed, suddenly took distinct shapes; how the voices that had been sounding indistinctly in my ears were again known; how the sense of some dim, past trouble seemed still to haunt and weaken me, so that, half afraid I was dreaming and should wako, I turned my face to the wall and closed my eyes. But it was not a dream, after all; the same shapes, tho same voices, met me in the

morning; as they will meet me again, I believe, when a

longer slumber is over! Then came the great tranquil pleasure of recovery'; there was a sense that it was always Sunday; that there were no troublesome lessons to perplex one, no boyish tyrants to face and resist; nothing to do but to rest, rest, rest, while the old dear story-books were read, and the Bummer light came in through the jessamine; and the nurse-mother already began to talk of the time when her boy should be taken for a walk by the sea. For the sea was at hand, and the great sound of it filled the room at night, whenever the winds made wild work on the bar. m

Yes, it is not so hard, after all, to suffer illness in a comfortable house, with a sufficiency of relations, doctors, toys, jelly, wine, arrowroot, beef-tea.

. . . . When the old child-life by the sea was only a memory ■—dimmer to me then, in my first fights with the world, than it is this Christmas—I knew London, at late hours, tolerably well. City missionaries, viveurt, policemen, journalists, and medical students—these are the people who see the realities of London; and the sight is not pleasant. Little boys, three together, coiled and curled into a strange ragged cluster on a bench in the Park, when the coldest wind that blows in all the twenty-four hours of the day stirs restlessly in the branches, and ruffles the surface of the water, or stretched out, where you hardly notice them as you pass—upon the cold white doorsteps, shadowed by an archway—these are not pretty spectacles to behold. I can see them now; can see a boy, roused from his sleep, staring at

me with great, wide, bewildered eyes. D.i you ask why, in those eyes there is a wild glitter; do you ask me why, on the thin, worn cheeks, for all their dirt, there is a red, red bud that will blossom in its time into a flower of death? . . . Listen! Do you hear the cough that tears the little lungs—that sounds so infinitely pitiful as it breaks the great cold silence of the night? Do you hear the strange, hoarse, choked voice in which the youngster speaks to you? . . . You are happy, perchance, if you do not know their meaning; happy, bat wonderfully ignorant.

It M a hard thing for a child to suffer illness here and thus!

And so, by your leave, bearing in mind what the children of the poor have to suffer if we neglect them, we will give an hour this morning, before we make our purchases of Christmas presents, to a certain old house in Great Ormond-street, Bloomsbury.

It is a large, old house of Queen Anne's time, with loftvroom?, with broad staircases and ample balustrades, with painted ceilings and deep cornices; and in this large, old house there are some seventy tiny bed.-, with a little child in each. We are in tho Hospital for Sick Children.

A painful sight, you think? Yes, if you are not used to sorrow; but a cheerful and beautiful sight if you have seen what sorrow if when it is left to itself, and when you now see around you, on every side, suffering that in every case is relieved, that in many cases will soon be cured. There is an atmosphere, so to speak, of peace and in the place; no forced, gloomy, unnatural silence; every now and then you may hear a pretty little peal of feeble, infantine laughter; but there is a great stillness, and serenity, and order.

Across most of the little cots runs a small platform, which the child itself can move, and on these platforms there are dolls and toys— marvellously different from the dear, quaint, absurd, old playthings of even twenty years ago, but watched with the same childish earnestness, wonder, delight. Just think for a moment where these children would be if they were not here, and you will see, I think, the fall meaning, the full beauty of such an institution.

"Miserable," says the brave Jean Paul, the large-hearted Teuton, "misorablo is the man for whom his own mother has not made all other mothers sacred!" Not miserable, indeed, but lacking one grand source of happiness, are those to whom little ones of their own lure not made all other children dear.

As you go from room to room you cannot help taking certain of the inmates into particular friendship and confidence. There is a noble boy, for instance, with his head closely shaven, but with a marvellously brave, bright, winning face, whom you cannot help loving at a glance, a sturdy, little fellow, who, saved from sickness, will be able as he grows up to hold his own in the world, you would say. Look, already he has his little circle of admirers, three or four toddling little things, well enough to walk about, who peep up in his face and arrange his toys for him, and are, obviously, to the full extent of their small capacity for service, and their large capacity for love, his loving servants.

And here, too, pleasantly chirping and smiling, is a pretty little lady in a bright red jacket. At the end of the bed hangs a weight, part of a mechanical contrivance by which, in due time, her lameness will be cured. One likes to think of the little lady as she will be, strong and tall, dancing some future Christmas.

There are weo wan faces here and there which will hardly grow any brighter—pained, anxious, little eyes, for which tho best that one can wish is that, with very littlo pain and to tho music of a prayer, they may even close upon the world and its troubles, to open again where the air will be softer and all the pain will have passed away. But for one for whom a trained insight can only foresee that immediate future, there are twenty who, by God's blessing, may yet live happy English lives.

Seventy in all:—it is but a poor fragment snatched from a great heap of misery. In Paris, as I read, there are the "Hopital des Enfants Malades" and the "Hopital St. Eugenie," which can give shelter to eleven hundred children ; but those noble institutions receive endowments from the State. Our own hospital, here in Great Ormond-street, depends altogether upon the gifts of the charitable.

It has had noble aid—none more noble than that of tho great Artist, who, twenty years ago, made us laugh and cry with Bob Ckatchit and Tiny Tim, who yesterday made us laugh and cry with Doctor Marigold. But to maintain and to extend it still further help is needed.

One word more: it is entirely unsectarian, and does not ask the creed of any little children who are ill. I look out from a back window on the playground and garden, and I ask, "What is the garden and playground next door?" I am told that it belongs to a Eoman Catholic charity. Oddly enough, the sunshine seems to fall on both sides.

Our visit is ended. Let us go—unless—"Unless?"—Unless you like to leavo a cheque with my esteemed friend, Mr. Samuel WhitTore, the Secretary. Not got your cheque-book P Then direct to 49, Ormond-street.

And now the jester's earnestness is over. Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen, walk up, just a-going to begin. Here are puns so good you could hardly see 'em with Lord Rosse's telescope; here are conundrums so mysterious you could hardly make 'em out if you were to go up to the top of the sky in a balloon and down to the bottom of the sea in a diving-bell; here you are, here you are, the whole Fun of the fair, just a-going to begin, and the charge for the entire performance the ridiculous sum of One Penny British sterling!


Being A Letter To A Colonial Governor.

Mt Dear Sir Adolphus,—You are good enough to ask me for a little advice. You state that your position is one of extreme difficulty; that the population of Sugarcane Island is two hundred thousand, of whom a hundred and fifty thousand are negroes, forty-nine thousand mulattos, and one thousand whites; that considerable disaffection prevails; that a coloured gentleman, a member of the local Assembly, has accused you of stealing a piano, and has publicly expressed his desire to be " well rid of you;" that'you have reason to suppose he is at the head of an extensive conspiracy; that seditious language is constantly used by the missionaries, whom you describe as illiterate and fanatical; that you live in daily apprehension of an outbreak; and that you are anxious to preserve Her Majesty's authority in the Island.

Pardon me, Sir Adolphus, if I fail to see any real difficulty in your position.

It might indeed be embarrassing if the negro were ignorant and barbarous, savage and slothful; but you, who are on the spot, can surely give evidence that he is gentle, well educated, thoroughly civilised, and industrious almost to a fault, i'ou must know, my dear Sir Adolphus, that the neighbouring Island of Hayti, in which he has been allowed to hare his own way, and freed from the thraldom of the brutal white, is an earthly Paradise, that lifo and property are there more secure than in any other district on the earth; that the Haytian annals are not stained by a single act of cruelty and violence; that the people are prosperous and contented; that civil war is unknown; and that the punishment of deatn has been abolished.

Having tho example of Hayti before your eye3, I am surprised that you should feel any anxiety whatever with regard to the future of Sugarcane Island. The negro, my dear Sir Adolphus, can do no wrong. I have excellent authority for the statement; that of Mr. Ciiamerovzow, a Polish gentleman, who is good enough to reside in this country and to receive a salary from a philanthropic association; that of Mr. White, member for Brighton, who, although ho was formerly unfortunate in business, is a profound scholar, a deep thinker, a modest and accomplished gentleman; that of Mr. G. M. Murphy, who is, I believe, a street-preacher in the New Cut, and who may be heard of at the Lambeth Baths; that of Mr. Pbrpitt, who preaches a new religion on very moderate terms; and that of Mr. Mason Jones, a professional orator whose name will bo remembered when that of Demosthenes is forgotten.

You ask me what you should do if an insurrection were to break out, after all—if, for instance, thirty or forty white men should be massacred. Do? Nothing can bo more simple.

In the first place, you should immediately disband the troops. Bayonets aro tho last resort of tyrants. In tho second place, you should send away any of Her Majesty's ships that may happen to be cruising near the island. I tremble to think of the consequences if an infuriated gang of British sailors should be let loose upon negroes who have only put a few whites to death and mutilated their bodies. In the third place, you should disarm the volunteers. If those murderous ruffians were to be surrounded by a justly indignant multitude of intelligent African labourers, and if they were, as they would deserve to be, pelted with brickbats and stones, I am convinced that the dastards would fire upon the inoffensive crowd.

Having thus proved that you had no intention of coercing an amiable and enlightened people, I would recommend you to invite their leader —who accused you of stealing a piano—to dinner at Government House. Between ourselves, I can hardly believe that you really purloined the musical instrument in question; but as tho coloured gentleman is a personal friend of Mr. Chamerovzow, that good and gifted man, it would be rude to say that he is a liar.

Your next step should be to distribute tracts amongst the poor blacks, who will by this time have assembled in considerable numbers.

All this being done, I should thon recommend you to try the efficacy of moral force by proceeding in person, and unarmed, to their camp.

But as a mere matter of worldly wisdom, I should recommend you previously to make your will.

Bear these principles in mind, my dear Sir Adolphus, act upon them, and you will earn the eternal gratitude of Exeter Hall, and of the Lambeth Baths—of Mr. Chamerovzow, and of Mr. Murphy. To be sure England will lose the island,—what of that P

Act otherwise; and I will tell you what will be your fate.

You must remember that Lord Palmerston Is dead, and that as your name is neither Elliott nor Gkey, you cannot roly for support upon Lord Russell.

Public meetings will be held, a deputation, consisting of a China merchant, a Dissenting minister, a blind man, and a street preacher will wait upon the Premier; a commissioner will be sent out to Sugarcane Island; you will bo superseded ; you will be put upon your trial; and you will probably be disgraced.

The Times—that ribald journal, declares, speaking of the spirit shown by Exeter Hall:—" It is a spirit which, if permitted to have its way, would make tho service of the Crown intolerable to any man who is anxious for his good fame and honour." Very likely, but I should hope, my dear Sir Adolphus, that you are too sensible a man to care about such trifles. Faithfully yours,



Oh, give mo of turkey, of goose, and of beef,
washed down with the juice of the grape;

Oh, give me mince-pie, which of pies is the chief,
And plum-pudding rotund in its shape.

Of whatever there is on the table to eat,

Let me taste, as at Christmas we should;
Of soup, fish, flesh, fowl, and of tntrie, and sweet,

Of whatever there is that is good.

I'm aware indigestion will make me its prey,

But why dash our enjoyment with sorrow-
Dash P Dash it! I mean to be jolly to-day,
And call in my doctor to-morrow,

Domestic Architecture. Houses are run up in a few weeks by landlords, and run down by tenants ever after. ^

A Question Por Riflemen. When a star shoots, how many points does it make? A PAINTERS LOVE.


Ah me the happy days I spent,

When all the fields were sweet with clover, Ere yet my head with care was bent,

And I could feebly play the lover; Ah me the foolish words I said,

To which she listened so sedately; The while I painted her bright head,

Upon tho lair breast bending stately.

I was too young in those old days,

To know that love must keep a carriage, I knew she liked my artist ways,

And never thought of care and marriage. It seems so sweet remembering now,

That little head bent o'er my shoulder, That I could wish that fair young brow

Had never grown a aummor older.

That summer evening seems a dream,

When our young vows were fondly plighted; The river seems a dreamland stream,

By dreamland sunbeams golden-lighted; But ah ! how rudely breaks the spell,

She figured on a thousand easels, When a kind neighbour comes to tell,

"The Lady May has got the measlet."


lady of Taste (to Artist, whose ricture 'of "Spring" she has purchased)':—



With My Carte De Visite.

I've heard Eithrosyne declare

That handsome men, both dark and lair, Are dear at three a penny.

I've searched the world, and this I know, That nowhere, at a price so low,

Could I discover any.

Men ridiculed my folly, when

I asked the price of handsome men,

And christened mo a ninny.

'Till Phocas Kammereh I tried,

And found tho articlo supplied
At twenty-four a guinea!


We have had forwarded to us a report of a temperance meeting at Plymouth, which is so funny that wo must draw attention to it. A paper on "tho present condition of tho Band of Hope movement" is spoken of in the following terms:—

11 The paper, however, contained valuable information, though in some cases it appeared as if the number of children attending a school had been counted twice."

This looks very much as if tho author of the report had boon seeing double. A person of tho name of Doxsey—not Orthodoxsey, for he was a Dissenting minister—found an awful warning in the fact that "60,000 drunkards dio every year." But considering that a much larger number who are not drunkards die every year, tho argument, if it bo an argument, would seem to bo in favour of intoxication. Tho sumo porson in tho end of his speech counselled incendiarism in theso words:—

"If a rick of barley were purposely set on fire anJ destroyed, the act was not so wi^kel or mischievous as to use that same rick for the manufacture of strong dilnk."

This is an instance of such criminal folly as lias led to the outbreak in Jamaica.

Another speaker let fall a fact which is worth recording as a counterblast to the unvcracious boastings of tho teetotallers :—

"It was ■» lamenUble fact that the children of teetotallers too frequently cared little ornolbing about lh<! cause of temperance. ( Hear.)"

Wo arc glad to think, that as the Helots of old taught the Spartan youth the evils of excess, Bo tho modern teetotaller is a living warning to his child run against the debasing offects of over-indulgence in cant and self-righteousness.


The prize ox writes to inform us that his notion of tho cattle plague is tho public that insists on punching him in all his tender points.

X. Y., Leeds, must be one of that very old and afflicted family, the X-Y's. He sends us somo halting lines, and says he can "supply us with any amount of trash in this style or any other at any time." Unfortunately trash is a drug in the market.

Frizzlewig.—Yes, we know the frizzy curls of yellow hair that bent over the manuscript of "The Error." Alas, that we are obliged to refuse what it would be a miss-take on our part to accept.

A Bore.—We have at your request looked over the lines, so you cannot consider yourself overlooked.

Mc C, Limerick, encloses two riddles, and " wishes to hear from the editor in return." Unfortunately we don't return rejected MSS.

Isidori, P Lane, requests us to roturn " Trifles light as air," if

they aro "too light" for us. As they are much too heavy, and as our correspondent moreovor neglected to enclose a stamped and directed envelope, we have not retransmitted the trifles.

A Constant Reader.—You should not joke about Joint Stock Provision Companies when the times are so out of joint that wo have to go to France for our beef.

R. W.—The " Confectionary Counter of the Crystal Palace" is too long for our premises, and we must therefore decline it with thanks.

The Clown's Motto.—"Bismuth first, pleasure afterwards."

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London: Printed by JUDD ft GLAS9, Phoenix Works, St. Andrew's Hill, Doctors' Commons, and Published [for the Proprietors) by THOMAS BAKfcii,

at 80, Fleet-street, E.C.—December 23, 18S5.

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"Wki tottl $Un U m\ tools V*

Br Onb Of Themselves.

"Wur will mon bo such, fools?" I cry;

I throw the letter down, And wait for Echo to reply,

And help abuse young Brown.

"He's married!" He, the once rare soul

Of all our college set;
His only sweet the "midnight bowl"-i-

His love, somo yelping pet.

How oft, o'er many a fragrant weed,
We've broached " the treach'rous fair"

In cynic mood; sworn foes agreed
'Gainst artful female snare.

But he's been caught, and I'm alone

To tread the battle-field;
Yet still defiance marks my tone,

I'm not the man to yield.

'Mid waltz's maze, in Flora's oar,

I breathed my note of war; She smilod: my heart's too firm for fear—

It never foared bofore.

"War to the knife!" Again sho smiled, My heart was strong; but still

(Champagne my sonses p'raps beguiled)
I felt a little ill.

Another smile! I really must

Kesist this onslaught keen. Too late I strivo, I bite the dust,

And Flora stands a queen;

Not mine to ask again, I trow,
"Why will men bo such fools?"

Kind echo cannot teach me now,
I loarn in other schools.

For Flora, Bmiling sweet disdain,

All archly looks mo through; Then whispors Watts's "simple strain,"

"For 'tit their nature to I"


Who Killed Cock Robin ? is a capital Palais Royal piece, done capitally at the Haymarket. Palais Boyal pieces aro not always translatable—we beg pardon, Messieurs lea English authors Dramatiques—we should say adaptable; but Who Killed Cock Robin ?—the two-act farce—is as free from offence as the baby's poem of that name. It is as funny as it is proper, that is to say, it is both funny and proper, which is not always the case with a fine old English five-act comedy—to say nothing of tragedy. Another agroeablo thing, too, about the Haymarket version of Le Mcvrtrier de Theodore, is, that it is not called "Now and Original," which is such a deadly insult to the public in these days of twelve hours to Paris, and Cook's excursions. Bravi, Messieurs Charles Mathews and Chippendale, and not hommaget, Mesdames Charles Mathews et Fitzwilliams, and when you act together as well in another piece as good, may wo be there to see!

A New Way to Fay Old Debts.

We shall fool obliged to any of our legal readers who can inform us whether the following simple method of disclaiming liabilities is practicable, and will be recognjsed by the law. Wo extract the paragraph from a Liverpool paper:—


*** this date. She is now living at 64, V 8 .

December 4, 1865. Sahukl F .

We may add that we should like to know who is the mysterious "she" thus suddenly introduced to us. But this is a question of minor importance compared with the other.


A popular singer had an interview a day or two since with his landlord. The following conversation took place. Landlord.—You owe me two quarters' rent. Tenant.—Owe ye rente? O ye teart. But it was not good.


By A Householder And Paterfamilias.

Christmas Waits:—My tradesmen, becauso they won't be paid just yet.

Christmas Meat:—That littlo bill of Jones's that I can't meet.

Christmas Fare :—Sixpence a mile and a shilling extra for luggage, because you're bringing home some toys for the children.

Christinas Wishes:—"I wish tho bills were paid." "I wish one's relations didn't consider it a duty to dine with one on Christmas Day." "I wish those noisy children were in bed." "I wish / were in bed."


By Anuttbuab Sukdetjbb.

Oh, there was a youthtain of high degree,

His grandmother's sire was an earl;
And early one morning he happenod to see

A beautiful milliner's girl.

Sho passed Pall Mall on her way to the Strand—

She was clad in the neatest of frocks;
A cerulean band-box sho boro in her hand,

And her eye was as blue as her box.

He vowed ho would follow her twice round the world,

For one glimpse of her eye so blue;
But that was a thing no respoctable girl'd

Allow a young party to do.

And she, who was modest as mushrooms in May,
When she saw him pursuing her thus,

Determined to slip—all unnoticed—away,
And got into a twopenny 'bus.

And where she was gone he could never suppose—
And he gnashed his new teeth in despair;

With a void in his heart, and a black on his nose,
He has wandered I cannot tell where.

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By The Saunterer In Society.

HE Covent Garden version of Aladdin eclipses all minor efforts in that line hitherto seen, if I may believo a mysterious glance behind the curtain ■with which I have been favoured. But the Covent Garden Co. has a good company to back it, and possesses the sinews of war. Tho ensemble too is a happy mixture, for thero aro several Paynes that delight us, and a scenic artist who Grieves Us while he pleases. Of the Master of Ravenswood it is too early to Bpcak, but I may mention that I was present at the last representation of Buy Bins on Saturday week, and that I , trust that piece will bo often reproduced. FeghTer never acted better in his life, and he has quite overcome the one objection in which captious critics, failing all other cause of complaint,rwere glad to find refuge— his French accent. I don't care if the piece be bad or good it is always a treat to see Fbghter, and so though I haven't seen it I am sure his Edgar will be a treat. The new Surrey conies out with all its old excellence, and a fresh charm of novelty in its pantomime this year. It is one of tho few houses where genuine pantomime is to be found in these dogonerate days, and on that account earns the best wishes of the little folk.

I Have noticed a characteristic bit of the sharp praetice which Exeter Hall people seem not to consider incompatible with piety. My readers are probably aware that all the hoardings in London are rented by capitalist and "champion" bill-posters, who sub-let to advertisers. To stick a notice on such hoardings without paying for it is not very unlike picking a man's pocket; but it is an action which some one connected with a "converted" Exeter Hall declainier has not been too " good" to commit. The hoardings of London wore surreptitiously posted, one night not long since, with announcements of an Exoter Hall gathering, whereat, doubtless, tho principal performer descanted largely on iniquity in general. Did he make any reference, I wonder, to tho iniquity of cribbing advertisements?

It is only because it dates from Exeter Hall that I have any doubts of the success and good intentions of a now musical society just started. It calls itself the Concordia, and its object is the production of unperformed masterpieces. If the society brings forward creditably any of the great works which are only known in England by reputation, it will deserve tho thanks of all lovers of music. The programme is a fair one; and the fact that no salaries will be paid to persons connected with the managerial department seems to prove that it is not connected with tho usual element of tho Hall, where the axiom that every labourer is worthy of his hire is seldom overlooked. On these grounds I wish the new society all success.

The collision in the Channel is naturally causing some attention to bo drawn to the careless watch and insufficient lights displayed on board ships sailing up and down Channel, especially where there is so much quick transit going on across it. American vessels are, I fear, celebrated for an almost culpable disregard of necessary precautions; but I hope that tho allegation that they are also apt, in cases of collision, to act as the Emma Buck did is not a true one. Yet I must confess that the treatment of their crews, as too often shown at tho Police Courts, does not argue too much humanity on the part of Yankee skippers.

The examination of Mr. Lloyd's beggar, at Thirst, cannot be quite so satisfactory as that Christian Chairman of Sessions could have wished. Country magistrates have, on more than one occasion, combined tho offices of judge and catch pole; but Mr. Lloyd appeared anxious to exercise the functions of executioner. A full-blown chairman might surely take a lad into custody without finding it necessary to break his head with a hunting-crop. Even supposing tho lad had been begging, Ms. Lloyd has so grossly misconducted himself that

the Secretary of State cannot possibly permit him to be entrusted any longer with the commission of tho peace. If tho lad did not beg—and the evidence is strongly in favour of the supposition, the sole testimony to the contrary being that of a man for whose conduct the only possible excuse that can be found is that he had been dining out—Mr. Lloyd should be made to fsei that those who are entrusted with the administration of tho law must pay more dearly than ordinary persons, when they transgress it. A more disgraceful case has not, in my opinion, stained even the annals of the Great Unpaid for a long time.

I was very much struck, the other day, in passing down Bondstreet, with some exquisite bijouterie in Emanvel's window. It is a combination of humming birds, those " living jewels "—only in this instance they are dead—with gold. The heads, breasts, and crests are mounted in m tting—tho beaks being replaced by gold, and the eyes by rubies or brilliants. They are most artistic and beautiful; and as tho exhibition (in the window) is free it ought to bo popular.

gifalt tss fleas*.

I Never knew an uncle's love—an aunt's L

A first or second cousin whose emotions I coulA i

I've not one distant relative (by marriage or by birth)
To soothe me in my sadness, or to join me in toy mirth.
My brothers and my sisters are as kind as they can be;
I dote upon my parents, who are fond enough of iM f
But I wish the Fates could manage—though I'm quite aware they

To let me have an uncle, and some cousins, and an aunt!

If I could have a hundred pounds paid annually down,
And loving hearts about me in some cottage out of to*n—
Sequestered from the hum of Mien, and Trade's eternal noise
I'd spend my modest competence in Melibcean joys.
'Tis true that I am opulent—I live in regal state,
And pampered menials bring me food on gold and silver plate-
Yet now and then I hanker for a pastoral career,
And think I nn'ght contrive it on A hundred pounds a year.

Could I produce a work of art to win a deathless name—

I mean a drama that should rouse a multitude's acclaim,

How happily and proudly should I bow before the crowd,

While pit and gallery, box and stall, cried "Author !" long and loud.

I've written leading articles and poems by the score—

I've written twenty novels; or, it may be, rather more;

And yet, amidst my triumphs, I occasionally sigh,

And murmur, "May I live to write a drama by and bye!"

If I were tall and slender, with a mane of auburn hue,
And if my nose were aquiline, and if my eyes were blue-
How carefully I'd cultivate Byronic looks and ways,
And make my hearers wonder with a foolish faco of praise.
I'm only just the middle height (but not at all robust);
I'm rather prepossessing in appearance, as I trust;
My eyes are big and brilliant, and my locks as black as night,
But now and then I Bhed a tear and wish that they were light.


A New fire-annihilator has boon invented, which bears the name of L'Extincteur. Its merits were tested tho other day in tho presence of the Duke Op Wellington and other people of distinction—we were nearly saying extinction. At the end of the trial, says the report we


"In order to test the innocuous nature of the contents of the little engine, his Grace and several of the company testified to the same by drinking some out of a glass."

How delightful! We hope a large Bupply of the fluid will be bottled and stored in the cellars of tho House of Commons. Any member likely to flaro up on Blight occasion might take a glass of the mixture, which although described as an extinguisher, would prevent him from getting "put cut."

The Cattle Plague in Ireland.

The plague, we regret to inform our readers, has broken out among the Irish bulls—several of which, driven jocularly into conversation, have fallen dead among the audience. To prevent the spread of the disease, the Lord Mayor of Dublin has ordered that "Tho Tune the old cow died of " shall not be played in any public thoroughfare.

A Justice In Eyre.—The Governor of Jamaica.

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