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HE Alderman sat at his festive board, Quaffing the blood - red wine; And many a Bacchanal stave outpoured In praise of the fruitful vine. Turtle and salmon and Strasbourg pie,

Pippins and cheese were there; And the bilious Alderman winked his eye, For the sherris was old and

The slumbering alderman grcaned a groan,

For in vision he seemed to trace Some horrible semblance to his own

In that being's pimply face.

And " oh!" he cried, as ho started up;

"Sooner than come to that, Farewell for ever the baneful cup

And the noxious turtle fat!"
They carried him up the winding-stair;

They laid him upon the bed;
And they left him, sleeping the sleep of care,

With a pain in his nightcapp'd head.

And, lo! that alderman slept and snored,
And that alderman dreamed a dream.

For, carried away on the wings of Sleep,

His spirit was onward borne,
Till ho saw vast holiday crowds in Chepe

On a Ninth November mom.
Guns were booming and bells ding-donged,

Ethiop minstrels played;
And still wherever the burghers thronged,

Brisk jongleurs drove their trade.

Scarlet Sheriffs, the City's pride,

With a portly presence filled
The whole of the courtyard just outside

The hall of their ancient Guild.
And, in front of the central gateway there,

A marvellous chariot rolled,
(Like gingerbread at a country-fair

"fwas covered with blazing gold).

And a being arrayed in pomp and pride

Was brought to the big stone gate; And they begged that being to mount and ride

In that elegant coach of state. But, oh! he was fat, so ghastly fat

Was that being of pomp and pride, That, in spite of many attempts thereat,

He couldn't be pushed inside.

That being was pressed, but pressed in vain,

Till tho drops bedewed his cheek; The gilded vehicle rocked again,

And the springs began to creak.

But a cloud came over his gaze eftsoons, And his wicked old orbs grew dim; Till drink turned each of the silver Bpoons To a couple of spoons for him .' He bowed his head on that festivo board, By the gaslight's fitful gleam;

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Sir Charles Wood.—Capital! Wonderful! Nobody like him! ■Only man wo've got. Don't commit hisself.

Lord Russell.—Hmmmnhh-ach! Hmmmnhh-ach! Brish Costooshun-tooshun-aroosha-isha-isha-wrch! (sneezes.)

Sir George Grey.—Thoroughly constitutional, you know, experience. Ah, wonderful man, sir!

Sir Charles Wood.—Wonderful! Nobody like him! Keeps his own counsel so well—snores so judiciously.

Lord Granville.—Don't you think it would be just as well to—to —just rouse him a little, you know—burnt feathers, or vinegar, or s little sal volatile—so as to give his splendid intellect, in point of fact, fair play? Or pinch him a little P

Sir Charles Wood (with 'Spartan courage).—If you do pinch him, it shall only be over my dead body! At least, I don't mean, of course, that you could pinch him, literally speaking, over me; and I should like to see any of you try it, in the present state of India; but what I mean is, of course, you leave him alone. I never knew a Russia who couldn't take care of himself and his own family; at least, when

I say that I never knew a Russell, of course I

Sir George Grey.Charles, Charles! Be calm. He is waking. He is about to speak. Hear, hear!

Loan Russell.—Thank you; I am oblecged. Under the circumstances, let us proceed _ to business. When tho late Mr. Edmto


Sir Charles Wood.Hear, hear!

Lord Russell (with unusual severity).—I said, gentlemen, wires the late Mr. Edmund Burke. Very good. Call 'em in.

Enter Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Goschen, and the rest of them.

Sir Charles Wood (aside),—The worst of it is I've forgotten aE about Bhootan, and the Tongso Pelow—or the Pongso Telow—it's * great pity, I think, Lawrence can't persuade them to call themselves ly more reasonable names, or else to

Lord Russell.—Pray, my dear Charles, permit me. Thank you. I am obleeged. The problem before Her Majesty's responsible advisers is, I apprehend, how they are to retain office during the nest six months.

Mr. Gladstone.—But

Lord Russell.—Pardon me. Tho budget is a secondary consideration—though, if you like, I can give you a few hints that might

Mr. Gladstone.—I am sorry I interrupted you; pray proceed.

Lord Russlll.—I thought it incumbent upon me to introduce some new blood; which may account for the presence here of our very meritorious young friend Mr. Goschen, from tho city; who, I am sure, will meet with a cordial reception from all my old political associates.

Sir George Grey.—How do, Goschen? Cold—cold, isn't it: Seasonable, though.

Sir Charles Wood.—Ha, ha, Goschen, So hero you are, eh, you young dog, you? Better than sitting in a city office, isn't it, countiii? up balance-sheets and—and codicils, and—and contingents? You'd like a round game better, though, I suppose, wouldn't you? or forfeits —or beggar my neighbour—or blind man's buff—ah, well, boys will be boys! I was just the same at your age, my boy; just like yon J

Mr. Goschen.—Indeed, Sir Charles? I should scarcely have suspected it!

Lord Russell.There ; surely, that's satisfactory? What more do the people want, I should like to know? Eh f And now they talk of more new blood. It's a capital government as it stands—capital; and the national business is in a thoroughly satisfactory conditionthoroughly satisfactory. Look at the Colonies—eh, Cardwell f

Mr. Cardwell.—Well, every second man I meet seems to consider that we've shamefully sacrificed Governor Evjie; and people do talk of a coup d'etdt at Victoria; but Heligoland ft tranquil, and tho domestic happiness of St. Helena is undisturbed.

Sir Chares Wood {to Mk. Goschen, with conciliatory views).—St. Helena; yes; that's where they put old Boney, you know; but I forget about Heligoland, exactly; it's somewhero off a foreign coast, like Ceylon! Stop, though; I'm thinking of Malta.

Loud Granville.-—It's really quite late. I have an engagement to luncheon at fire—and perhaps there was a little unavoidable delay here before wo began business.

Lord Russell {forgetting that Loud Granville was present).—The time was not wasted, my lord; tho timo was not wasted!

ITM Charts Wood. } TM at * »ot at aU' Most entertainingand—and constitutional.

As the Cabinet Council breaks up,

Mr. Gladstone {to Mr. Goschen).—You'd better come with me, Goschen.

Mr. Gosgiien {to Mr. Gladstone).—I had certainly no idea of stopping with them!

Lord Russell {having governed the British Empire satisfactorily).— Hmmmnhh-ach! Brish Costooshun-ach. Edm' Bur'.

[Scene closet.


We havo been much tickled by the thorough Hibernicism of the following advertisement, dipt from a Dublin paper:—

"VflSSING, since the 1st instant, a MAN, answering the following description :— Age 29; height 5 feet 6 inches; long fair hair, large sandy whiskers, wearing a moleskin jacket, black cloth trousers, brown mixture tweed vest, a drab cloth sleeve waistcoat, a pair of elastic boots, without stockings, a worn cloth cap, a black -:1k neckerchief. Whoever will be good enough to sec him at home with Ms family will be paid all expenses. His Residence is 47, Street, Dublin.

In what a charming way is foreshadowed the delight of the family at the return of the wanderer. They will bo so pleased that they will keep open houso for " whoever will be good enough to see him at home with his family "■—indeed, as it appears to us, are prepared to defray

the travelling charges of those who will take a trip to 47, Street,

in order to seo this happy family. We have long meditated a trip o Ireland, and this has decided us. We are off to-morrow, in hopes of soon clapping eyes on a pair of large sandy whiskers wearing a moleskin jacket—a sight well worth the journey even if we had to pay our own expenses.

A Spur for Spurgeon.

What is coming to Mr. Spcrqeon? Does ho cease to draw P We saw in tho Band •/ Hope Review tho other day an account of a lecture he delivered on behalf of tho teetotallers, a class he has hitherto (and it seemed like a lucid interval) invariably denounced. Now he is going in for fancy fairs:

THE BAZAAR at the METROPOLITAN TABERNACLE, Newington, in aid of the Fund for Building Chapels in and around London, is OPES' THIS DAY, from 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. Admission Is.

Why doesn't he turn his comic talent to account, if tho speculation is beginning to droop? A pantomime at this season would be likely to draw largo numbers of hi3 admirers together we should think.


Gestural Grant, in his report on the last year of the American campaign, says that General Butler was of no more use to him than if he had been "in a bottle strongly corked." Well, any butler knows that wine that is corked is not of much value at any tune, but how utterly useless would this corked bottlo have been with such a very bad body!

Fashionable News.

The Earl Op Cork is to bo Master of tho Buekhounds, and arrangements havo been accordingly mado to teach those sagacious »ninmlH to draw coverts with cork-screws.


It is reported that the Chancellor Op The Exchequer intends to remove all duties from w(h)ine.

What A Bore!

It is said that there is to be anothor tunnel under the Thames, and that it will be at Deptford. It may well be a Debt-ford, for the first one never paid its way!


How Bhall wo rise and welcomo liim?
With blaze of trumpet and slap-bang,
Or get celestial shout from Chano,

Or howl from lungs of Anakim?

Or shall we tune a harp like his,

Who sang of philosophic lore;

Repeating proverbs o'er and o'er,
And saying this is true, and this

A fine-drawn thought? Or say, shall one
Who sang of love and classic crime,
In soft allitorativo rhyme,

Come from tho hills of Calydon?

And yet no Piuan one could raise,
Could fitly sing the coming storm;
When Bright is bawling for Reform,

And Russell runs through shambling ways.

And though a broader day may come;
Old voices echo on the night,
Old voices bring tho old delight,

In soft winds blown about a homo,

That haunted by the memory still,
Shows violets mouldering to decay,
And sadly falls the new year's day,

With windy peals from hill to hill.

So we to whom all grace belongs—
The heirs of all the cycles bring,
Must tune dyspeptic harps, and sing

The refrain of our fatuous songs.

And still tho hills repeat tho strain,
For now whatever may- befall,
Ono happy thought is over all,

Tho thought that—" Here wo are again!"

W. 8. C.—If we published your sketch about those "confounded War-offico clerks," it would do something more than " light our study fire," it would probably make it rather hot for you. The drawing is a little better than the taste.

C. E., Surrey.—Obliged to decline your motto. It looks like the
puff of a quack done in a hollow way that can bo seen through.
C. Rum.—Contribution, not as far as we can see, rum.
E. A. L., Cheapside, sends us some lines beginning as follows:—
I tried my hand at poetry,

Not doubtful of my powers,
Mistrusted my ability,

After working some few hours.

I tried my hand at verse, Showed it to a friend; Said ho " I've no'er seen worse," Which much did mo offend. At the risk of offending E. A. L., wo must confess [that wo think s friend was right.

Lohd No Zoo.—You had better alter your title to " No Go." W. T., Manchester.—Your clock notion does not strike us. J. J., Walsall, says he "encloses an idea;" but he appears to have thought better of such extravagance as there is no idea to be found in his MS.

H. T. R.—Copy declined—the only fun we could find in it was on the back of each sheet—a note-paper heading, "Middlesex Election, Lord Ranelaoh's Committee Room." Wo did not know his lordship was a man of letters, but he appears to have laid in a stock for a large correspondence.

J. H. C.—Your contribution is excessive in length. Our printer says the prospectus of tho "Early Rising Association" would be a long timo " getting up."

H. F. A, Uppor Sydenham.—Wo have received your joke about the police—p'lice don't repeat the offence. •

Jacko.—Your " Northumberland Lion" won't do—it is only the skin with yourself inside.

Aspira Minerva Plane.—Wo wish your point were plain also.

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A Conversazione, as a rule, is a dismal gathering of gentlemen very uncomfortable in evening suits, and high-boned dames of forbidding extorior. These wretched people appear doomed to groan internally over portfolios of pictures or glass cases of curiosities, and to move about in a melancholy meandering, taking occasional refreshment (r) in tho form of flannelly lemonade, and tertiary-formation cako. But a conversazione at the Hang'em Chambers (so styled in honour of tho hanging committees at the various exhibitions) is nothing of that sort. High-boned females there are none, the only ladies present being tho Venus de Medici, very black with smoke, on a high Bhelf, and one or two pretty faces in the pictures. The gentlemen are not condemned to sable and swallow-tail. As they are artists, they dress very much how they like, and the designer of costumes for Mr. May, when exhausted by a run of new pieces, might come here to refresh himself with some novel ideas in that lino. Of cake and lemonade, thank goodness, there is none, but there are hugo flagons of alo and lots of bread and cheese, and a very garden of salad, mixed by an artist with an eye for colour.

But the real treat—always excepting the jolly art-gossip with men who are not ashamed of their art, and won't pretend to be—is to be found on the walls and on the semicircle of easels under the horseshoe of gas-jets round the model-throne. These arc the oil paintings in this room—hazes at sea, by a marine painter; fanciful fairy pictures that send you into fits of admiration; landscapes; figures ;—all going to tho British Institution these are. In the inner-room there are water-colours—they are going to the Dudley Gallery;—some capital ones by Beginwell, and some sunsets, and some bits of water, and more figures. It is no use to attempt to go through them in detail, for your mind is a kaleidoscope after the struggle you have had to get round tho room. And then there are the portfolios of sketches to turn over —and then more art-gossip—and, yes—no! Yes, that certainly was tho odour of the herb. Will I have a cigar? Won't I have a cigar f Yes, these conversaziones aro a decided improvement on the ordinary inflictions that go by that name. And when yon meet them again in the exhibitions, the pictures you have seen here will be liko old friends, and remind you of the pleasant evening you spent together. Whon you see those pretty stall-girls sitting in the sun in the you will feel quite proud of being on a nodding

anco with them, and you'll say to Brown, who is with you, "Jolly girls, aint they? I Baw them at the Hang'em bofore they were quite finished. Very sunny and nice!" And Brown will envy you, and he will have reason to do so, for you have spent a jolly evening in the pleasant society of clever men—and that's a treat not to bo had every day.

Como in! What ?" The editor's compliments, and he'd be glad of that copy for tho last page" Hang editors—confound copy! And I could have gone on gossipping about art—there, take it! Literature's a bore. Why isn't life all studios, and easels, and lay figures, and Hang'em Conversaziones, and beer, and bread, and cheese, and celery, and cigars? Well, I really can't say.

Literary Mem.

Captain Musgrave's journals are about to be published by Messrs. Lockwood, under tho following titlo:—

u Castaway on the Auckland Isles: a Narrative of the wreck of the Grafton and of the Escape of the Crew after Twenty Months* Suffering, from the Private Journal* of Captain Thos. Muagrave. Together with Some Account of the Auckland*. Also an Account of the Sea Lion and its habits. Originally written in Seal's Blood, as were most of Captain Musgrave's journals. Edited by John J. Shillinglaw, F.R.G.S."

Our contemporaries, in speaking of the book, have omitted to mention that it will contain a facsimile of a page of the journal, duly authenticated by Captain Musqrave in the usual form—" Witness my hand—and Seal."

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: Printed by JT/DD & OLAS8, Phoenix Works, St. Andrew's Hill, Doctors' Commons, and Published (for the Proprietors) by THOMAS

at 90, Fleet-street, E.C.—January 20, 1S66.

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When from sweet dreams yon rise,
Careless I turn my eyes,

Merely in play,
Anxious each morn to see
H you are watching me

Over the way_!

Sometimes you Bteal a look
Off from that horrid book,

Often unkind
Sunbeams—so golden bright—
Dazzle your eyes with light;

Down goes the blind!

When you select a scat
Why move your parrokeet

Out of its place,
Merely to see my rage
When that obstructive cage

Hides your sweet face?

Then that herbarium,
And your aquarium

Should not be set
Close to the window ledge
On which you train a hedge

Of mignionette.

Jones, on our second floor,
May be an awful bore,

Still, is it fair
Ne'er my poor eyes to bless
With visions of a dress—

And, ah! such hair?

Come, then, don't be unkind,
Peep from your window-blind

Every day.
Must I appeal in vain?
Smile to me once again

Over the way!


What is the difference between this paper and Jem Mace f

The one has wit and fun, the other has " lit " and won.


Thb taste and liberality displayed in the mounting of Messrs. Best and Bellinoham's new burlesque, Princes* Primrose, do honour to the Olympic management. The dresses are gorgeous, and the scenery leaves nothing to be desired. The pieco was played with great vivacity on the first night, and very favourably received by a crowded house. Miss Farren danced and sang her best, and looked so nice in blue satin. Miss Foote was the prettiest prince in the whole world, and looked so nice in crimson. Miss Leigh was graceful, Miss Sheridan Btatuesque, and Mies Everabd, a new-comer, sang charmingly, in which respect (and one other) she reminded us of Aleoni. The heavy ruffian of transpontine melodrama was humorously caricatured by Mr. F. Youngb, but the part is unworthy of this clever actor. Mr. B. Soutar, who nearly lost his lifo during the first performance, through the clumsiness of a carpenter, extracted a good deal of grotesque fun from the representation of that evil genius without whom no fairy-tale is complete.

And the dialogue? A word or two concerning the share of Messrs. Best and Bellingham in this burlesque.

It has now and then befallen Ub, in tho courso of our brilliant and useful career, to meet with exceedingly dull persons who, on finding themselves by pure accident in the society of wits, have made ghastly efforts to imitate the tone of their company, in despite of nature, and in defianco of art. Sometimes the offenders have been held up to merited ridicule for their unseemly conduct; sometimes they have been treated with quiet contempt. In private circles it matters little which course is pursued. Tho crime, however, is occasionally committed in public, under which circumstances the former is tho only treatment to adopt. It becomes the business of critics (those testhctic detectives who guard the people's tastes instead of the people's pockets) to bring the criminals to justice. When Prince Camaral^man, a very pointless and vulgar fairy piece, was produced at tho Olympic, we thought it

our duty to express a hope that the authors of it would write better in future, or would not write at all. It was evident that they possessed no single qualification for the task they had attempted. They had no right whatever to associate themselves, even by the nature of their productions, with brilliant and refined writers, and accordingly they were warned off the ground. The warning has been disregarded, the authors of Prince Camaralzaman actually have written again, and have not written better. Again is their dialogue dull and their versification slipshod. Again are their rhymes—but stay, here is one of them which will haunt us till we die. Never mind the context, look at the rhyme:

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Another, but not half so bad, is "eyo fill" and " trifle." A glance at tho playbill of Princess Primrose will repay tho trouble. Tho name of Simplo Simon is there converted into Zimple Zimon, in the belief, we presume, that this change renders it irresistibly funny. Characters are called Beautee and Uglte, because of course it would not be nearly so humorous to call them Beauty and Ugly. By the way, we suppose these two names are intended to form a subtle antithesis, but seeing that one is a substantive and the other an adjective, the antithesis can hardly be looked upon as a piece of logical perfection. We might multiply examples of this graceful trifling, but as it is not our intention to fight these gentlemon with their own weapons, we will carefully refrain from beebming dull.

We shall express no socond hope respecting Messrs. Best and Bellingham. Probably they will write again. That they can write worse wo do not believo possible, and that they will write better we dare not expect. We only trust that when their next work is produced at the Olympic Theatre, the management will not show them tho cruel kindness of wasting as much time and money upon it as we have seen wasted upon Princess Primrose.

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By The Sacntebir m Society.

HERE seems promise of a lively session. Lord RusSel has pledged himself and tho Government to Btand or fall by the Reform Bill they intend to introduce, so Ipc may expect a good light on that. Should Jamaica tell against him, as I fancy it will, he will probably be beaten, and the Tories will come in, and then we shall be sure to have a lot of Liberal measures passed. The little whispers about the Budget are very cheerful—let us hope, at all events, that that will become an accomplished fact before the' Ministry is beaten.

Bravo, littlo Chili! Spain has had a warmer from the Chilians that will make her cry "Pickles!" The Esmeralda, Captain Williams—tho name sounds English—has captured one of Admiral Pareja's ships in the most brilliant manner. With its disturbances at home and its reverses abroad, the Land of Hidalgos must be rather gloomy at presont. It is very evident that tho British leader-writer knows very little about Spanish politics. A rebellion has been going on for a week or ten days, at this present writing, in a large European State but not a paper has devoted a leaded column of leader to it. A few half-terrified allusions have escaped some organs, but it looks very much as if journalism were not posted up in the delicate state of Spanish affairs—and it is really a funny business, for the Queen has refused to sign a sort of proclamation of outlawry agaiDSt Prim, who is actually in arms against her Government.

I Must say that I am disgusted with the Court Martial on the Captain of the Bulldog. I have often said that these Courts consist of old noodles, but I hoped they were superannuated English soldiers or sailors; but this particular one must have consisted of old women from the Admiralty. The high praise bestowed on some of tho officers, while others, who deserved the highest honour, as they had the greatest risks to undergo, were excluded, is most unfair. I hope, if the Captain be dismissed the ship,—I can hardly believe tho sentenco will be confirmed—that the public will let him understand clearly that the verdict of a body more incapable, if possible, than a jury—say the jury in the Hill f. Finney case—does not injure him in the eyes of his country.

The Trustees of the Peajiody Fund have issued a neat little pamphlet detailing the course they have taken in the disposal of the money entrusted to them for the poor. I quite approve of their having given their chief attention to the struggling poor—the class a step above the pauper—but I cannot help thinking they might, with the largo sum they administer, do something for the latter. Then, again, X fancy, the rent they ask for their rooms, however superior they may be, is a littlo too high. But they have dono a great deal, and though they seem to run too much in one groove, can make out a good case. They appeal at the close of the pamphlet against Poor Rates and such levies, but so long as they do not directly aid tho pauper I don't well see how they can claim exemption.

The father of English draughtsmen, the successor, as well as the friend and pupil, of BewickWilliam Harvey, died at Richmond on Saturday week, and was buried last Thursday, in tho cemetery at the same hour and on the same day that his old co-labourer, Sir Charles Eastlake, was consigned to English earth. William Harvey had reached the ripe age of seventy, and had seen the art, which ho some years since handed over to his admirers and imitators to promote, reach a position that he could have littlo expected in the days when ho learnt engraving under quaint Thomas Bewick, at Newcastle on Tyne, the place of his birth.

Of course everybody is talking of the Fall Mall's amatour-casual. I consider the articles clever, but the good they can do (always excluding the increase of that paper's circulation) is slight, when compared with the unnecessary horrors inflicted on the sensitive reader, who is not accountable for the evil, and powerless to remedy it. I must say that there are some things in the articles that only a man who could go through the mutton-broth-bath ordeal would have had the taste to write. The mention of tho brougham, too, was in bad taste—it was

as if the writer had not been accustomed to a brougham, less accustomed to that than a casual ward almost, from the importance he gave to it The absurdity of the testimonial mania has never been more amusingly and yet gravely exposed than in the report in a country paper of the presentation of a silver snuff-box to a Mr. John Smail, of Galashiels, by the operatives of that town—and for what, think yon? For his "straightforward and resolute conduct in refusing to remove his pig-stye when it, with others, was ordered to bo taken away by the burgh inspector." Of course thero was great speechifying at the presentation, and the chairman, "after alluding to the momentous circumstances which had called forth Buch a demonstration of esteem,"

"ranted out the independent and firm attitude sssumcd by Mr. Saail, gave it as his opinion that Mr. 8mail had conferred a benefit on the inhabitant which could

ly be over-estimated, and concluded by presenting him with the magnificent snuff-box. The box was of solid silver, beautifully wrought, and bore upon the lid the appropriate and suggestive inscription—1 Presented to Mr. Smail from the operatives of Galashiels j 1865.'"

The inscription might have been appropriate, but I see no suggestiveness in it—not a hint of pig-stye. The report continues:—

"In the course of a feeling reply, Mr. Smail said it was with difficulty he could bring himself to believe that any slight efforts he had made to defend the ripats of the people of the town to keep pig-sties could entitle aim to such a touching and valuable mark of their regard."

Isn't this funny? I shall never hereafter read of a testimonial to any ono for "benefits which can hardly be over-estimated," without thinking of a pig-stye.


Sra Gallimafray was a gallant knight

Of Kino Arthur's Table Round; In feats of daring his solo delight

From morn till eve he found.

In search of adventure fared he forth

On his horse, a noble beast,
He wandered South, he wandered North,

He wandered West and East.

He slew tho Knight of the Golden Crest,

And sacked his hall and lands (For however glory fills his breast,

A knight some coin demands).

He seized the Knight of the Silver Studs,
And his jewels and gold, of course;

He unseated the Knight of the Lily Buds,
And carried away his horse.

Oh, he was a hero stout and bold,

In the good Kino Arthur's days; In those fine romantic times of old.

That so many people praise.

And when he died, he was sorely wept,

And buried with pomp and state,
In a gorgeous abbey where calmly slept

All England's good and great.

And there he lies, with his crossed legs,

In Mb corslet and coat of mail;
But had he lived in our time, "i'fegga!"

(Which I quoto from an ancient talo,)
The Police would have nailed him, as sure as eggs,

And tho Beak would have sent him to jail.

Faute de Quoi!

It appears there is a new system of duelling in France. Tho two principals mite their names on slips of paper, which are folded and thrown into a hat. He whose name is drawn from the hat first ■ called on to blow out his brains at the expiration of a certain pre-arranged period. This is a really excellent plan. The man who would consent to adopt the system might be allowed to try and blow out hie brains with impunity.


Bodoers, who reads his fashionable intelligence regularly, wants to know whether " Le Legs" of Maeivaux, mentioned in the Court Jovrntl as having been performed recently at the Tuilories before the Qcebx Of Portugal, is a ballet.

Why is the Rinderpest like a mouse? Because tho cat'll eatoa it.

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