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A Pathetic Ditty.




not halfpence, been our lot Since we set out in the world together; Bnt on, as friends, we hare somehow got, In stormy as well as in sunny weather.

For we don't care much for the showers we get—

A drenching can cause us but little pain; Your collar's not likely to rust with the wet,

And I have no clothes to be spoilt by the

Our wants, like our com-
forts, are very few,
A doorway will shelter
us both from the

Our companionship's dis-
interested too,
For neither's fat keeps
the other warm.

You ought to cost me
twelve shillings a

But the tax collector, although he's a scraper,
Can't get any money from me, that's clear—
I've no house whero the beggar can leave the paper!

"We live as we can, like honest chaps—

A mouldy crust we consider a feast;
Though cook sometimes throws us a plate of scraps,

With,—glancing at you,—" Poor, faithful beast!"

But pshaw! your fidelity doesn't deceive me—
And why I'll ne'er part with you briefly I'll tell you :—

There's nobody'd take you, if you were to leave me,
And nobody5 d buy you, if I were to sell you!


If there are any clear-headed, intelligent men among the "Abstainers " they should really exercise their influence, and put a stop to tho imbecilities which the contributors to the Temperance press perpetrate week after week, under the impression that thoy are benefiting tho cause that they have espoused. Frenzied with temperance, these silly people rant and rave in a manner which must give unspeakable pain to the well-informed portion of tho Temperanco community. We gave, a little while since, a sample of the poetry with which those muffs propose to stimulate believers, and to convert heretics; here is a brief precit of the kind of prose anecdote which they imagine is calculated to wean a convivial man from his convivial ways. It is published in the Weekly Record, and is called "Nellie Hunter: a Sketch from Real Life."

Tho story opens at a date about twenty years since, and we there find little Alice Adams (a staunch teetbtallor of seven, or thereabouts), prophetically ondeavounng (but in vain) to induce ono Nellie Hunter, a young lady also of tender years, to join tho Band of Hope—an institution which, wo believe, was founded about fifteen years ago. The two girls grow up; Alice goes to India with her parents, and Nellie remains at homo :—

"She was now in her teens, a tall, genteel-looking girl of seventeen. She had left school, and was supposed to be continuing her studies at home, and following out the train of education which had been commenced at school. Whether she really did so or not, however, we cannot say; she was absent from the family, and engaged in her own room, several hours a day, and her absence was supposed to prove that the said studies claimed her attention. Mrs. Hunter, however, saw, or supposed she saw, reasons for distrusting Nellie. Often token she made her appear' ance at the dinner-table, her manner! were deficient, her conversation wandering, and her accent thic*. On such occasions she would plead severe headache, which pica would be generally entertained by the family."

But after tho ingenuous family had'Jaccepted these extraordinary symptoms as evidence of headache for some time, an event occurred which opened their eyes to the real state of the case.

One day Mrs. Hunter found her daughter's room locked. The door was eventually broken open, and the following distressing spectacle was presented to Mr. and Mrs. Hunter's gaze:—

"Nellie was on the sofa, asleep. The noise partially awoke her, and sitting up, in a maudlin kind of manner she asked,'What was the matter V By her tide was a bottle of gin, partially empty, and on the floor, at if it had fallen from her hands, wat one of the fashionable novels of the day. Novel-reading and gin-drinking! Truly, here was enough to appal any parent's heart. The pang it produced was something akin to the agony of seeing a child suddenly struok dead.

"1 Nellie,' said Mr. Hunter,'it seems to me there is enough the matter. How came this bottle of gin here? What are you doing with it V

"1 Oh! papa, don't be angry,' she replied, for the shame of detection had quickened her perceptions, * don't be angry, and I will tell you. I've often taken it for pains in my head and chest, and I suppose I took a little too much this morning, and so it made me sleep heavily.'

"'Sleep heavily 1 I should think so, indeed. The quantity you have taken shows me that you are accustomed to this kind of thing. I will not inquire how you got it, but I presume you bribed one of the servants to fetch it. As 1 cannot make a general inquiry, and so proclaim your shame and ours to the whole family, I will get rid of them all, and remember that for the future, there shall be no tampering with servants.1"

This drunken beast of a girl married a loving husband, and had a little boy, who, we are interested to learn, was " named Johnny, after his father." But even Johnny failed to convert her, for as the narrator forcibly puts it, "she drank worse than ever," and the climax is told in the following words :—

"Not four months since, a couple might have been seen travelling on one of our railways,—a young married couple. Passengers, however, rarely looked at the gentleman, except to pity him. Their attention was wholly absorbed by the lady, who called incessantly for drink. At every station her husband wascompelled to ply . her with it, in order to obtain any degree of quietnesB; but as he did to, the silent tear would sometimes trickle down hit cheek, telling eloquently of a tale of sorrow. / was puzzled every time the lady spoke. I seemed to have a dim recollection of the voice, thick and uncertain though it was. Presently I heard the gentleman call his wife * Nellie.' Then it all flushed upon me, that it was Nellie Hunter, one of my former schoolfellows and young friends! But how had tho fine gold become dim. I followed them to their destination, which I found was a house established for the cure and reformation of ladies addicted to habits of intemperance. There Nellie now lives, separated from all she knows. She is only twenty-seven years of age, yet she has drunk to such an extent that it is feared that she will fall a victim to softening of the brain. Nellie has fallen before the ruinous drinking customs of society, and therefore I would warn my young readers to beware."

And then follows an appeal to the ladies of England to abstain from getting drunk, lest they follow in Nellie's footsteps.

For aught we know to the contrary, the author's experience of young ladies may warrant him in considering this sort of warning absolutely necessary; but if so, we venture to think that he has boon exceptionally unfortunate. As a rule, we aro inclined to believe that young ladies of position aro not raving drunkards; but, on the other hand, we may havo been exceptionally lucky. But if the editor of the Weekly Record is under the impression that the publication of such blatant folly as the tale wo have quoted will have any other effect than to bring ridicule on a really well-intentioned movement, ho deserves to have his editorial stool plucked from under him.

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Sigma, Cambridge.—A groat improvement, but some of your lines still halt, and need, therefore, halteration. Go on and prosper! Do verse—and better.

titUTAToii wishes to know if we will let him draw something s. What is UP The cork of a bottle of tho finest vintage? Speak, oh, cork-scrutator!

An Enquirer.—We have consulted Men of the Timet, and learn that Lindlby Murray was a City policeman, who acquired fame by always saying "Parse on." As nobody could tell whether it was a preposition or an adverb he was looked on as a profound grammarian. We cannot vouch for the truth of this story in all particulars.

A Pump.—The conjunetion " ger" is the teetotal for " and." Thus by Gin-jwr-beer the strictest teetotaller understands (and swallows) a judicious compound of the spirit of juniper with the decoction of malt —known to the profane as "dog's nose."

Oxonian.—The words to which you refer—IIoXi7rvTt?r; nervXov —occur in the opening of a poem of Anacreon's.

O'F., Dublin.—Can't get lie Index number? We point our index finger to the shop of Mr. Plasto, 144, Abbey-street.

A Youthful Enquirer wishes to know why the Confederates required a Loan. Does not he know that they are so reduced in circumstances that they have since been compelled to enter tho Union f

S. Crewy.—We can't help you. If after taking what you consider a reasonable amount of liquid nutriment of an alcoholic character, you lose your legs, we can see no way to aid you. If you lost your upper limbs instead, Mr. Culleton, of Cranbourne Street, would probably be able to "find arms " for you.


Severe as were the trials to which Job had to submit, there -was one which he escaped, and from which even his patience might not have come out scatheless. He never was an inventor anxious to bring a valuable discovery under the notice of Government. Let any of our readers, who doubt this, read the pamphlet of Letters from Captain Cowper Coles to the Secretary of the Admiralty on Sea-going Turret Ships, and wo feel sure they will agree with us.

Of the excellence of Captain Cowper Coles's turret-ships there does not exist a doubt among scientific men, and testimony to its merits has been borne by an American admiral, who had a practical knowledge of the value of iron-clads in the late war. But the Admiralty cannot yet be brought to recognize this fact—the only approach to such an acknowledgment on their part being that they have approved a bad and faulty imitation of Captain Coles's invention, which Mr. Reek, the Admiralty Constructor, proposed. This imitation, as the Captain predicted, has failed, and the Admiralty, with remarkable consistency, condemn tho Captain's scheme, although tho Royal Sovereign, in spite of all the official attempts to burke her, is a complete success.

In this pamphlet Captain Coles having, with infinite difficulty and after incessant demands, obtained the adverse report of tho Committee, examines the objections one by one, and applies them to the Pallas, Mr. Reed's ship, as compared with a vessel built on his own plan, and then proceeds to point out their errors as far as concerns the latter. But as he fails to make reason heard by the dull, cold ear of the Admiralty, he appeals to the public. Unless we are mistaken, the result will be that Mr. Reed will bo called to the bar of public opinion—he has already had the unenviable distinction of being called to the bar of the House of Commons—and condemned, as all his ships ought to be, according to Captain Coles's proving.

The question is a public one. The Navy Estimates are heavy, but the nation would not grudge the money if it could bo sure it would not be misapplied, or that it was expended in endeavouring at least to obtain the best article by giving inventive genius a fair chance against official exclusivencss.

Musings in a Music Hall.

By A Young Man From The Country.

When a man sticks his hat at the back of his head,

Tell me, Oh, Editor, why do they roar? And then, when he pushes it forward instead,

Why do they scream twice as loud as before? When an elderly gentleman rumples his hair,

Why do they all go delirious as well? When he uses a handkerchief out of repair,

Why do they, why do they, why do they yell?

When a vulgar virago is singing her song,

Why must she offer herself as a wife? Why give applause about ten minutes long

When a baby of seven imperils its life? What does a singer intend to imply

By " Whack fol the larity, larity, lay "? What can he hope to convey to me by

Singing " Rum tiddity, iddity!" eh?

Oh, Golly-conda!

A Recent number of the New York World furnished its readers with a tale of which a few extracts from the headlines will convey an epitome:—

"A Dazzling Discovery—Gold and Gems found by the Square Yard in Mount Cenia Tunnel—Work in the Tunnel Suddenly Suspended—France and Italy Dividing the Spoil—The Discovery Hushed up—Ontcial Prosecution of the Unwitting AladdLns—The Original Discoverer Murdered by his Fellows."

Well! considering the amount that has been sunk there, it is no great wonder that a little gold should be found in the tunnel.


The eldest daughter of the King of Bonny arrived in Liverpool last week, to undergo a course of French and English education. We understand his sable majesty's laureate has written an ode on the occasion commencing " Bonny lassie!"


"How is it," asks a correspondent, "that most of the 'Jolly Dogs ' are such Jolly Young Puppies t"


Caught in the Toils, the now piece at tho St. James's, is exactly the sort of dramatic salad that is adapted from an excellent novel; that is, it is a series of effective incidents, cleverly contrasted characters, and well-arranged effects, but it is not a drama any more than four half-crowns, five shillings, eight sixpences, and three fourpenny pieces are a sovereign. Mr. John Brougham's over-elaborate adaptation of Miss Braddon's novel is worth seeing if only for the sake of those scenes in which Miss Herbert appears. Her Julia Desmond is a thing to remember, and to be afraid of. As we saw and listened to her we were reminded of the lines from the child's story, "What • great eyes you've got, gran'ma!" "What great claws you've got, gran'ma!" "All the better to tear you up with," &c. Then again we were reminded of the wife of Jason.

Fun presents his compliments to the new appearances at the St. James's, and is happy to see them ;—Mr. Walter Joyce, Mr. Frbdehic Charles, Mr. Bolton, Mr. Dyer, and Mr. Walter Lacy, and Apropos des gants, ho now admonishes his favourite child, Walter Lacy, to learn to keep on his hat sometimes, and to take off his gloves a little oftener. What is the use of a scene painter painting an exterior if Mr. Walter Lacy as soon as he appears upon the stage doffs his Lincoln and Bennett as if he were entering a room? An Englishman's first impulse when he is excited, is to tighten his waistband and to take off his gloves. What should Frank Tredethlyn, when he finds his long-lost cousin, his "Syousan," do with gloves f Walter, we have spoken, and expect you to know better for the future.

When the gas is turned off, and tho public are turned off; when Colonel Stodare ceases to be a conjuror and becomes a mero man liko the rest of us; when Chano, the great Chinese giant, relaxes from his dignity, and exhibits weaknesses in common with the smallest of humankind; when Chung Mow, the rebel boy, drops the buffoon, and sighs for the moon-faced beauties, and the gallant pig-tailed of his native land; when Mrs. Brown—our own Mrs. Brown—attired in a nightcap, with voluminous borders, and with her best front curled in papers with the wordB " Arthur" and "Sketchley" in fine prominence upon her noble forehead, and with a flat candlestick in her hand, glares at Mrs Chano, and retires to rest;—what a strange place must the interior of the Egyptian Hall be?

Dear reader, or if you be of the gentler sex, let mo call you dearest reader (we are old and ugly, but "this hoart can still, &c, these pulses can yet," &c.) you know what a valentine is, we mean one of the white lacery, tracery, papery, flowery, bowery sort of valentines, the kind of valentines that young men buy for Her. If you will go to tho Egyptian Hall, into the room lately occupied by Mr Arthur Sketchley, you will see a platform fitted up after the fashion of such a valentine, the winged little cupids without knickerbockers) excepted. Tho Queen Bee of this Point Lace Boudoir is Mrs. Howard Paul; and Mrs. Howard Paul when she appears as Miss Laura DashawRy is exactly the kind of being, whom, if she were a single lady, a young gentleman would wish to lead to that altar at whose foot waits one clergyman attended by several doves, and which you feel sure is situated behind the most distant lace curtain. Howover deeply you might fall in lo vo with Miss Laura, the sight of the Unprotected Female would chill your heart, and turn your thoughts again to chambers, latch-keys, late hours, and liberty. Who is this lady fine, draped darkly, like the Tragic Muse P She holds aloft a goblet containing what—poison or sparkling Burgundy f or both, for she sings a terrible anti-Bacehanal. The song of the Dream of the Reveller is a singular compound of teetotalism and tragedy. We do not like the song, but Mrs. Paul sings and acts it admirably. There is the classic attitude, the fearful repose, the weird light in the eyes, that tragic transparency and phosphorescent brilliancy that is evolved from the sacred fire that burns upon the other side of the eyebrows. tTemimor Lobb is the sort of servant girl that one sees early in the morning cleaning the doorsteps; and the other character—what a number of characters from her last place Mrs. Paul must have!—is Miss Amelia Oushington, a partner in a ball-dress, with eyes, arms, curls, neck, and shoulders to match, and Apropos des allumettes, now the valentine stage looks like a valentine, and this is the party and the costume to lead up to the altar. After a brief space enter—possibly to ask for the honour of her hand— Mr. Sims Reeves, face, voice, manner, musical execution, music sheet, moustachios, coat, and everything, exactly like the real Mr. Sims Reeves. Mr. Howard Paul appears in the entertainment, in several of these impersonations, which have been for some time stamped with public approval—Major Jonathan Bang, Mr. Rattleton Cheek, and Staley Mildew. He also sings a very effective sleighing song called "Over the Snow," and gives his famous representation of Old Roger Whitelock, set to one of Offenbach's sprightliest airs. He also is the Mr. Willie Spoonleigh whose heart has been captivated by the charms of Miss Laura Dashaway, and for whom is ordered an eccentric luncheon of goose, buns, and tea! Ye powers of digestion, what a repast! And what a dyspepsia must be in store for tho consumer!



By Our Own Gandin.

Yoc havo a song, you English, which I myself also have heard with you where I make myself to lodge in the Bois St. Jean» or as you call Sir Jon Woods. Tt is of the Rosbif of Grande Britain, tho rosbif Anglais. "Houp la! pour le roabif of tho English!"

I also myself say " Houp la!"

For you command me to render myself at tho markot of those bestails which you chant of their praises that ode.

I again say to myself, " Houp la for the rosbiftek English London!" and behold I go.

But first let me make preparation that I may pass without the question among tho bucoliques, the butcher, the merchants of boastails, that I may defend myself also against your insular climate.

I provide the bonnet de Caledonia-road, tho Scotch cap, the topboot, the what you call "above all" of the proof of water; I drink of the pale ale, the rhum and the porter beer, and I accoutre myself with a flacon of your creams of valhes; beverage English.

The railway devotes itself at this fivo hours of the morning to theso voyageurs, large, blue-bloused, and full of the odours of rhum and tabaco, who mock themselves of aH but the rosbif, of which the fat clings to them as I smell with my nose.

They are jovials these, and full of the spirits animals; tho Round of their laughter is sonorous, loud, and reverberatory, as it makes tho echo of itself from afar.

They are brusque, but of insular nationality, and the vapour of their breath adds to tho " foggy" impermeable as they smell the beef, tho muttons, tho suck-pigs at the Caledonia market.

I too advise myself of the odour.

It is a beverage marvellous and penetrating that "valley of
Oui. Houp la for Angellish rosbif!
Spectaclo, strange, bizarre, marvellous!
Scene, confused, terrible, effrayant ■
But sublime!

Oh, yes! Slop bank, nous sommes encore ici!
Coup d'oeil, picturesque but dangerous.

They como upon me with their horns these animals ferocious; but I arm myself with the weapon of the drover.

I pose myself and await destiny.

I am surrounded by a dense herd of wild bull.

I shout "Houp la!" It effects nothing.

I am enlevd, and throw myself at tho sky.

Quel horreur; I descend. I lose myself.

Also my watch, my " above all," my top-boot.

Vive la creme des valets.

I go to the publicous.

Houp la ! pour les rosbif des Oldihglan!

I go home in a carrette with the calves of tho butchers!!

(fihantant.) "Houp la! pour les Inglish rosbifs!"


M.\Kim. all my days unquiet—

Robbing all my nights of rest— Mixing aloes in my diet—

Planting nettles in my breastAnswer me, O Fate, the question—

Answer, and accept my thanks— Is it love, or indigestion,

That is playing me such pranks

A Pretty Compliment.

The first iron bridge is shortly to be built in Moxico by an English firm. It is on a road which has been named, in delicate allusion to

French intervention, the Medellin Road.

NOTICE.—Finely printed on Toned Paper, tralion»t


tcill appear on the 6th November. Price Twopence.

In eonteguence of the demand, Buoyed With Hope hat been aft"

reprinted, and may be obtained at the Office, price One Penny.

Now ready, Vol. nil. (1st Vol., New Series), price it. 6d. JI*, the Title, Preface, And Index, price One Penny.

Catet for binding the volume may be had at the Office.

Printed by JUDD ft GLASS, Phoenix Works, St. Andrew's Hill, Doctors' Commons, and Published (for the Proprietor!) bv TUUMAS

at 90, Fleet-street, E.C.—October 28, 186}.

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I'm very sad, mamma, to-day,

No mortal could feel flatter, Yet, mia madre, I must say,

I scarce know what's the matter.

It's not that Charles will never know
The lesson taught by Cupid—

It's not that Mudie's novels grow
Voluminous and stupid.

It's not because at last night's dance
You chid me, sweetest mother,

For giving the great earl no glance,
But petting his young brother.

It's not that when his box he lent,
And then came praising Patti,

I said I knew not what he meant,
And sneered at " Batti, Batti."

It's not the curate, wretched man,
Who smiled and fawned upon me,
• And when I smiled on him, began
To dare to think he'd won me.

It's not that all the croquet fun

Is over, and the roving,
The play, whichever side has won,

That often leads to loving.

It's not my chignon that—but stop!

I'vo found my bitter sorrow,
A trip to some expensive shop,

Shall bring mo peace to-morrow.

By that Miss Lane, the other morn
In church behind my shoulder,

The bonnet "just come out " was worn,
And /—wore one much older.

Literary Mem.

We learn from a contemporary that a new magazine is to be started called The Tory. Judging from the fate of its predecessors in the same line, it had better be called the Transi-tory.


WB'.have ever firmly believed in the statement that cheap and nasty go together, but we did think it would be impossible to render the performance of the works of great masters nasty, till we attended two cheap performances at Her Majesty's Theatre—an institution, by the way, which Her Majesty had shown great discrimination in abandoning long before her retirement from public life. Of course, these remarks do not apply to an artist of such rare qualifications, both as a ginger and an actress, as Mme. Titiens, who is at present quite unrivalled on the lyric stage; nor, in fact, do we wish to say anything but what is laudatory of Mr. Santley, Mdlle. Sinico, orSio. Gardoni; but we must protest against the shameful way in which the operas given at cheap prices aro placed before the public. First, as regards the cheapness, the only great gain is on the part of those who go to the stalls or dress circle; but to the more economical portion of the musical public it is no very great advantage to be admitted to those vilely arranged gallery stalls at a reduction of a shilling, and to be privileged to undergo a process of cooking before that awfully ugly chandelier at four shillings a-head! We will merely make a passing remark on the brigandage which is rife at the top of the stairs, where canes and umbrellas aro seized by a gang of privileged depredators; to recover which articles, at the end of the performance, you are jostled, crowded, and detained, to say nothing of being compelled to pay! We will imagine, then, that we have paid our money beforehand, and are, therefore free to mount those ricketty stairs, and pass through those dingy passages, which Buggcst to the mind how tho place would burn if it got a chance. We have reached our seat, and what with being fried by the chandelier, and having our head blown off, by a sliding door being constancy opened and shut during the first hour, we are fairly comfortable! Pass we on to consider the opera: the tenor, whose name looks well in the bill, but who has figured there from time to time in the memory of opera-goers for many years, has a severe cold, and there is an apology for him, which we read whilst the orchestra is tuning. The overture is played admirably; and in

spite of Mr. Jones, who is in front of us, and has an altercation with Mrs. Jones as to whether ho shall sit on her jacket, or whether she need take off her hat. At the most delicious bit of melody away slides the door and young Wilklns appears, to the great delight of his mamma and sisters, who are in the front row of th» gallery stalls, quite in the middle. They immediately indulge in frightful pantomime to attract his attention; which is, to say the least, unnecessary, as he is already directed to his seat, to which he makes his way, disturbing the whole row of people in front of whom he passes, without a word of apology; which is, of course, unnecessary, because he is in evening dress.

We don't care whether tho opera be the incomparable Fidelio, or the very charming Faust, the result is the same; for both are miserably executed. The orchestra is excellent, as we have already said, as is also the singing of one or two artistes, but the chorus, the dances, and the scenery are all so arranged as to give you the idea that some Hebrew speculator has got the theatre cheap for a few nights, and having engaged a few good artists, has left the getting up of the operas to take its chanco. In vain may Mme. Titiens sing and act superbly if the chorus bo out of time and out of tune. In vain does the orchestra play the charming music of tho Kermesse, when not two of tho dancers are in time. It is useless to impose on an artist who is suffering from cold, a task that would be beyond his powors even if he were perfectly well. The whole affair bears the aspect of being got up, vory like tho famous razors, "to sell"—the British public.

No doubt, to most of those who go to "Cheap Performances," the opora is tho opera, and that's enough. It sounds well to say you've been, and it looks well to go in a red cloak and a wreath; and as to tho music that is quite a secondary consideration, provided always you can say that Titiens and Santley sang. The management is aware of this; but must also be awaro that such performances as those with which it has favoured us are calculated to disgust all truo lovers of music; and have done much to lower Her Majesty's Theatre in the estimation of those who would wish to be its patrons.




By Tile Saunterek Is Society.

OOR Lobs Russell is not being received very cordially. The Times welcomes him with a hug like that of a bear; you fancy you hear his ribs cracking—and nobody seems vory delighted to hear of his preferment. And yet we ought to be—for it removes him from that temptation of pen and ink which was always before him at tho Foreign Office.

I See that Bethnal Green has not made much progress, in spite of the attention drawn to it some time since. Mu. Chkistie, the inspector of nuisances, appears to be tho incarnation of all that a Bourd of Guardians could desire. A child died in one of eight houses which have been, so the evidenoe stated, in a most insalubrious condition for eight years. Ms, Chkistie "can't help that"—he only goes and reports when he is "called in." "Was it your duty," says the coroner, "to attend only where there was a complaint?" Observe the way in which the inspector dodges tho question. "My instructions were to attend on those who made complaints." Yes, Ma. Christie, but not only on those—you havo eyes, sir, and should be able to see and attend to other cases, unless you want to make us believe that complaints are so numerous, your whole time is taken up with them; in which case the parish docs you credit, as an inspector of nuisances of Bome years standing! The coroner learns that the neighbourhood has not been inspected for ten months, and says this state of things will not satisfy the public if it does the vestry. Then speaks the parochial mind, in tho person of Mil. Christie, "I have nothing to do with the public. I do not care whether the public are satisfied or not. You should go and do it yourself!" That, Mr. Christie, is rude, you know—and what is more, stupid, for if you don't care for the public the public will care for yon, and the results may be unpleasant. And the public quite agrees with the jury's verdict and its addendum :—

"And the jurors do further say that the conduct of Mr. Christie, the inspector of nuisances, is reprehensible for neglect of duty."

The parochial mind is wonderfully constituted! The other day there was a fatal accident in the Marylebone-road, and it was alleged at the inquest that the state of the road at that part was disgraceful, and the jury "presented" the St. Pancras Vestry to Dr. Lankester accordingly. Whereupon there is a meeting of the vestry, and a great clucking and cackling, as of a body of respectable turkeys—and an exhibition of about as much sense and temper as you would expect of those birds. This conclave of nobodies take it into their heads that the coroner and the jury have a spite against them, and protest, and abuse, and justify in the most absurd manner. And then they go and look at tho road—with their eyes shut—and declare it to be "the best bit of paving in all London!" If they had not been incompetent noodles they must have seen that this excess of praise rather damages their case. However, because they choose to believe that a coroner, who knows them only by their works, has a personal grudge against them, tho road will be left as it is until another accident occurs there. A noble thing is tho parochial mind!

Austhia and Prussia, encouraged by their success in Denmark, are about to repeat the performance. Tho little free town of Frank forton-the-Maine allowed the Congress of German Deputies to assemble, and the two bullies protest against its freedom in so doing, and threaten to take its government into their own hands. The plucky little town is going to give them a smart answer—they may have might on their side, but Frankfort has Maine—und is right in the main too.

As Christmas draws near snndry single line advertisements in the papars set people puzzling. For the last few days everybody has been

busy about "Everybody's Business." I wonder whether- " Everybody's Business" is to look after " Somebody's Luggage." I rather guess there's a connection. But then "Rates and Taxes I" What is the meaning of that? I call it cruel: we Bhall all havo our Christmas bills in, and those dreadful claims for rates and taxes will bo among them. What it is to be I can't guess—a book, I suppose. Yes, but what about? I have tried to find out, and havo heard of its being the work of various people—of a gentleman connected with the bar, in which case it might be a legal handbook; of one connected with a public department, in which case it might be an official publication touching tho revenue; of a dramatist, when it might be a sensation drama with a hero with the water cut off; of gentlemen connected with a comic, a daily, and an evening paper, in which case it might be a collection of essays and leaders or anything. But I suppose we shall learn in time.

The winter art campaign is about to commence. Mr. Wallis has removed his exhibition to Suffolk-street, and Mr. Gambart opens an exhibition of his own at the French Gallery', and rather disingenuously calls it "the thirteenth" instead of "tho first" exhibition. Both are filled with good works by the best artists of tho day.


A Drama m Four Acts. With Appropriate Music.

Act I.—Farnborouqh.

Enter the Hon. Me. Winchester, Tom Robinson, and Josephs.

Hon. Mr. W.—I am going to Australia, so I shall go and learn how to shoe a horse. [Exit Hon. Mr. W.

Music—"Harmonious Blacksmith." Tom Robinson.—I am a thief.

JOsephs.—I am a poor boy, and havo stolen a potato!

Musio—" Still so gently o'er me stealing."

Enter George Fielding.
Georoe Fielding.—I love Sewsan Merton, bnt I am a beggar.

Enter Mr. Merton.
Merton.—I cannot allow my Sewsan to marry a beggar.

Music—" Haste to the Wedding."
George.—Monster of Ingratitude!

Music—"Blow, blow, thou wintry wind."
Merton.—Earn a thousand pounds, and you shall have her!

Music—" Give mo your hand."—Bohemian Girl.
Enter William Fielding.
William.—George, borrow some money for me!
George.—No one will lend me any.

William.—Then fight! [Tliey fight.

Music—" Battle of Prague."

Enter Sewsan.

Sewsan.—Don't! [They don't.

Enter Mr. Meadows and Crawley. Meadows.—I am a villain, and I love Sewsan. Crawley.—I am his tool. Where shall we all go to P

Enter Isaac Levi. Meadows.—Levi, you must turn out of your house on Lady-day. Levi.—Leave my home!

Music—" Home! sweet home!" Meadows.—Yes!

Levi.—Then may the old man's cuss, &c, &c.



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George.—I shall go to Australia, and earn a thousand pounds.
Music—"To the West!"


Georob.—Yes, I shall. [Goes to Australia.

Music—"Off, off, said the stranger." Meadows.—Crawley, he is loved by Sewsan—go after him and bb'ght his plans. Draw on me for £1,200 a year.

Crawley.Yob. Where shall we all go to! [Goes to Australia. Music—" Cheer, boys, cheer!"

Enter Officers of Justice. Oft. Op J.—Robinson, you aro wanted for a burglary; J osephs, you are wanted for a potato. [They arrest T. R. and Joseph.

Music—" Call me not unkind, Robin."

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