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HERElhowIhateenthusiastic boys Who, close behind my feet, Summon mysteriously, with fiendish noise, Their comrades in the street.

Do sudden clatterings of a stumbling horso Chill everybody's blood?

Why will all cabmen choose a puddly course, And smother me with mud?

Don't I detest a
hesitating halt
Outside mv study

Why in damp places will they leave my salt,
And nutshells on my floor?

I long to extirpate—but can't, alas!—

Each harsh slap-banging band.
Must servants answer when they've smashed my glass,

"It came off in my hand f"

I hate paraders in a draper's shop;

And dread a hidden stair;
When omnibuses on a crossing stop,

I feel inclined to swear.

I cannot swallow cant from " worthy " men—

Will not abuse restrain 'omf
I hate mankind in general now and then,

Valgus odi profanum.


The Reader which, eighteen months ago, was ono of our most respectable and cleverly-conducted weeklies, has changed hands so frequently since that date, that only a little of its original flavour remains to it, and on Saturday week last it completed its degradation by inserting in its columns such a letter from Mr. Charles Readx, the author of "Never too Late to Mend," as wo verily believe only Mb. Keade could be found to write, and only the dramatic editor of tho Header to publish.

It reflects upon a clever criticism by Mr. Frederick Guest Tomlins, the late dramatic critic of the Header, on the astounding drama recently produced by Mr. Vinino at tho Princess's Theatre. The letter commences in the following strain :—

"To the Editor of Thk Reaper.

"Sir,—You have published (inadvertently I hope) two columns of intemperate abuse aimed at my drama, and mendacious personalities levelled at myself.

"The author of all this spite is not ashamed to sympathise with the heartless robbers from whom justice and law have rescued my creation and my property. {Query—Was he not set on by those very robbers?) He even eulogises a ruffian who, on the 4th October, raised a disturbance in the Princess's Theatre, and endeavoured to put down my play by clamour, but was called to order by the respectable portion of the audience."

The "ruffian" here alluded to was, as Mr. Reade subsequently informs us, no other than Mr. Tomlins himself, who, in company with many other dramatic critics, protested in indignant terms against the introduction of such disgusting details of prison discipline as Mr. Vinino had placed before tho audience in the second act of the preposterous piece in question. His protest on that occasion was so energetically backed by tho audience en masse, that Mr. Vinino was compelled to address them from the footlights in apologetic terms, and the best evidence as to the unanimity of the house on that occasion is to be found in the fact that tho objectionable portions of the second act have been materially modified since the production of the piece. Mr. Vinino plumes himself on the intense realism of the scenes in question. Probably Mr. Tomlins, and those who sided with him, were unable to appreciate the fidelity with which the treadmill, the crank, and the strait waistcoat, were placed before them, and this fact

may account for the effect of tho scene being lost upon them. That it was not lost upon all we are bound to admit, for there was some counter applause, and it came from that part of the house where those who would bo able to appreciate the realistic beauties of such a scene would probably bo found.

Mr. Reade's letter concludes thus:—

"Have you any sense of justice and fair play where the party assailed is only on author of repute, and the assailant has the advantage of being an obscure scribbler: If bo, you will give me a hearing in my defence. I reply in one sentence to two columns of venom and drivel. I just beg to inform honest men and women that your anonymous contributor, who sides with piratical thieves against the honest inventor, and disparages Headk, and applauds one Tomlins—is Tomlins. —1 am your obedient servant, Charles Reade.

"92, St. Georgc's-road, South Belgravia, October 21, 1865."

A dramatic critic is, in ono sense, a reporter also, and it is his duty to chronicle the important features of a performance, whether they aro to be found before or behind the footlights. On the occasion of the first performance of It is Never too Late to Mend, Mr. Tomlins and other gentlemen addressed Mr. Vinino in indignant terms from their seats in the stalls, and Mr. Vinino replied to them. Under these circumstances it was the critic's duty (whether the critic was Mr. Tohlinb or any one else) to mention the fact that such a conversation took place, and to express his opinions on the merits of the question generally.

The article which aroused Mr. Reade's indignation, and which he characterises as anonymous, was signed "F. G. T.", a combination of letters as familiar to tho literary world and to the reading public as "S. G. 0." and "J. O." of the Times. Thoy are known to bo the initials of a gentleman who is not only one of our oldest, but also one of our best, dramatic critics; and the article in question cannot, therefore, fairly be called anonymous. But, by the way, who is the dramatic editor who publishes a letter which reflects in such disgraceful language on the character of his own paper? Why, we will inform honest men and women that the dramatic editor who sides with one Charles Reade and disparages Frederick Guest Tomlins, is Mr Charles Meade's nephew !!.'


Sir,—Sensation dramas should mirror Society as it is, not as it ought to be. But in its existing phase Virtue is invariably triumphant in tho long run—I may say the very long run—and Vice is introduced simply that it may be utterly and irrevocably overwhelmed in the last act. Is this true to nature P I, for one, have spent a long and laborious life in the exercise of the strictest virtue, and I have never triumphed. Now in my old ago I intend to go in for a course of hideous and blood-curdling wickedness, and, as a first step of my career of infamy, I publish a Sensation Drama in support of my views. Yours,

An Aokd Curate.



A Life On The Ocean Wave.

Scene.Draicing-room in Sir Rockheart's castle. Enter the ert\c of H.M.S. Matilda Jane. They clear the room of all the furniture for

a hornpipe.

Old Bob Backstay.—My dear eyes! I am bosnn's mate of the Matilda Jane. Sir Rockheaht has invited us all to dinner in the servant's hall!

All.—He has. Hurrah!

Old B. B.—Three cheers for tho noble Sir Rockheart! Here's may prosperity be bis mainstay, and may blessings bo showered

Enter Sra Rockheart.

Sir R.—Confound it, what are you rabble doing in my drawingroom? Bear off to the servants' hall, ye varlets, or by the Lord Harry I'll make mincemeat of every mother's son of ye!

Old B. B.—Ay, ay, yer honour!

(Tltey all go out disconcerted.) Sir R. (moodily).—I am Sir Rockheart the Revengeful, and I war against society. I have no particular reason for being revengeful, for no one has ever injured me, so I attribute it to an inherent taste for depravity of all kinds. This morning I boiled my aunt; this afternoon I chopped up my prattling babe.

Enter The Lady Claribel.

The Lady C.—Father, I lovo Ulric the Unimpeachabla. Consent to our union. {She prays.)

Sir R.—Ho is a worthy young man with an undeniable rent-roll, and perfectly unobjectionable in every reBpect. I know, dear Claribel, that he loves you devotedly, and I am perfectly certain that bliss unutterablo would characterize your wedded life. But he die* to-morrow!

Ladt C—Oh, father!

Sib R.—What!!! Dare to dictate. (He seizes her by the feet, and is about to dash her brains out upon the tea/l, when who should come in but Old Bob Backstay.)

Old B. B.—What do I see? A lubberly old three-decker bearing down upon an unarmed punt! Dash my old eyes, that ain't fair! Sheer oft', yer ugly old swab, or abaft my funnel if I don't make you sec more Btars than were ever dreamt of in your philosophy. Siiakbspeake, ahem!

Sir R. [bitterly).—And this, this is a British seaman's return for my princely hospitality!

Old B. B. (touched).—No, no, Sir Rockheart, don't say that. I've eaten of your beer and drunk of your cheese, I know; and if so be as over you're in want of a dinner, you may reckon on Old Bob Backstay's sharing his last halfpenny with your honour; but the lubber who would stand by and see a innocent and convulsively beautiful young gal slaughtered in cold blood by a weak and defenceless old man without expostulooralating is a wretch whom "'twere gross flattery to term a coward!" (Unmanned, but recollects himself and his authority.) Tokix, ahem!

Sir R.—You are right, worthy fellow, quite right. But I mean to kill her notwithstanding.

Old B. B.—Then speak to the man at my wheel, if Ido»'t summon the whole ship's crew, who will help me to secure your darned old carcase, "you burgoo-eating, pea-soup-swilling son of a sea-cook!" Harry At, ahem!

(He whistles. Enter six hundred and forty men of the Matilda Jane, each with a pistol in each hand, which they point at Sir RockHeart.) Alt..—Surrender! Sir R.—No! All.—Then die!

(They all snap their pistols, which flash in the pan.) All.—rerdition! Our twelve hundred aud eighty pistols have been tampered with.

Sir R.—Ha! ha! ha! And learn, yo minions, that next time yo come to carouse in a British baronet's servants' hall, ye had best not hang up your pistols in the family umbrslla-stand! All.—Foiled!

Sir R.—To may say that. (Takes a revolver from his pocket, and shoots them all.) Now who shall stay me?

Enter Ulric the Unimpeachable.

Tjlrib.^-t will!
Sir R.—Not so!

Ulric.—Yes! I love Clarieil devotedly, and cannot consent to stand calmly by while you are dashing her Drains out.

Sir R.—This to mo in ray own freehold? (Aside.) I have a reversionary interest in all his property, and, if I kill him, twelve thousand acres of tho richest pasture land, all the castles on the Rhine, the vineyards of Ay and Epernay, most of Africa, the Isle of Wight, the Summer Palace at Pekin, the Island of Ceylon, and tho British Museum will all he mine! Shall I hesitate? No!

» (Desperate combat, in whieh Ulhig is hilled)

Sir R.—So fare all in whose property Sir Rockheart Tbb Revengeful has an interest in reversion or remainder! By-the-hye, the property is entailed on myself and the children of my late wife. (Sheds a tear.) My late wife is dead (sighs), and (recovering himself) if I kill Claribel I shall be (triumphantly) Tenant-in-Tail-after-Possibility-of-Issue-Extinct!

(Kills Claribel and takes possession of all the property. Sis new tenantry enter and do him homage. Eventually, after » long and happy life, he dies at a good old age, surrounded by hosts of faithful and attached dependents.)


An Aoid-uous Hint.

Wi clip the following from a fashionable cotemporary:

"A. great many experiments are bfini; nuidc, by01 der, with glycerine treated with acids as an explosive agent, for cannons and amall arms. The power is twenty times greater tiian gunpowder."

Some old maids who use glycerine to conceal the ravages of tightlacingon their noses should bo on their guard—No! though; of course they wouldn't mind it. They only wish they could "go off."

Quilling on Reasonable Terms.

The judges of tho High Court in India havo appealed to tho Go vernor-General against tho Stationery Office. They aro only allowed two dozen quills a-picce every year, and they say thoy can't do with less than fifty. What nonsense! Why, tho original geese did with far less :—but these lawyers will have thoir " quillets."


We should he very glad to know what tho English language has done to certain English actors of tragedy that they should purposely mispronounco it? Will any of those ingonious gentlemen who write tho correct answers to the impossible questions in Notes and Queries, inform us why a noble Roman should utter the sound dath for the word death. Lath means nothing. It conveys no idea of mortality, immortality, decease, or anything elso; whereas death is solemnly sonorous. At tho same timo let us propose another quostion iprnpos of the revival of Julius Ctesar at Drury Lane. Why should (Reader, this is not a conundrum) why should the poetry of Shakespeare be spoken as if it were a lesson in one syllable for little hoys? Such grand English as

*' Ere to black Hecate's summons
The shard-borne beetle, wilh Ms drowsy hums
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A deed 01' dreadful note,"

should not be hashed up into,


Shakespeare should not be sliced up like a sausage. Ministers and tragedians take tho advico of those who, though they wear motley, love their William of Stratford,—and refoim it altogether.

At the St. James's Mr. Mark Lemon's farce of The Ladies' Club has been successfully revived. The honours are divided between Miss Herbert, Mrs. Frank Matthews, and M11. Fred Robson. If tho world, or we Bhould say, the readers of Fun, should wish to have proper justice done to the personal charms of tho members of the club, Mr. Alfred Tennyson and Mr.. Robert Browning are the men to apply to. "Wo keeps a poet," as the publisher's wife said; a hack cannot be expected to have a knack for writing an anacreontic.

And talking of Anacreon Wo havo seen Anak (your kind admiration is requested for the admirable manner in which we havo led up to this formidable joke). Well, Anak is a giant, he is young, he is twenty-five years of age, and eight feet high. Ho is to bo seen at the St. James's Hall alive, alive, alive, oh! So is Mr. Maccabe, So is Professor Anderson. Go early. Come away early. Children half price. Nature, "She is a rum'un is natur," as Mr. Squeors said—■ perhaps exhausted by the terrible dimensions of Anak the Anakim (professor Anderson, please polish up your Hebrew, and leam the difference betwe«H the singular number and the plural) has, by way of compensation invented "little Tom Dot," who is to Anak as the Trafalgar-squaro fountain to Niagara. The Christian name of Anak is Jean Joseph, and his surname Brice. Not boing, like Cassio, great arithmeticians—a fact to the truth of which our laundress is willing to take oath before any bench of magistrates—we cannot say how much taller is Anak from tho Vosges mountains than Chang; from China. Perhaps An-nk-Ohang (an artiin) at law might decide the question; in the meantime we doubt not that the proprietor of the Psychomanteum will find Anak an acquisition.*

Interesting News from Knowsley.

The Prince and Prc-bess Of Wales have been on a visit to the Eaiil and Countess Of Derby-, and the occasion has been seized, possibly even improved, for paying printed compliments to the hospitality of the house of Stanley, and for republishing in the daily papers some entertaining and instructive matter from topographical records, which is all very right and proper. But the Liverpool journalists go a great way beyond their modest Cockney brethren, and one zealous reporter seems to have visited KnowBley with a twofoot rule in his poeket. This indomitable ponny-a-liner has given for the information of the world (of Liverpool) the dimensions of Lord Derby's dinner-table. Another kind of two-foot rule might advantageously be employed against the intrusiro and sorvilo busy-bodies who disgrace tho public press—a rulo, that is to say, that every two-footed animal found where he is not wanted, and where ho has no earthly right to be, shall bo instantly required to put his best foot forward in the direction of the place whence he may happen to have come.

"Con-flrm-ation Strong."

A Dbad wall at Blackrock was posted tho other day with a notico to say that " whereas the Channel Fleet had been destroyed at Bantry Bay by the firm Fenians all republicans must be ready to strike." It strikes us that tho Fenians are a firm whose affairs aro being wound up in tho Bankruptcy Court, and have nothing to do with the Fleet.

* Wc trust that our contributor will be sufficiently punishod bv the insertion of his article without editorial' rrection or emendation.— Editor's Note.



To Eastward I was faring;
I had reached the Cross of Charing,
Where Kino Charles is looking at you,
From his steed;
When, inwardly, I trembled,
For the "force," in hosts assembled,
Forbade me by the Statue

To proceed!

Then I saw, for my transgressions,
The longest of processions
That had ever left the City,

I conceive!
The police my cab were staying,
And tho mob wore all hurraying—
'Twould have moved a Turk to pity,
I believe!

I beheld the man in armour—
That mediaeval charmer—
Who looked as though his trappings
Didn't fit.
And tho Aldermen capacious,
Though they struggled to look gracious,
Couldn't do it in their wrappings,
Hot a bit!

And that usual mob was cheering,
Which, although it's fond of beering,
Still a carnal glass of grog it's

Glad to cadgo!
But I saw another sort o' men,
The fine old British worter-men,
Who once had pulled for Doogett's

Coat and Badge.

After guardsmen, after rifles,
And such unconsidered trifles,
Scarcely fit to make a verse on,

I declare—

Through our hearts there went a thrill; lips
Were loudly shouting "Phillips!"
And we saw Himself In Person,

The Lord Mayor.

When that splendid incarnation
Of the London Corporation,
The way towards tho Abbey

Slowly led,

I felt a sense of wondor,
But I wisely kept it under,
And only muttered, " Cabby,

Drive ahead!"

NOT BART-ICTJLAK. The following advertisement appeared in a daily paper a little whilo since:—

"A Baronet wishes to Bet into the Honse of Commons. If any one can tell him of a horough that can be had he will be very glad. This Baronet, from shortness of time, will not touch on his principles, but will state that he has a bitter dislike for the Ballot. He intends to attack the mismanagement of existing circumstances."

The honourable gentleman wants a borough that would not object to a bart. and be open to a barter. No wonder he has a bitter dislike to the ballot! But really Parliament has not got the management of "existing circumstances "!

PIG AND LITTLE. What's the difference between Tcfper's stuff and pork stuffing? The ono is good enough for the sage's saws, and the other for the sausages. •

NOTICE.—Now ready, finely printed on Toned Pafbr, with numerous illustrations, price Twopence,


Now ready, printed on Toned Paper, price Twopence,

To AdvertisersOur largely increasing circulation compelling us to go to press earlier, no advertisements can be received after the Thursday previous to publishing day.

London: Printed by JUDD & GLASS, Phtenix Works, St. Andrew's Hill, Doctors' Commons, and Published (for the Proprietors) by THOMAS

at 80, Kleet-street, E.C.—November 11, 1865.



H! that tho thing half man half beast, That (edipcs contrived to diddle, Would but assist mc in the least, In solving many a knotty riddle. From which my mind

unaided shrinks— Oh! pray assist me, learned Sphinx!

Why, though of fine ac-
quaintance still—
Loud This, Loud
ThatJones keeps
on clucking,

Am 1 applied to when
that bill
For just a fifty pun'
wants backing?

Why don't ho ask his
swells ?—methinks

I might discover of the

When Bnowx— whose
cellar, so he vows,
Holds comet wines that priceless will be—
Comes down to dine with mc and spouse,

And sips my unpretending Gilbey,
Why don't he know what trash he drinks P
I'd fain discover of the Sphinx.

When Kuttemovt, my tailor, calls

With patterns and much verbal honey,
His silence on one question galls,—

Why can't he say he wants his money?
Why ho that topic calmly blinks,
Remains a question for the Sphinx.

Why fools will dabblo in the stocks—

Why ladies should delight in TvrPBi;— Why parsons like to doom their flocks

To lower regions 'stead of upper— Why timid riders hunt in pinks— Must be unravelled by the Sphinx.

Why, when a swell tho knifeboard mounts—

Why, when a man a parcel carries—
Why, when he's wrong in his accounts,

Or with his pretty housemaid marries—
In the world's nostrils ho so stinks
Must be revealed us by the Sphinx.

Why, when a critic what is true

Has of a friend's productions spoken,
There should be such a fierce to-do,

Of " ancient friendships rudely broken,"—
Why candour should take forty winks
For an acquaintance,—answer, Sphinx!

Why folks should laugh who ought to cry—

Why folks should fall who shouldn't stumble—
Why those who should be low are high,

Why those who should be high are humble-
Why Lead goes up and Feather sinks
All these are questions for the Sphinx.

Why, when a Queen neglects her task—

Why, when a Minister's a duffer—
Why, when poor men for justice ask—

Why when good men for bad ones suffer—
A writer daren't say what ho thinks
MuBt be decided by the Sphinx.


That brilliant creature, Dri'irxoTON Dash, Epqciue—the refined l.umcuiist, the cultivated musician, and the more or less profound philosopher — bus depaited this life. Wo attribute his untimely decease to a variety of causes, including a broken heart and a railway

accident. By those who enjoyed hia personal acquaintance, it is not likely that Dufpinoton Dash will be soon forgotten. Tho cold world, however, has not yet learnt his value, and it is our proud privilege, in the present hurried paragraphs, to lead the way to a juster appreciation of his talents in the art of epigram.

His own opinions respecting this peculiar form of wit and humour were fixed and immutable Tho epigram was, in his eyes, a sacred thing. He loved it—aye, as many of us have loved a pet quadruped —with touching fidelity. We will endeavour to explain, as briefly as possible, his theory of composition.

"An epigram," said h« one evening, as wo were accompanying him home from a large literary rfunion, " should always be short. When tho point has been once insisted on, the subject may be allowed to drop; for there are more epigrams than one in the world. He who has written one will in all human probability survive to write more; for he who is endowed with sufficient affluence of imagination to make a joke may possibly bo possessed of sufficient facility in versifying to create a rhyme." Ho then proceeded to explain that the brevity of an epigram constituted both its charm and its difficulty. "If I wish," continued he, "to convey a happy thought in two or four lines, I find tho space insufficient for detailing the circumstances under which that thought struck me. I, therefore, prefix a copious explanation in prose, by which means the reader is prepared for my point before commencing the epigram itself." We ventured to remind him that the same courso had been adopted by Coleridge, whose brilliant squib respecting Kubla Khan derives its chief interest from exactly fortytwo lines of prefatory matter, including a little Greek, and an anecdote about a person from Porlock. "In short," said we, "an epigram should resemble a pot of anchovy-paste. However discursive may bo the label upon tho outside, the contents should be compressed into as small a space as possible." Ho agreed with us—which is more than anchovy-paste ever did.

We have now only two duties bofore us; to inform an eager public that Duffinoton Dash was of the middle height and impressive deportment, and to lay bofore the world a small sample of our lamented friend's genius. A collected edition of his verses will bo published before long, at tho request of numerous admirers. In the meantime, be contented, reader, with the following specimons:— I.

(On sitting down to an early dinner one Friday, at the house of a Wesleyan friend, who resided, at that ptriod, in Dalston, but who shortly afterwards changed his place of residence to Abney-park, owing to tho extremo difficulty of procuring four-wheeled cabs in tho former neighbourhood, especially on wet evenings.)

When the pork and potatoes aro both underdono,

At the time of your one o'clock meal,
You should put off the feast till a quarter-past-one,

Or for pork you should substitute veal.

Note.—Shortly after this little jeu d'esprit was penned, some remorsolcss wag brought it under the notico of the sensitive individual at whom its barb had been directed. From that moment a coolness sprang up between Dupfinoton and his former host. Satiro makes many enemies and few friendB.


(On having my attention drawn by an intelligent passer-by to th< dead body of a kitten which lay in the road [not far from the kerbstone] at the entrance of Austin Friars, one rainy afternoon in thi month of August, 1862. N.B.—Austin Friars is near tho Bank o England, and this kitten had evidently been born blind.)

Hero lies little Pussy, without a chief mourner,

Far, for from her home and her father and mother;

And rich Baron Hambro resides at one corner,
While Foster, the chemist, resides at the other!

Notb.—It was in Austin Friars that Duffinqton received his met cantile education, and achieved that mastery over tho Spanish tongu which was at one time the envy, admiration, und terror of half Madric and three-quarters of Barcelona.


(Written while coming out of a provincial theatre, many miles froi the metropolis, after listening to the tragedy of Hamlet by Shakf.i Peahb, in which piece the uncle of the principal character poisons h own brother in a garden for love of Gonzaga's wife. N.B.—Tl Duke's name is supposed to be Gonzaga.)

So deep the anguish I did feel
To listen to the talo of woo,
That hardly did I feel

My neighbour stamp upon my ailing toe.

Note.—This is not one of Duffington's happiest. Probably it wi written while in acute bedily pain. He was a martyr to corns.



By The Saunterer, In Society.

T happens most unfortunately for us. that, while we and the Americans are in the position of a dog and cat, not quite decided on the next move, on the question of wrongs and redresses, as to injuries inflicted by English - built cruisers on the Federal merchantmen, the Shenandoah should steam into port arid deliver herself up to us. Captain Waddell'b course has not been quite straightforward. He might have hud reason to disbelieve Northern accounts of Northern success (which certainly was proclaimed long before it existed!, but his disbelief was too long-lived and too unreasoning. Reiterated reports of a thing not at all unlikely to take place should havo induced him to run to a neutral port and learn the truth. It is a little hard to believe that he should havo been so long in real ignorance of the fact that the Federals had captured Richmond, and that tho Southern Confederacy had become a thing of the past. The Duxe Op Bucgleugh—every one 'will remember how popular that nobleman mado himself in reference to the Thames Embankment—has contrived to get his nunc mixed up with a queer scandal that is just now creating some excitement in the musical world. Tho University of Edinburgh have appointed to the Professorship of Music, rendered vacant by tho death of Mr. Donaldson, a certain Mr. Oaxelbv, whom they elect with a great fanfarade of trumpets, about the difficulty of choice, &o. Among the candidates for the post were, besides others, Hullah and Macfarken, both known men—but the unknown relative of the bold—very bold, Bucclbuch, wins the day. The English School of Music has long been in a bad way, but the crowning insult has been reserved till now, when a university considers its interest of so little importance that it puts by recognised composers for a ducal duffer.

Does anybody remember a brief but brisk battle between the artists and a pseudo art-critic, who went about hawking friendly notices to painters weak enough to pay an exorbitant price for a worthless series of lectures? I'm afraid he is almost forgotten; but I came on him nipun the other day in that refuge for the destituto tho Times supplement. He is as fine as ever, gliding with a noble disregard of tho r immon rules of composition from the dignified distance of the third person into the interested importunity of the first.

"PARTNERSHIP. Xo charge to parties investing, nor any charge to parties re

J- quiring partners unless business be done. Mr. B. C. J , wants £5,000 to

£10,000 for a first-class brewery and an active partner; also several businesses for ( UenU with sums varying from £500 to £7,000. Send me nothing chimerical, as I'll njt touch any but bona-fide matters. No. 1, , etc.

1 te has evidently renounced art-criticism as a chimerical speculation, iind is going in for malt and hope. Dear, dear! to think of tho Censor on whoso dictum depended a painter's fate—especially if he l idn't bought tho lectures—-descending to an agency for arranging ] irtnorships in tho coal and 'tater line, or bringing two activo 1j . ewers together.

What splendid speeches Gladstone has been making! How Oxford must blush now to think she rejected such a scholar and such ;m orator for one who will do her most credit by his silence. The time will come when the speeches of our political Chrysostom, the Goldenmouth of Parliament, will bo rend by an enlightened and educated generation, that wiU wonder how we could talk of the orators ot' the past while his voice was ringing in our ears. Mind you, I say this with no reference to politics.

I Said the other day I would take a survey of the Winter Exhibition at the French Gallery, and I have kept my word—and don't mind hnv often I repeat tho process. Sandys' "Mary Magdalen" is a picture such as one can expect to see about once in a lifetime. I'd pive many of tho much-prized Old Masters for it without grudging. Tien there's a joint-production in the form of a screen, on which a friendly coterie have expended some good painting, and some quaint fancies. When I purchase it I shall have the quotations from ShakeSpeare, given in the catalogue, illuminated on the gold frame, for they are very aptly culled from a writer who, in spite of the talk, is very little read. Hook, Huohbs, Calderon, Watson, Lucas, and Dillon

also contribute capital work. Frith and Ward are vulgar and meretricious, and, in fact, the R.A.'s and "swells," as a rule, have failed.

When I make a mistake I don't scruple to correct it. I accused the proprietor of the French Gallery of disingenuously cribbing semcbedy clse's title, whereas it appears " The Winter Exhibition" is a title that has always belonged to 120, Pall-mall.

In consequence of the retirement of Miss Neilson, the Lyceum is obliged to come out with a poor adaptation. This is disappointing to those who, like myself, look to Fkchtek for something good—but he could hardly help himself under the circumstances. However, there's > plenty without that:—a new comedy at the Princo of Wales (though Lucia is attractive enough without any ptheruid), and Rip Van Wttikle ought to be enough at one time. The world will be glad to learn that Mit. Jeipbrson settles in England, whereby this country is tie richer by a good actor.

I Am glad to see that the lecture which Fun delivered to a certain theatrical manager has not been without it* effect. A glance at the bills will show that "Never too late to Mend" is now prefaced every night by "An Ample Apology." The Serf has been mercifully removed from the Olympic boards—if the new piece is no better, at all events, it can't be worse, and it will bo new, which is a relief; after a long attack of neuralgia one is rather grateful than othorwise for a sharp twinge of rheumatism, if only for the change.


ACT I.—Interior of an Inn, terrace at the back. Beyond terrace, a hilly country; below terrace, an underground cavern extending many miles beyond the farthest hills. Feasants discovered drinking.

Proprietor Of Inn.—Once I was a bravo, now I keep an inn. But still I Bometimcs do a little in my old line of business.

Enter Leone Salviati, disguised as an improvisator*.

All.—Tell us tho story of the Five Brothers Salviati, and we will give you a bag of sequins.

Leoni.—I will. Listen. The five brothers swore to defend Cosmo di Medici. In doing so three of them wero killed, and two survive. Have I well earned my money?

All.—You havo!

Leone.—Have I told you enough?
All.—Quite enough!

Leoni {confidentially to audience). — I have clandestinely married Bianca, the daughter of the Duke d'Albizzi, Cosmo's deadly foe; and we have a child—a small boy. But nobody knows it!

Enter a Mysterious Person in a Mask. Myst. P. (to landlord).—Go and murder somebody in a wood, and I will give you a bag of sequins.

Landlord.-—I will. [Goes and murders somebody in a wood.

Myst. P.—Ha! ha! No one knows that I am Judael—but soft! Enter Cosmo Di Medici. Cosmo. — As everybody is trying to assassinate me, and as a murderer is planted at every corner, I begin to think that I am betrayed. £

Myst. P.—Here is a passport; it will take you across the frontier. Cosmo.—Thank you. [Exit across the frontier.

Myst. P.-—I havo spared him because I shall inherit his wealth.

Enter Landlord. Lanblord.—I have been and murdered somebody in a wood. Myst. P.—Good! [Poisons landlord, and exit.

Landlord.—Ha! I don't feel well. No matter.

Enter Leon a Salviati.

Leone.—I am tired.

Landlord.—Have something to drink? (Gives him drink from poisoned cup.) I feel very unwell. Leone.—So do L What can it be?

Land.—Perhaps we are poisoned! In fact, I'm sure we are. [Dies. Leone.—Oh, agony, so we are! [Falls senseless.

ACT II.—Apartment in the D'Albizzi Palace. Enter Mysterious P.

Myst. P.—Fifteen years are supposed to have elapsed since the last act. Cosmo rules in Florence, and is going to marry Bianca, the widow of Leone Salviati.

Enter Cosmo and Bianca. [Exeunt Cosmo and Bianca.

Myst. P.—There is a page, Silvio, who is very fond of Bianca. I think it is only right that Cosmo should know it.

Enter Cosmo and Bianca. [Exeunt Cosmo and Bianca.

Myst. P.—In a casket in Cosmo's sleeping-room are some papers that will establish something. How shall I get at them?

Enter Cosmo and Bianca. [Exeunt Cosmo and Bianca.

Myst. P.—I have it. There is a poor devil who has been imprisoned for fifteen years in the underground dungeons of this palace, so he is, of course, tho very man for my purpose. Besides, he is dumb—so dumb that he can neither read nor write. [Exit Myst. P.

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