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Somos for Music,'3, 61
Scotland in her Cups, 134
Separation of Emily and Brown Jones, 140
Spooney Philosophy, 179
Serenade of the Present Day, 209
St. Valcntino'j Day, 221
Surgeon's Revenge (The), 232
Towx Talk, 2, 12, 22, 32,42, 52. 62, 72, 82,
Twenty Years' Progress, 4
Tupperius Magnus, 10
Temperance Lyric*, 28, 48, 52
Tale of a Traveller (Commercial) (A), 34
Toujours Gai, 113
To a Lovely Actress, 132
Thoughts on Christmas, 153
To a Little Maid, 167
Terapora Mutantur, 2^7
Topsy Turvy Papers, 219
Theatre Gring .let (The), 250
Taming a Tribune, 252
Urbs in Rure, 47
Unlimited Liability, 213
VAOADONn to his Dog (The), 6S
Vestigia Nulla Rctrorsum, 182
Weather and the Parks (The), 4
Youno Esculapius, 32
Yarn of the Nancy Bell (The), 242
A Littt.f behind the Times, 95
Assault and Buttery, 115
"Bogey 1" 25
Brothers after all, 35
B.ack Question (The), 103
Bull and Beef, 145
Britannia's Pets, 175
Belle of the Session (The), 193
Britannia's Valentine, 225
Domestic Difficulty (the), 15
Gone from the Helm, 65
Government Convevance (A), 183
How to ta'ie a Hint, 235
Irish Rip Van Winkle (The), 5
Judgment of Paris(h) 'The), 125
Modern .St. Patrick (1'ta.t), 245
No Notice to be Taken, :55
Our Cousin German, 135
Political Patroclus (The), 75
Pharaoh's Serpent, 85
Right " Christmas Number" (The), 155
Sunday Drains v. Sunday Trains, 55
Arrival of Chang, 1
Artistic Conversazione (An), 190
Child is Father to the Man (The), 11
Cool, Rather, 58
Cattle Market (The), 70,
Chrysanthemum show (The), 110
Consolations of the Hunting Field, 114
Cattle Show (The), ISO
Christmas Party (A), 170
Dreadful Misbehaviour, 54
Difficult Commission (A), 81
Domestic Intelligence, 138
Divorce Court (The), 140
Do You See any Green? 150
Delights of Literature (The), 218
Enough to Annoy a Fella, 34
Economy in Little Things, 144
Kx(bus)uorstivc Argument (An), 184
'"Efajrin the Smile," 254
Foreign Suns and English Daughters, 8
Front of the House (The), 180
High Art of Getting Good Servants (The),
Hint to Mammas in Garrison Towns (A),
| Hospital for Kick Children (The), 148
Hint to Housekeepers (A), 201
"In Vino Veritas," 191
"Look on this ricture and on That," 23
Low Opinion of Literature (A), 228
One Good Turn Deserves Another, 251
People's Pleasures (The), 30
Pretty Cyar-acter (A), 171
Par-tickler Unpleasant, 181
Physical Education Question (The), 194
Practising at the Bar, 244
Roval Exchange (The), 4')
Real Basket Trick (The), 01
Sham Fight (A), 60
Something Like a Celebrity, 71:
St. Valentine's Dav, 221
Spirited Challenge (A), 231
Too Late for the Tost, 43
Tomkins Abroad, 74
Troubles of livery, 108
Trussed, but no Credit, 134
Thistle Whipping, 104
There's a Meuium in Everything, 103
Theatre Roval—Nurserv, 224
Up a Tre e, 104
Very Ingenious, 10
Very Considerate Indeed, t'O
Very A-gnaw-ing, 134
What Next! 161
Youthful Humanity, 121
'»• From the commencement of the Third Volume (till be published, in addition to the usual issue at One Fenny, a Special Edition of each
I.—WHAT THE DOME OF ST. PAUL'S SAID OF IT. Thb Twelfth Fingers of the Left Hand but One had just been announced. The town could think and speak of nothing else. Everybody liked it, and for a very simple reason, that nobody could even guess what it meant; since, in these days (as Sir O. E. L. Bulwer-lytton knows), the Unintelligible and the Popular are One. All the public buildings in the neighbourhood of Fleet-street were full of it. "Sir, "said the Dome of St. Paul's, one night, to Temple Bar—what ?" You don't believe that the Dome can talk?" It can, I admire you; and it is very fond of imitating Doctor Johnson. Gentlemen, we will now resume our studies! "Sir," said the Dome of St. Paul's, M to lessen that disdain with which scholars are inclined to look on the common business of the world is in itself an object not of reprehensible, but of laudable ambition; and whilst a propensity to extravagant and hyperbolical declamation, and to an unnecessary pomposity of elocution is justly censurable, we should applaud the ingenuity of those who, carefully concealing their meaning behind an enigmatical expression, stimulate curiosity, quicken the reflective faculties, and pi public with fresh materials for innocent conjecture. Sir,
RECTOR OF EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY
Every literary man in England speculated on the meaning of the phrase. "Marvellous, truly," said Mr. Thomas Carlyle, "Marvellous truly is that right hand of thine, oh, my forlorn human Brother; and with quite inflni temultifarious capacities—capacities of pain ting youa Raphael's Transliguration-pioce—of hewing you the necessary quantum guff, of Pagan prottiness, in the way of APOLLO and the like, from marble, Parian and otherwise: also of manufacturing bad sausages, as those of Bonus yonder, from reprehensible Pork—sausages not to be purchased by me for one!—also of writing with ink on paper what may prove, as the Destinies will it, a Paradise Lost or a Comic Periodical. Of infinite and multifarious capacities, I tell thee, but also of quite stern and strict limits, not to be overpassed :—said limits not including, as I am at present advised, this thy absurd anomalous figment, or call it rather Dead-Sea Phantasm and gibbering Spectre of Unveracity, the Twelfth Fingers of the Left Hand but One! Ach Jlimmel, no! not that, my forlorn human Brother!"
m..-.. WHAT THE NEW POET SAID OF IT. Ma. Alobrnon Charles Swinburne, after receiving the usual caution, deposed as follows:—'
Before the beginning of years,
There came to the making of Fvn,
Quip and Conundrum quaint;
Cheerful and jubilant Chaff;
With her lisping lyrical laugh:
And they pointed, when all was done,
Of the Left, Left Hand—but One!
IV.—WHAT REALLY TOOK PLACE.
What really took place was this. There was a crowd in Fleet-street to look at the Mysterious Finger. The new Lord Mayor, that hardy annual, came forth to see it; and the minute he did see it, he, like a new number of our periodical, tickled his Corporation. The halt, the lame, and the blind —Greenwich Pensioners, paupers, and olderly Whigs—all swelled the throng. The Finest Cat in the World (our own) crept out on the tiles over our office; and you may judge of the humour of the Finger when we tell you that it made even her laugh! Meanwhile, about a dozen gentlemen, of various ages, but all of them extremely handsome, met together—exchanged a few hurried words—and then rushed away, exclaiming,
But half-an-hour afterwards they reassembled, and exclaimed—
What.' Read steadily through the following delightful efforts of contemporary genius; and then, perhaps, we will tell you.
But no! On second thoughts, and out of regard for a deputation consisting of Earl Russell, the Lord Mayor, Mr. Ruskin, Dr. Cummincj, Lord Shaftesbury, Chano, the author of Where ii it t and the rest of the Royal Family, we will tell you now.
When the extremely handsome gentlemen said " We Won't!" they were oil under tho erroneous impression that the authors of the " Twelfth Finger of the Left Hand but One,"—an obvious synonym for the Christmas
'at the ordinary rate of remuneration to send in
of extra i
Number of Fun,—would only be
But the very minute that
THE APPLICATION. The Application,—which is that of the Thumb of the Right Hand to the Only Nose, accompanied by a playful extension of the dexter digits—will now be easily understood. The charge for the whole performance is only twopence. This farce will be repeated.
Decked in mauve, coris ,
C rtain is to please,
Quite devoid of care,
French folks say, "sans souci," Dapper, debonnaire,
Laughing little Lucy.
For these verses vile
She will call me "goosey," Smothering a smile,
Pouting littlo Lucy.
There's no op'ra sir
Can at all compare
The eloquence which nil
In Pusey and 1!kli.e\v sec, Is miserably small,
Compared to that of Lucy. • Dux declined in the
Ablative makes Duce, Duck declined by me.
Never would be Lucy.
ENDER tiny dove,
Such a girl as tew see
Though I know my fate,
My love fur little Lucy.
Deep and cunning she,
Turks would turn Chinese,
Doctors drop their fees,
Lord High Chancellor
As he was before,
For a look from Lucy.
Aldermen would quit
Calipash so juicy, By her side to sit,
Tempting little Lucy.
The last Bishop made
Would desert his new Sec, And go into trade
At the wish of Lucy. Bather than a scone
By Beyehly or Brew see, Would the world, I ween,
Enjoy a glimpse of Lucy.
¥/ GATHERED roses. I gathered gold.
I treasure the roses, but whero is the gold?
(I have known sorrow—but I can sing.) Out, and for shame on my wealth untold!
For my riches all took wing.
Oh, treasured roses! Oh, vanished gold!
(I am stout-hearted Htill—and sing.)
And thoir perfume brings back Spring.
I gathered roses! I gathered gold!
(I am poor and needy—but I can sing.) And your little hand that my hands enfold
Is the solo remaining thing!
T has often been said, and truly, that if any man would write his life as it re dly happened, it would be sure to make an interesting story. What the world now Uekl is truth, the raw fact as it happened, without sauce, flavour, or garnishing. In the following story, which is autobiographical, I propose to relate the history of my life at it really happened.
I am a shorthand writer. Yo ge ltlefolks of England who write long hand at ease, little do you think of the sufferings of the reporter, when—in a tt ite of obfuscation from late hours, overwork, and—well, let us say the refreshment which the arduous nature of the task imposed upon him requires—he sinks to rest to sleep, perchance to dream— aye, there's the rub. But this is madness. Lot us return to our subject. I have said before Have I said it before P I think I have said it before; but I have lost my notes, and, therefore, the reader will kindly excuse any littlo omission or repetition. I have said that I am a shorthand reporter. From my earliest youth I loved stenography as a Newton may have loved science. Like science stenography is a wonderful invention. Let me here say, in parenthesis, that I hate my brother-in-law. He is an infernal sobersided humbug—and during my illness, I pledge my word, that has never yet boon liable to erasure—he has made remarks which I consider invidious and untrue. I have been ill from overwork. Let that bo understood: overwork, and not as evil-iisposed persons may have reported—when I say
reported, I do not mem in shorthand, but as evil-disposed persons [Will
the reader kindly excuse mo from terminating this sentence, in consideration of my notes having been lost somewhere. It is my brother-in-law, I know; but ho shall leavo my house to-morrow.]
As a youth, my heart and mind were devoted to stenography and woman —lovely woman. At the early ago of sixteen I fell in love, and whatever my brother-in-law may say of my treatment of my wife is untrue. No matter, let that pass.
Compelled by a sordid uncle to earn my living at the early age of twentytwo, I was forced to leave my home and the neighbourhood in which resided she on whom I had fixed my affections.
11 was one winter night that I stood on the frozen lid of the waterbutt, and whispered to Emmeline that I was about to be severed from her, it might be for years and it might be for ever; but in the meantime there was a
Eenny post, and I could write to her constantly. As the moon shone upon or, and was reflected on the water flowing in the waterbutt beneath, for it was only half the lid that was on, I thought to myself and I said to EmmeLine, "Why should souls liko ours confine themselves to the trammels of long hand P Let us be above the ordinary modes of correspondence. As nono have loved aswc love, as nobody can love, might loye, shall love, or will love like ourselves, why not correspond in shorthand?"
Three months were to elapse before I left my native village. I proposed to Emmeline to teach her stenography. Sho consented, and when 1 left the village we corresponded every day, and our love-letters were the shortest on record in point of character, and the longest in point of matter.
Let mo hero say that my Emmeline had a father; and, by the way, her name was Jenny and not Emmeline, but I called her Emmeline because it sounded more poetical. My Emmeline had a father whom I hate; the remarks ho has made upon my illness, which, as I have said, is entirely attributable to overwork, and not as he and my brother-in-law state—but theso are family matters which had better be passed over. After serving a short sort of apprenticeship on a newspaper in the country, and corresponding with dearest Emmeline, I came to London. I reported, reported, and reported. At first I wrote to Emmeline daily, then every other day; then once a week, then once a month, then not at all. She wrote to me daily complaining of my silence, but the fact is I had no time to write. I had got among a lot of jolly fellows, and when one understands life in Londen and stenography, it is easily perceived that wo have no control over circumstances, and that the ladies in the country, to whom one is engaged when is young and foolish, must not be too particular or exacting. By this I do not moan to put any imputation on my wife, whose affection and attention te me during my illness—an illness entirely attributable to overwork— were a theme of admiration for many miles in the surrounding neighbourhood. Let mo see, where was I'( oh, yes, I came up to London and got among a set of jolly fellows. I reported in the House of Lords, and was a great favourite with the Lord Chancellors past and present. I had a rowone night with the policeman who acted as doorkeeper, and who had the udacity to say that I looked overworked, and he would not permit me to go up into tho gallery. This man afterwards had a severe attack of small-pox, which was doubtless attributable to his conduct to me. I forgave Dim freely; and, if this should meet his eye, he will know that I look over his conduct. I had not written to my Emmeline for a year, when I fell wry ill. The doctor pronounced it fever. My head was shaved, and I was told that in moments of unconsciousness I sang comic songs, addressed my nurse as the noble lord, and wished to waltz with the friendly skelotous who crowded nightly round my bedside with enthusiastic acclamations. I grew worse and worse. At last I becamo unconscious; then I grew conscious; the skeletons dropped off in their attendance, and finally fused themselves into one skeleton. I remember sitting up in my bed with my head shaved, and seeing a skeleton sitting by my bedside It was attired in a black stuff frock. It was a kaleidoscopic sort of skeleton, and changed frequently. First it changed into Mrs. Gramborough, my nurse, than whom a moro wicked old woman, or one more denying of a drop of comfort to a poor fellow who wanted it never walked this earth in an unpleasant looking cap. From Mks. Gramuokough the skeleton changed to—yes—surely I was not dreaming—to Emmeline!
Let me explain. For two long weary years my Emmeline had waited witheut receiving an amatory epistle from me; she had formed a resolution romantic, but feminine, of following me to London. Her father hud fallen into trouble. Ah, woman in our hours of case, uncertain, coy, and hard to please. In the midst of the old gentleman's troubles she took his best suit of clothes, and altering them so as to adapt them to the exigencies of her own figure, which was fino, she walked up to London in them. She had no money, but she earned an honourable, though procarious livelihood by teaching stenography to the cottagers by the way-side. The blessingsof education had never before or sinco been so speedily conferred upon an agricultural and slightly brutal population. She found mo out by the simplest means in the world. She discovered the address of the Lord Chancellor in the Court Guide. She called upon him, and stating her business asked him for my address. The Lord Chancellor, who always keeps an eye upon me, immediately gave it her. She informed Mrs. Gkamiiorouoh, and the skeletons—who so kindly assisted her in promoting my cure of an illness brought on, as I assure the reader, entirely by overwork—that she was my sister, which, her being attired in male habiliments only rendered more -probable. For nights and days she watched by my bedside. She cooled my fever, and when money was short for grapes and oranges, of which I ate two barrels per diem—she, my Emmeline, who was beautiful and fair, and understood stenography, and had really the finost head of hair ever seen in the shop of Mr. Truefitt—and I trust that Mr. Truefitt will not think it necessary to send mo any balm of Columbia or other unguent for this mention of his name—cut off her hair and sold it, and the skeletons brought the oranges as before on payment of ready money.
One night, when I lay senseless and unconscious, in a state of coma— entirely attributable to overwork—a message came down from a journal newly started that ray stenographic services wcro required at the House of Lords. No other stenographer was to be found. The addresses of the vilJagers, to whom my Emmeline had taught the art of short-hand, were not available. The price offered for one night's services—it was a most important debate, and Emmeline had no money left—was £50. Dareful and dauntless my Emmeline walked to the office of the journal and boldly passed herself off as a stenographic reporter, which her habiliments, which I have said were the modification of her father's clothes adapted to the exigencies of her own fine figure—and such a figure!—rendered provable. She was shown by torchlight to the gallery of the House of .Lords, and took her place among that brave bond of stenographers, to whom rthe members of both Houses and the country at large, to say nothing of the newsvendors, are so much indebted. The debate was a furious one: the Ministry fought hard to keep their places; the Opposition fought hard to get them out—and victory hovored—I don't know where, but so it was. As my Emmeline turned to her left, whom should she behold but her aged father, who, having failed in business as a furrier, had in his old age taught himself stenography in six weeks, and been engaged as a reporter on ono of the principal daily papers. Unmindful of Parliamentary privilege, the old
fentleman, who recognised his clothes, which I have before stated my Immeline had adapted to the exigencies of her own fine figure— and such a figure! — the old gentleman exclaimed, "My child!" "Silence!" said the Lord Chancellor, " I will commit the first man who speaks—nay, worse, I will make him a member of the lower house." "My ■lord," said iny Emmeline'B father, "I should be sorry to interrupt this honourable house, sorry to interrupt your lordship, whom I venerate and esteem." Here the Lord Chancellor burst into tears. "But the reporter," continued my Emmelinb's father, "sitting by my side, is my own daughter." The commotion in the house is more easily imagined than described. "Privilege, privilege," cried the members, and my Emmeline rose and addressed the Louse for three-quarters of an hour, at the same time taking down her own speech stenographically as she spoke. She explained who she was, and what she was—that she was my plighted bride, and that I required oranges and grapes every five minutes. The house rose as one man, or, as I should say, one nobleman. The Lord Chancellor requested of my Emmeline's father that he would permit him to adopt her, which ho did on the spot close to the woolsack. Every nobleman then and there present i mmediately subscribed £1,000as a wedding portion for my self and Emmeline. My Emmeline's father, melted by the entreaties of the Lord Chancellor, who went upon his knees to him, consented to our marriage. Stimulants of various descriptions—calves' foot jelly, Revalenta Arabica, soon brought mo to a state of corporeal health. I recovered. I married my Emmeline. Wo liiive lived happy ever since. Her father accepted the Chiltern Hundreds— a post which was kindly given to him by the Lord Chancellor, to whom may the tribute of esteem here given be some balm when he is compelled to retire. Three months after Emmeline and I were married at St. George's, Hanover-square, the Speaker of the Houso of Commons, through tho indisposition of the Lord Chancellor, being kindly allowed to give the bride
away. We have been happy ever since, although at times the illness with which I am so often afflicted, and which has been remarked upon by my brother-in-law and my father-in-law in such invidious terms, has frequently revisited me. This is the story of my life.
At the commencement of this paper I think that I remarked, but I have lost some of my notes, and the reader will kindly excuse errors entirely attributable to illness and overwork. I remarked that if any man wrote his life as it really happened it would make an interesting paper. I have done so. This is a plain unvarnished statement, and not the offspring of delirium tremens, as that brute my brother-iu-law, if he will allow me to call him Bo, I will not mention my father-in-law, as being unworthy of notice, affirms. I have meroly stated facts an they really happened, and for which my wife, who is now in tho interior of Africa, can at any moment vouch. I havo tho honour to be, Mr. Editor, Yours,
[P.S.—Mrs. presents her compliments to the Editor of Frx,
and encloses her husband s manuscript. She has not read it, but she trusts should the Editor see any objections to its publication, that he will
send it back to Mr. , whose health, mental and physical, has been
Bo long impaired as to unfit him at times for the task of literary composition.]
T. W. Robertson.
AH, me, Time's foot goes far too fust,
Strange visions in the bright Madeira,
They come! they como! a changing host,
Through memory's "practicable ' panels, A stream of varied life, long-lost
Amid a thousand winding channels. And if tho well-known face looks cold,
I wonder where the sod, smooth-shaven, Upon his faithful breast was rolled,
And where " Hie Jacet " is engraven.
She comes! and once again my heart
Is throbbing with its youthful blisses, When well she played Calypso's part—
And I was sillier than Ulysses. Tho glamour has its olden power,
Again I love with ardent rapture; And yet I know that dainty flower
Was not worth keeping after capture.
Another comes! a face is this,
As beauteous as a saint in glory;
On Latmos, in the olden story.
If still ho plays in Life's dull drama;
In homage to the mighty Brahma.
Another yet!—I know the air,
Mysterious, moody, and Byronic. A poet this—'ere worldly sore,
And debts and duns came like a tonic. The Bill of Life at last came due,
He might have paid tho interost longer; But, with the Beautiful and True,
He loved—a something rather stronger.
They come! they go! Tho Christmas chimes
Ring out a welcome from the steeple; They minglo with my wayward rhymes,
And chase away my phantom people. An old hand ill beseems a pen,
For noisy youngsters hardly thank us For stories of the mighty men
Who graced the Consulship of Plancus!
It was midnight on the third of August, A.D., 1863, when I—Theofhilvs F. Sharp, at your service, an instructor in the divine art of Music on reasonable terms (for cash)—suddenly brought the extreme tip of my right forefinger into contact with my throbbing brow, and roused the night-owls of the neighbourhood with a yell of " Eureka!" The attitude was gracefully suggestive of the late-lamented Yorick Sterne's portraits; and the interjection—a fragment borrowed of Archimedes for this occasion only— opened on an unimpeachable chest note, broke away into an agonized falsetto at the second syllable, and seemed afterwards to go right up to the roof of the house and die among the stars. After apologising to a vast imaginary audience for this musical mishap, and briefly alluding to the singular effect of powerful emotion on the human lanyrx, 1 flew to my desk ana, seizing a stainless ream of letter paper, inscribed upon its outer sheet, in the most impressive pothooks and hangers I am capable of, the name of Richard Ccf.ur De Lion!
At last, then, after devoting whole weeks—nay, whole fortnights—to the search, my toil was crowned by the discovery of a subject for my long-projected opera seria. In vain had I threaded the mazes of Ancient History and roamed through the pastures of Romance. In vain had I wandered up and down the Arabian Nights, until Calii>ii Hahoun-al-raschid had whipt my head off at least three nights a week in my feverish dreams. And now—after a range of reading so extensive that it needed only Robinson Cri SOB and the Byzantine Historians to render it marvellous—I had found, in the pleasing abridgement of Pinnogk, a hero after my own heart; one whose exploits called for Poesy and Song of the highest order. "Music wedded to immortal Verse " was the kind of thing they wanted. Very well—as for the Music I had no qualms on that score ; but immortal Verse, it struck me, was anything but a drug in the market. The Poet Laureate was living far away; somewhere in the Isle of Wight, I think. The poetry of Browning, though crammed full of tho most exciting metaphysics, never would run well to music. No ; there was but one course open; 1 would ensure unity of design and perfection of workmanship by writing my own libretto. Before seeking my restless bolster, I drew up my plot and made a list of my characters. On the following afternoon I tied (with an immense variety of pens, ink, and paper) to the smallest known village on the coast of Cornwall. Solitude snd secrecy had become indispensable to me; and I would seek them on tho Cornish seaboard. I found them there.
In a couple of days my descriptive overture was complete; a happy inspiration from its opening to its close. The first few bars were of unexampled majesty, and represented the working of warlike impulses upon the noble heart of England. A short military movement then suggested the march of troops to Folkestone and their embarkation lor the continent. The effects of a sea voyage upon an undisciplined soldiery afforded opportunities for bringing the ophicleide into prominence. A storm arises—the wholo army is on the brink of mutiny. But suddenly, from the mast head of King Richard's galleon, is heard aery of "Land!" (cornet in F. sharp.) Order is restored, and the wail of the tempest merges into a triumphal march, allegro pomposo ma non troppo.
Leaving the ink to dry upon the last bars of this varied composition, I wandered forth to meditate my opening chorus by the many-sounding sea. The morn was lovely, and the ocean calm as my own unruffled conscience. By the aid of a powerful imagination I straightway found myself within tho camp of Saladin, at Ascalon. Methought the warriors of the Taynim host were celebrating the proclamation of a truce by a quiet evening and a little music. Beneath a gorgeous canopy reclined the Sultan himself, that most magnificent of barytones, whose upper G, ringing through the battlefield above the din of arms, had so often carried consternation into Christian
hearts. Methought the proceedings commenced with a chorus of Warriors; and this over, the Sultan Saladin was prevailed on (without a shadow of difficulty) to favour the company with a song. Poor fellow; the old, old story—unrequited love. He signified that, being far too much of a real gentleman to reveal the fair one's name, it was a partial relief to him to sing little ballads about her now and then, in presence of a largo and appreciative audience.
All this, and considerably more, was flitting before my mind's eye, when I was recalled suddenly to the present period by a loud, long, piercing cry for help. How to describe that heart-rending appeal—by what complication of dipthongs to convey the remotest idea of it in writing—I know not; for it grieves me to say that in this instance language was entirely sacrificed to vocal effect. It was evident, however, that the sound came from the foot of the cliffs on which I stood. Making my way to the edge I looked over, but a projecting ledge hid everything but the outer foam of the breakers tossing to and fro. Again the shout camoup, louder and longer than before.
Never, perhaps, did I display such decision of purpose as on this occasion. To return at full speed to the village, to leap into an empty boat, and to pat off singly to the rescue, was the work of—well, twenty minutes. I was only just in time. Hemmed in completely by the rising tide, and clinging, pale with terror, to each other and to the cliff behind them, I discovered a stoutieh man of middle age and an extremely small boy. The latter, indeed, was partially out of sight, being immersed as far as the knees in the Atlantic Ocean. The outburst of joy with which they hailed my appearance may, perhaps, be more easily described than imagined; nevertheless, I shall not make uny attempt to describe it.
Tho stoutish man of middle age informed me the moment he recovered his powers of articulation, that he and the extremely small boy had been surprised by tho waves while engnged in studying the domestic economy of the flat-fish. I listened with intense interest to tho harrowing details, and implored the narrator by all that he held respectable, to come home and dine with me, urging my right of salvage when I found him unwilling to accept my offer. Of course the small boy, hiB hopeful son, was included in the invitation. At last they accepted, one and all—I mean one and both. The inhabitants of my lonely village were not skilled in cookery, but they put before us a meal which went by the name of dinner. It consisted of animal food, not unmingled with herbs, I believe.
"My kind preserver," said the elder of my guests, helping himself to his fifth glass of the excessively bad Sherry 1 had put before him, " I shall, with your permission, drain this goblet to the immortal memory of William Shakespeare; a man, sir, of whom it may be asserted without hyperbole that he was not exclusively for any age in particular, but in point of tact, for all time. Beyond those feelings of admiration for the bard's works, which are common, I trust, to all civilized beings, I feel a certain amount of professional interest in this toast."
I felt suddenly curious respecting this previously commonplace being. "You then," I commenced, "are a"
"A manager, my dear sir," was his reply, given with considerable dignity. "One whose < evotion to the cause of the national drama has reduced him, in this age of sensationalism and perverted taste, to the very verge of ruin. One who has played Hamlet—with new scenery, dresses and appointments— to a pit of seven. One who, amidst the general downfall of the histrionic art, sir, still waves the banner of Avon's bard above the Theatre Royal, Land's End. Perchance you know the house in question?"
Well, no, I didn't; but I expressed a feverish desire to become instantly acquainted with it. Land's End had tho reputation of being only four miles from the place of my sojourn.