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"Sir,-So intense is my interest in, and sympathy for, the French, that, in spite of myself, I keep turning in my

mind every possible and impossible means by which they could get the advantage over their exacting foe. It has just occurred to me that if some night they were to let loose upon the Prussians all the wild animals of the Jardin des Plantes, it would spread terror and dismay among their ranks, as well as secure a certain diminution of their number. I would suggest that the animals should be kept with little or no food for some days previously, so that they might be well disposed to do the State good service. This proposal may not be exactly in accordance with the Articles of War, but these are not times to stand upon punctilio, and in love and war all stratagems are admissible.' Will you kindly give this letter a place in your journal, and thereby much oblige a warm friend of France? M. A. C."

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Of course no lady, except the kind of one commonly called "the old soldier," can be expected to see the practical difficulties which forbid the trial of a wild beast's battalion for warlike purposes. No man can wonder that "M. A. C." overlooks the probability that the denizens of the Jardin des Plantes, if turned loose upon the Prussians, would, at least as soon as they got under fire, most likely turn tail and attack their proprietors the Parisians, unless GENERAL TROCHU caused them all to have firebrands tied to their tails, like SAMSON'S foxes. It can scarcely be conceived to have occurred to her that probably the carnivora in the Parisian Zoological Gardens are nearly all starved by this time, if they have not been eaten. Nor, as she is a warm friend to France," could her head even be imagined to have ever been entered by the moral consideration that the "exacting foe," who is merely seeking to exact security that the other foe, who attacked him first, shall not again commit a breach of the peace, is not, of the two foes, the one upon whom it would be the rather fitting to set loose wild beasts. But, putting these and the like oversights aside, every well-constituted mind must see what a happy thing it would be for humanity if it were possible that the nations who delight in war could, when they assail those who detest it, be encountered not with men, but with savage and ferocious brutes, like themselves-lions, tigers, bears, wolves, and hyænas.

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There is something specifically, and therefore delightfully, feminine in the idea of "spreading terror and dismay among "the ranks of an army by letting lions loose upon them. For, as Bottom observes, "to bring in... a lion among ladies, is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living.' One quite enters into M. A. C.'s fancy that wild lions let loose would terrify armed soldiers. If, indeed, those soldiers were Amazons, they would be likely enough to be sent to the right-about by a charge of such four-footed antagonists, and indeed by smaller quadrupeds. The "gentle hearts" of the gentler sex, we know, "do fear the smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor; and doubtless a moderate number of mice as assailants would suffice to rout a considerable force of female warriors.

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PHILOSOPHY AND SCIENCE OF FASHION.

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IN Le Follet's" Fashions for December" there is a gleam of reason resembling the faint sunlight which now and then breaks through the masses of clouds that mantle and muffle the sky these dark mornings:"Elderly ladies can never appropriate toilettes suitable only to youth without adding to their age, to a degree of which it would be almost impossible to convince them; and vice versa, young unmarried ladies, dressed in matronly robes and ornaments, lose the charm of elegant simplicity so becoming to them, and show a lamentable ignorance of the first and most immutable canon of good taste-suitability."

A RHYME FOR THE TIME.

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HARMONIOUS MR. PUNCH,

You, who remember everything, need hardly be reminded that BEETHOVEN was born a hundred years ago; and I fancy you can estimate the blessings he conferred on musical humanity, if you reflect that in the century elapsed since he was born scarce a note of all his music has descended to the barrel-organs. Surely, it is fitting to pay homage to such genius, even though we, some of us, lack knowledge to appreciate it. And the way to gain that knowledge is the way to do him homage, namely, to go and hear, as often as we can, what his music has to say to us. Depend on it, if we have brains to back our hearing, we shall not listen long without profit from the pastime. Don't think me a bore, then, if I take up some few inches of your valuable space in telling half the Universe-I mean to say your readersthat BEETHOVEN may be heard now, in this his first centenary, played to perfection, weekly, by the Crystal Palace band, and at the "Monday Pops" by charming ARABELLA GODDARD. Not an omnibus in London has a cleverer conductor than HERR MANNS, the Crystal Chief; and not a church in London gives us better music weekly than MR. ARTHUR CHAPPELL. This is no puff, but a fact: and so believe me yours in earnest, although I write jokingly, ONE WHO PLAYS.

Forthcoming New Work.

to appear with the next spring flowers."
"The author of Red as a Rose is She is engaged on a novel which is meant

There is an intelligence in this remark really amounting to common is no secret in literary circles-Buttercups and Daisies.
sense, and there is a feeling of art quite sufficiently high to discern at
least one of its rudimentary principles. We only hope that the above-
quoted passage from the Follet is not very much above the comprehen-
sion of most of its readers.

It will be observed that the title is not mentioned, but we believe it

A KNOWING BIRD.-The "Downy" Owl.

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WAR NEWS.

(From our own Cockalorum.)

DEAREST COCKALORUM,

IN these excited times don't go a trusting nobody but your own Professor of Real English. He's all there when the bell rings. Depend upon him for being in the front which ever way the army's going. This gay Marquis don't quite so much take to the looks of things as he used to did. In the midst of victorious unfriendlies all over the shop, you won't find this Lighthearted Soldier much about. No, not me George. I've packed up everything but a tooth-brush, as GENERAL NAPIER observed, and shan't stop to say good-bye to Hereditary Grands, if shuffle's the word.

Meeting a young man who's here for the Journalistic King, he remarked to this gallant Marquis that "times is changing." To which, I observed, that "it wasn't all cream just now." We wunk at each other, smole, and said Adoo. Which it were.

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This Gay Cavalier was having a chat with old VILLUM and The Hereditary Grand, and says old VILLUM, "if I catch that filibustering humbug, GARIBALDI, hang me if I don't hang him. Why didn't they keep him in Caprera, and let him write novels for the English people? "Yours to command," says this Sprightly Militaire, agreeing with Sweet VILLUM, every word of it. An American gent, here, observes that GARIBALDI can't go to America, as they 're 66 after him" there, he having set up a store somewhere, himself and partner (GARIB. & Co.), let in the Yanks and bolted. Not such a fool as he looks. But then this Light-hearted Soldier is neutral tint, and loves 'em all. Which he do.

MR. HOME, the Spiritualist, has been here giving us no end of rumti-iddities. Your Own rather injured that Noble Marquis's feelings by offering him a Medium cigar. In revenge he called up the spirit of a deceased creditor, and this before VILLUM and the Hereditary, both of whom are old enough to know better. The deceased creditor went on rapping out particulars about this Cheery Commander's private history

MRS. RAMSBOTHAM says she likes going to a play on the first night of its performance, because she sees so many imAND LOOK minent men 'present, and a lot of crickets from the newspapers.

until, being riled, Your Own rapped out a strong expression which broke up the entertainment.

"VILLUM," says this Confidential Cockalorum, "don't you go in for the Dulce Domum business. You've been uproarious and glorious up till now; but look out, or if you take up with spirits I'm blessed if you won't find the tables turned."

He laughed heartily, and an hour afterwards Your Own was put under arrest. This gay proceeding will rouse the British Lion. It will serve 'em right if

*

BIZZY, SINGAMARINGY, and the whole biling, have been here and It's all over, shouting and everything. The Hereditary Grand, implored me to make it up.

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Hereditary," says this child of Nature, "yours ever."

It was a touching spectacle; even BIZZY saying he'd never seen such a game in all his born days. This in German, of course. However, Your Own took the opportunity of announcing the melancholy intelligence that he must leave them to be present at the turning-off point in the existence of the MARCHIONESS OF LORNE, as is to be; and hence the preparations for moving. This cut 'em-this remark did-right into the flannel. There were lots of Gay Young Hereditaries (not Grands) trying to wire in in that direction.

The truth is that the cheerful Prooshians are horrid bustled just now. *** An orderly is waiting to take this to the post. So no more at present From yours ever, YOUR OWN DYNGWELL.

P.S. Back in Plum Pudding time.

On a Theatrical Nuisance. PERCHED in a box which cost her not a sou, GIGLINA chatters all the evening through, Fidgets with opera-glass, and flowers, and shawls, Annoys the actors, irritates the stalls. Forgive her harmless pride-the cause is plainShe wants us all to know she's had champagne.

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Major Dangle (quartered in the Neighbourhood). "YOUR MOTHER ASKED ME TO YOUR BALL NEXT WEEK, TOM. I SUPPOSE I MAY BRING ONE OR TWO FELLOWS IN THE REGIMENT? EH?"

Tom. "O YES, CERTAINLY, MAJOR ! DANCE, AND SPOON A BIT, YOU KNOW!"

VERY DULL AT OUR PLACE!

ILLUSTRATIONS OF FAME AND GLORY.

BRING HALF-A-DOZEN THAT CAN RIDE, AND SHOOT, AND

THE TWO DOVES.

O DOVE, that in the young Earth's day of doom,
When the Heaven's floodgates stood no longer wide,
Loosed from the Ark, a white gleam on the gloom,
With weary wing sought land above the tide-
Though long and lone thy flight, a happier quest

Was thine, O Dove, than that whereon they speed,
Thy progeny, that o'er Earth's blood-stained breast,
From Paris wing their way, in her last need.
Thy quest was gained, the foot's-breadth of dry land,
A patch of green above the waters grey,
Where branch to rest on, twig to pluck, might stand,
Which won, thou couldst wing back thy happy way.
But these-in vain some point of ruth they seek,
Rising above Hate's sea of blood and fire,
Nor find one spray, green still, 'mid flood and wreck,
Of Peace's Olive, that crowned thy desire!

THE heroes of the present War have hitherto none of them been honoured by being constituted the involuntary sponsors to boots. The tailors, however, have taken hold of them for advertising purposes. A weekly publication, called the Tailor and Cutter, which circulates in the trade, has issued prints with two of its Numbers-a print of the KING OF PRUSSIA and the CROWN PRINCE in one, and of COUNT BISMARCK and M. JULES FAVRE in the other, on separate leaves, for the convenience of exhibition in shop-windows. The faces are copied from photographs; the figures and their attitudes are due to the invention of an artist by whom the expression of countenance has also been suitably modified. The CROWN PRINCE, in full evening costume, is represented leaning on his right hand, supported by a table, holding a note in his left, his legs being crossed with the most demonstrative air of elation in displaying a fashionable exterior. KING WILLIAM stands by the side of his son, habited in a splendid dressing-gown, beneath which appear the terminations of faultless trousers, and a pair of corresponding boots; his right hand resta on his hip, and his left holds a brannew shiny hat. BISMARCK and FAVRE are delineated in the characters of two jaunty and rather scampish-looking swells, in morning dress, on the lounge. JULES FAVRE carries a small overcoat on one arm. ANOTHER instance of a mistake caused by the title of a book, Each sports a stick, FAVRE'S being planted on the ground, whilst has just come to our knowledge. ALBANY YORKE saw advertised BISMARCK bears his cane with the "nice conduct" of a riding-switch, Stories for Darlings, and immediately ordered it, feeling that there held, dangling, in the manner of an idling fop, between his fore and could be no more appropriate Christmas present for the young lady middle finger. The mien and bearing of all four are, with happy inge- who is delighted to consider herself his darling. He now finds that nuity, made to appear those of so many thoroughly impudent cads, the book is for "Boys and Girls," so has to look out for another, who have hired themselves to act as dummies for a tailor, and, possess-DORA WILVERTON being twenty. ing some sense of humour, enjoy the consciousness of being got up to resemble the distinguished individuals whom they personate. With the exception of the Works of Art which illustrate this periodical, these are about the most meritorious which have been lately exhibited in any of the shop-windows.

To Publishers.

STEREOSCOPY.

"Melancholy Ocean."-Mr. Disraeli.
"Streak of Silvery Sea."-Mr. Gladstone (fils).

STRAWBERRY LEAVES.

know, however, a woman who thinks nothing about her children's legs being viciously kicked in this way, but who quite bowled when I A SELECTION FROM THE VERY LATEST LETTERS OF THE HONOURABLE applauded Judge Byles for ordering the cat to a garotter's shoulders.

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BLESS your innocence, my good Sir! So you congratulate me on
having addicted myself to tea in an evening, and are pleased to be
facetious at the idea of MR. H. W. distinguishing himself at a tea-
party. My dear child, I forgot how long you have been out of Eng-
land. It is in the afternoon that we, nous autres, take our tea, when
we visit ladies and acquire scandals from them. Coffee is certainly
handed round after dinner, and none but fools take it, the object of
the attention being to display the huge silver tray, which the host may
have inherited from his fathers, or picked up at his uncle's. It is an
affecting sight to behold a great big-bearded heavy officer, at one of
the afternoon symposia, fidgeting over a tea-cup, and desperately
groping therein for an idea to help out his gallant conversation. But
I forgot again; you believe in big officers. I never disturb a man's
superstitions.
We have been electing a School Board-now, don't ask me to
explain to you all about it, because I never could explain anything in
my life. I honour the Hibernian who stated that the way to cast a
cannon was to take a long hole and pour brass round it. We are to
have a sort of School Parliament, to vote primers and birch-no, by
the way, the latter is an aristocratic luxury, a duke's son is birched, a
cheesemonger's has a lecture read to him on self-government and his
duties to the State. London has chosen her men, and women. Two
of the latter have got in, and I do not see why they should not prove
the best members. One of them, a delightful lady, a friend of mine,
and a Doctor of Medicine, headed everybody by a terrific majority. I
sent her this on one of our halfpenny cards, and probably you will
think the verses just worth that sum :-

"In medical language, MISS GARRETT, we 're sure,
Can by skilled Exhibitions' accomplish a cure;
Now, deeper she 'll go, and with Pinnocks and Priscians,
Teach Scholarship how to obtain Exhibitions."

I need not tell you, who know something of British fanaticism, that there has been furious war over the selections, and that the Sects have fought like Sinners. One very worthy old lady protested against the Arabic numerals being taught in the Schools, having heard, as she said, that the Arabians were some kind of Mahometans. But, being a sound Protestant, she allowed that this was better than anything Roman.

Do not ask me about wars, the word sickens me. I am thinking of giving up all my newspapers, until Janus slams his door. Everything that a civilised being can take an interest in is excluded for details of the savagery. I believe a paper that would shut out all war news, except the curtest record of the fall of a city, or of a dynasty, would be gladly welcomed. Good Heaven, my dear Sir, does not the world go round, with all its wonders; and are we to close eyes and ears to everything except the chronicle of gigantic murder? However, I suppose that this must be coming to an end, and I dare say musicians are busy over a new Te Deum. A new one, indeed, is wanted-but you do not care for my moralities-and I dare say are at this present flat on your stomach over a big map, sticking in pins-of blue and red waxwith the eagerness of a witch working at a charm-quæ movere cereas imagines. For shame, my dear Sir. Surge, carnifex!

Please admire Bob Lowe, though Lord Holmesdale says he is the most hateful man in England. A sham letter, purporting to be from some artisans, was got up, complaining that Robert, as Master of the Mint, starved them, by refusing to coin certain silver for a Colonel Tomline, their employer. Lowe answered that it was not his business to buy silver which the Queen did not want, that there were plenty of people ready to buy any amount, and that a yokel whose pig a butcher declined to buy, did not say that the butcher starved him by refusing to buy his pig. I fancy that Silver Pig will squeak in the House one of these nights.

What you tell me about the domestic warfare between Mr. and Mrs. X. does not surprise me. Rely upon it that the wives of men who have always been well off are kept in much better order than the wives of men who have had to fight their way up after marriage. In the battle the two have been on so equal a footing that if one takes the command afterwards, it won't be the man. To say nothing of his memories of troubles which they have shared, and which render him indulgent, unless he is a brute. But he who can make a settlement, can make a row, and therefore it is seldom necessary for him to do so. I have not any news for you-I mean the sort of news you like to tell in the salons. You should invent it, as you want it, the foreigners know nothing about us. Yes, you love Kings, and I suppose, Queens. Well, Queen Emma, of the Isles of Sandwiches, is not gone ad majores, only some kind of dowager. I believe Her Majesty to be a very worthy person, and I am glad she is well. I hope that her lady-ofhonour, whom I saw with her at the Royal Academy, is also well, for so colossally beautiful a personage I never saw before or since. If the Academicians had had a grain of my taste, they would have presented a petition begging the lady to sit for Judith, Jael, or Proserpine. But perhaps they had never heard of either, and she certainly would not have come well into a scene from the Vicar of Wakefield. That's all, but if your Countesses want news, tell them that the Archbishop of Canterbury is daily drawing nearer towards Rome. It is quite true, look at his itinerary.

Madame de Girardin says that fidelity is a luxury, for it is time lost.
I love luxury, and beg you to believe me ever,
Your faithful Servant,

OUR EDUCATIONISTS.

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HORACE WALPOLE.

AN we extract from the names of the newly elected members of the London Education Board any gleams of hope and crumbs of comfort for the future? Let us see. The City of London is faithful to an alderman-that alderman must CoTTON to his work. In

a CROMWELL Chelsea has secured a Protector; in a FREEMAN, it may be an advocate of gratuitous teaching, it may be an unpledged, unfettered representative. Well done, gallant Greenwich, and gallanter Marylebone! Your chivalry will be rewarded: EMILY

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You have no children, and I have none, which is a comfort for many reasons. But my non-paternity does not prevent parents from consulting me about the education of their valued offspring, and you know bow grave I can be on compulsion. Lately I have been much asked whether boys ought to be allowed to play at foot-ball. This seems a simple query, but, my dear Sir Horace, do you know to what our exquisite civilisation has attained? There is a game largely played at our schools-to judge by the boys' letters, it is the final cause of education,-and it consists in a savage scramble for a big ball. To play this game properly, a lad furnishes himself with a thick boot, with a horribly acute tip, sharpened, that the kick may be more brutal, and the dear delight of our young athletes is to kick one another's shins until they DAVIES and ELIZABETH GARRETT will not be the least useful memare a mass of blood and bruises. The amiable operation is called bers of the new Council. Hackney is leaning on a REED-a bold hacking. Cornish wrestling clowns used to be denounced as worse experiment, but likely enough to succeed: this division, fortified by than brutes for this practice some years ago, but now it is the charming SHERIDAN's well-known interrogation, "What's in a name?" and disamusement of our highly-bred young gentlemen. Its chief seat is at regarding the natural fears of youth, ventures on a CROSSMAN, who Rugby. One would pity the poor, proverbially hungry Rugby boys-will probably turn out one of the most amiable men at the Board, and perhaps, like Palamedes, they forget their hunger in a game, but has also taken care to select fa Pickt'un. In Lambeth STIFF was at they despise one's pity, and declare that their sport is the noblest, the head of the poll by a great majority, so all jokes about the contest manliest, refinedest, gloriousest thing in the world, and the servum pecus echoes them. I am not a milksop, but the sight of a stalwart young fellow kicking the shins of a child till the tears came to its eyes, would not much delight me. I thought the process was considered almost harsh when it was employed as the only means of successfully cross-examining a Nigger witness in the West Indies. I good workman he will make.

being a stiff one are null and void: of the other successful candidates in this borough FEW had of course the fewest votes, but still ten thousand take a long time to count. The names of the members for the remaining Metropolitan constituencies do not appear suggestive, but Westminster supplies the indispensable SMITH, and a very

CIGARETTE PAPERS.

NO. V.-MY AUNT'S GREAT POLICE CASE. HOWEVER, the next case (though my Aunt is thoroughly prepared to jump up at a minute's notice, and, indeed, can hardly be said to be sitting down) is that of a stout man, without collars, against a thin man in high collars.

Now, Sir," says MR. SHARPLY, so suddenly that the stout man looks as if he is going to have a fit, and must have his neck-tie loosened, "what is it ?"

The stout man (much to the thin man's delight) seems to have some difficulty in stating his case. Whereupon the Clerk, underneath the desk, and therefore out of the Magistrate's eye, attempts to help him. "You charge," says the Clerk, "MR. SNIGGS with refusing to allow

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For one instant the Magistrate is puzzled as to the quarter from which the voice proceeds, but it suddenly occurring to him that it is the Clerk's, he reaches over the desk to look at him (if he had a stick it would be exactly like Punch with the Clown, when the latter appears at an unexpected part of the Show), and says, with cutting irony, "I don't know what may be your custom here, but I always conduct the cases in my own Court myself."

"But, Sir," says the Clerk, "I-___”

"I don't care, Sir. I must beg you won't interfere. Now then, This last to the complainant.

Sir."

But whatever matter the stout man might have had originally against the thin man, the altercation has quite put it out of his head. He looks helplessly at the Clerk, then at the Solicitors (who despise him for not having employed one of them), then at the Policeman, and finally at the thin man, who laughs contemptuously.

"Put that man out of Court!" says MR. SHARPLY, nodding his head angrily at the thin man in a way which quite takes the laugh out of him, "I won't have it," meaning the thin man's laughing. 'If you can't behave yourself, Sir, you'd better go out."

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The Wavering Policeman eyes the thin man imploringly, as much as to say, "Do mind what he says. Don't compel me to take you up." Now, Sir," says the Magistrate, for the third time, to the stout complainant, "Are you going to keep us here all day? What do you charge him with ?"

I believe it to be quite a chance that the stout man, being utterly confused and muddled, didn't answer "Burglary" on the spur of the moment. His lips move, but he is silent.

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Stand down, Sir," says MR. SHARPLY, utterly disgusted with the man's imbecility. "Now, next case."

The stout man is led from the box in a wandering state, and is joined by the thin man and the Wavering Policeman, who shows them out; and on the other side of the door, I suppose, they will forgive one another, and weep in each other's arms.

The next case is my Aunt's.

THOMAS MUDDOCK, the Cabman, is called. He steps into the witness-box, looking very respectable, and totally unlike the drunken man who couldn't drive my Aunt on the memorable night of her visit to my house. THOMAS MUDDOCK takes his oath, and tells his story. He drove the lady from Jummin Street to Squedgely, ten miles out of town, where he waited for her five hours, and he claims thirty-two shillings. Which is all clear enough.

So far the Cabman has it entirely his own way. My Aunt has come out of the pew, and is clutching me by the elbow. "Where shall I go?" she asks, shaking all over.

I am hot and excited. I beg of her to keep cool. She is called. The clerk says, "HENRIETTA!" and then adds the surname. The Magistrate only catches half, and asks, abruptly,

"( Where is he? Where is HENRY? Why doesn't he" My Aunt is beckoned by the Clerk. She has heard of people "being accommodated with a seat on the bench," and she thinks she is to go and sit by the Magistrate, out of consideration for her sex, and tell her plain unvarnished tale confidentially. She is shaking her head, and explaining in dumb show to the Clerk that she doesn't see how to get there without climbing over the Solicitors' bench, and crossing the table, when

"Now, then," says the Magistrate, impatiently, "where is HENRY" he can't catch the other name "I can't wait. We must call the next case."

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And the "next case" would have been called there and then but for my Aunt trying to get into the dock, from which she is taken by a policeman, who informs her that she can stand behind the Solicitors. She has a sort of reticule on her left arm, she has given me her parasol to hold, and she places her right hand on the back of the seat.

Seeing this figure before him, the Magistrate arrives at the conclusion that HENRY is a surname, and addresses her with

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Now, MISS HENRY, what have you got to say to this?"

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Well," answers MR. THOMAS MUDDOCK, recovering himself a little, "the lady said fifteen shillings."

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For the job?" says MR. SHARPLY, suggestively.

result of his answer would be. "For the job," replies the Cabman, not clearly seeing what the

distinctly that he might have to wait."

"But," says my Aunt, now beginning to be quite at home, "I said

"Not five hours," says MR. THOMAS MUDDOCK.

MR. SHARPLY looks from one to the other.

"Yes," says my Aunt, "I said it might be one hour or five."

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"Did you agree as to time?" asks MR. SHARPLY of the Cabman. No," says the Cabman, “I didn't-that is-in a way-Yes." "I don't believe a word you're saying," says MR. SHARPLY; "I didn't pay him, your Worship," (she is very near saying "My whereat my Aunt, plucking up, and addressing the Magistrate, says, Lord"), "because when I wanted him at night he was so intoxicated that he couldn't drive me.'

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to me.

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hands me a Testament, and I take my oath to what I am going to say; The Cabman comes out of the box, and I go in. A stout Policeman nervousness wears off in a witness-box, and what a strong temptation I notice that, if not badgered, it is surprising how very soon one's "wishes to ask this witness a question." there is to become confidential with the Magistrate or anyone who

"Now, Sir, tell us what happened.'

I detail the facts of the Cabman's being unable to find the road, and attempt some pathos about my fear for my Aunt's safety. Having now like to romance a little, and introduce a joke or two, just by way finished my facts, and got quite pleasant with MR. SHARPLY, I should of lightening the entertainment. SHARPLY will ask me to step into his private room, or send me, by a I have a sort of latent idea that MR. second bottle of port, or the first cigar, he would say, "And now, old policeman, an invitation to dinner that night. I fancy that with the fellow, what was the truth about that Cabman, eh? I suppose he really was drunk, eh?" But this is an ideal SHARPLY at home, and

not SHARPLY the real on the bench.

This occurs to me in the few seconds that MR. SHARPLY takes to consider the case, and he interrupts my reflections with

"What do you consider the right fare to your house?"

I answer boldly, "Eight shillings," this being rather a fancy price of my own than what I am obliged to give when I take a cab from town to my Cottage near a Wood, at Squedgely.

"Twelve shillings there and back, you would consider quite sufficient ?" asks MR. SHARPLY, giving the finishing touches to the case. MR. SHARPLY decides in a rapid, off-hand manner. "You'll" (to

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my Aunt) pay him twelve shillings. Cabman pay his own costs. Now, then, call the next case.

I think the next case must be that of our friend the Rum Lady, as I see the dreaded PURKISS rising to address the Magistrate as we are leaving the Court.

I look back once, tenderly, at MR. SHARPLY, with a sort of lingering idea that he will yet send me the invitation to dinner, or, at all events, wave his hand to me genially from the bench. Nothing of the sort. I and my Aunt's case have gone clean out of his head, and he is telling MR. PURKISS "that he really can't listen to this; that he hasn't got time for these details;" and becoming once more so irritable that even the dreaded PURKISS will be quenched, and the Rum Lady remain unheard.

[On mature reflection, it occurs to me that MR. SHARPLY is the right man in the right place, and his brisk method of sifting the Wheat from the intolerable amount of Chaff, is, on the whole, bene

Up to this moment she has had a great deal to say, but it appears to ficial to the public.]

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