HOW TO ESCAPE THE FOG.
Fogs? Nonsense! Fogs are always mist. And the way to miss them is to go to the Institute of Painters in Oil. That will oil the wheels of life in this atrociously hibernal weather, and make existence in a fog enjoyable. There, in the well-warmed, pleasantly-lighted rooms, will you find countless pleasant pictures—delightful sea-subjects, charming landscapes, and amusing scenes, by accomplished painters, which will infuse a little Summer into the dull, depressing, brumous, filthy atmosphere of a weary London Winter. If you cannot get away to Monte Carlo, Mentone, Nice, or Rome, hasten at once and take one of Sir John Linton's excursion coupons, and personally conduct yourself—if you don't conduct yourself as you ought, you'll probably be turned out—round the well-filled galleries in Piccadilly.
Sir Drummond is ordered off to Teheran. "Well, we're successful in keeping one Wolff from our door," as Sir Gorst, Q.C., observed to Grandolph. "Poor Wolffy!" sighed Grandolph. "I shall write a fable on 'The Wolff and the Shah!'"
Sardou and Sara.—Sara B. has made a hit in what is reported to be a poor play called La Tosca, by Sardou. But in consequence of Sara's acting, it is in for a run. Che Sara sara, i.e. (free translation), "Who has seen Sara once will see Sara again."
