We expect it.—I said just as much to Vandyck—
There's but one in a hundred that comes who'll descry
The beauty of Art. It's the sham I dislike.
Well—good-bye!
HOW TO WRITE AN EXTRA NUMBER.
(An Up-to-date fragment for Yuletide.)
The author was hard at work. He heeded not the snow that beat against the window, nor the wintry wind that whistled through the leafless trees. The fire burned brightly in the grate, and the shadows on the walls seemed to inspire him with seasonable tales. He wrote for dear life, as his copy was late, and he knew that the printers were clamouring for more and more from his facile pen. Every now and again he glanced at a volume of drawings (there were many sketches in the book on his desk), and, pausing for a moment, seemed to be lost in thought. Then he would resume his labours with fresh energy. Very rarely he would murmur to himself, and then his words would be few.
"Confusion!" he muttered on one such occasion; "how the Dickens (or should it be Thackeray?) am I to get in the Christmas waits?" He pondered for a moment, and then his eyes glistened with delight. "Eureka! I have it! They must appear in a dream. Yes, that will get over the difficulty, they must appear in a dream!"