Shop Attendant (floored). Would you look through the shelves for yourself, if you please? You'll find something to suit you, I know. There's one or two of Dickens's, and Middlemarch—now, that's a rather recent work. Or The Channings. We've had The Channings bound again, and it's a great favourite.
[Flits off quite relieved at the entrance of a girl who desires a penny time-table and a halfpennyworth of writing-paper.
The Plague of Poets.
(By a Rabid Reviewer.)
What's this the log-rollers are gushing about?
"Captain Jack Crawford, the Post Scout!"
Oh, bother the Bards! How the rhyme-grinders go it!
My future rule shall be "scout the poet!"
"Mutes and Liquids."—Some clever detectives, of the Birmingham Police Force—not by any means Brummagem detectives—disguised themselves as "Mourners' Mutes" and such like black guards of hearses, and, after a re-hearsal of their several parts, they went to a tavern for drink—grief, professionally or otherwise, being thirsty work—and managed to discover that this public-house was only a privately conducted betting-house, being, like themselves, in disguise. The result has yet to be ascertained, but so far it has proved a most successful "undertaking."
Good News.—"Cheer, Boys, Cheer!" "There's a Good Time Coming"; for the evergreen veteran, Mr. Henry Russell, is "preparing his reminiscences for publication." Mr. Punch looks forward with pleasure to perusing them, and wishes that Henry's congenial collaborator, Charles Mackay, were yet living to share the treat.