Wink at the scourge, and dally with the shackle,
Such, though they vaunt their zeal and orthodoxy,
Seem—for philanthropists—a trifle foxy!
Réclame (Gratis).—Where is the Lessee of the Haymarket? He ought to have been in India. He was wanted there. The Daily News, last week, told us in its Morning News Columns that "at a place called Beerbhoom"—clearly the Indian spelling of Beerbohm—"there was a desirable piece of land lying waste"—the very spot for a theatre—"because it was reputed to be haunted by a malignant goddess,"—that wouldn't matter as long as the "gods" were well provided for. Then it continues, "They" (who?) "did all they could to propitiate her, setting apart a tree—." Yes; but it wasn't the right tree: of course it ought to have been a BEERBHOOM TREE. His first drama might have shown how a Buddhist priest couldn't keep a secret. Thrilling!
Woman's Happiest Hour.
(By a Sour old Cynic.)
A Yankee Journal raises wordy strife
About "the happiest hour of Woman's life."