A LITERARY MILLIONAIRE.
Nobody expects to hear of a Literary Millionaire in England, unless it be the author of a Million of Facts, or a Million Nuts to Crack for Christmas. In France, however, authors are more fortunate, for Scribe, the celebrated dramatist, has just purchased an estate, for which he has given upwards of ten thousand pounds sterling. Fancy an English dramatist purchasing, or even succeeding to any estate whatever, except, perhaps, man's estate, though even this he scarcely ever seems to reach, for he seldom appears to arrive at years of discretion.
We wonder that poor Scribe can feel secure in the enjoyment of his purchase, without being under the apprehension that some English translator or adapter will attempt to translate the property and adapt it to his own use in some way or other. The French author has been accustomed to have all his plots mercilessly seized, and why should not his ground plots be subjected to the same piratical process? Scribe is the author of his own fortune, and we shall not be astonished to find some of our British dramatists—from mere habit—attempting to appropriate the proceeds of his authorship, by claiming a portion of the fortune he has realised. If some of our playwrights should ever purchase estates, we may be sure they would be "copy"-hold, inasmuch as nothing original—not even an original lease—could be expected at their hands.
A HOWL FROM THE HIPPOPOTAMUS.
Air—"I'm a Broken-hearted Gardener."
I'm a hippish Hippopotamus, and don't know what to do,
For the public is inconstant and a fickle one too;
It smiled once upon me, and now I'm quite forgot.