very well; but the name must come out. Then I don't like this description of the Ninth Goblin at all. Where is it? Oh, here! (Reads.) "Even the cerements of the tomb enveloping the form of the Ninth Goblin could not hide—nay, seemed rather to bring prominently forward—the malignant expression of the one-eyed face, with its crop of red whiskers, beetle brows, and low receding forehead."

Lit. Asp. What's wrong with that?

Pub. Wrong! Everything's wrong! There are lots of people about with red whiskers and low receding foreheads, and they'll all bring actions of libel.

Lit. Asp. But my Goblin has only one eye.

Pub. Well, so may they. They're equal to taking one eye out and putting it back when the trial's over, if they thought it'd help them to get money out of us. There may be a fellow called Mr. GOBLIN somewhere, too. Oh, no; it won't do at all. All the chapters with the Ninth Goblin in must come out.

Lit. Asp. (aghast). But that would spoil the book—it would mean leaving out half of it.

Pub. Yes, it would reduce the bulk, no doubt. In any case we could not produce it in a three-volume form. But we are bringing out a series of cheap fictions, and we might include yours.

Lit. Asp. (making the best of things). Well, some good books have appeared in a shilling form.

Pub. Yes. But it's not a shilling form we should propose. The fact is, that there is a great run on Penny Novelettes just now, and—

Lit. Asp. (rising). And you dare to propose bringing out the Sixteen Goblins as a Penny Novelette!

Pub. Certainly, and in view of the risk of actions for libel, you would have to pay the printing-bill, and give us a contract of indemnity in case your Captain Wildfire did turn out to be identical with some retired pirate who feels himself hurt at your description. You don't think much of the proposal? Well, nor do we of the book, to tell you the truth. Ta, ta!

[Disappears into inner room. Literary Aspirant slowly folds up his novel, and exit.

MOTTO FOR THE DIVORCE COURT.—Marry, and come up!

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

No. XIX.

SCENE—The Tombs of the SCALIGERS at Verona. A seedy and voluble Cicerone, who has insisted upon volunteering his services, is accompanying Miss TROTTER, BOB PRENDERGAST, and CULCHARD. It is a warm afternoon, and CULCHARD, who has been intrusted with Miss T.'s recent purchases—two Italian blankets, and a huge pot of hammered copper—is not in the most amiable of moods.

The Cicerone (in polyglot). Ecco, Signore (pointing out the interlaced ladders in the wrought-iron railings), l'échelle, la scala, c'est tout flexible—(He shakes the trellis)—molto, molto curioso!

Culch. (bitterly, to the other two). I warned you how it would be! We shall have this sort of thing all the afternoon now!

Miss T. Well, I don't mind; he's real polite and obliging—and that's something, anyway!

"Bellissimo scultore!"

Culch. Polite and obliging! Now I ask you—has he given us the slightest atom of valuable information yet?

Miss T. I guess he's too full of tact to wish to interfere with your special department!

The Cic. (to CULCHARD, who looks another way). Ici le tombeau di GIOVANNI DELLA SCALA, Signore. Verri grazioso molto magnifique, joli conservé! (He skins up on the pedestal, and touches a sarcophagus.) Non bronzo—verde-antique!

[Nods at CULCHARD, with a beaming smile.

Culch. (with a growl). Va bene, va bene—we know all about it!

Bob P. You may; but you might give Miss TROTTER and me a chance, you know!

The Cic. Zees, Marmor di Carrara; zat, Marmor di Verona—Verona marbre. MARTINO PRIMO a fait bàtir. (Counting on his fingers for CULCHARD's benefit.) Quattuor dichièmé secolo—fotteen!

Culch. Will you kindly understand that I am quite capable of estimating the precise period of this sculpture for myself.

The Cic. Si-si, Signore. Scultore BONINO DA CAMPIGLIONE. (With a wriggle of deferential enthusiasm.) Bellissimo scultore!

Miss T. He's got an idea you find him vurry instructive, Mr. CULCHARD, and I guess, if you want to disabuse him, you'd better do it in Italian.

Culch. I think my Italian is equal to conveying an impression that I can willingly dispense with his society. (To the Cic.) Andate via—do you understand? An-da-te via!

The Cic. (hurt, and surprised). Ah, Signore!

[He breaks into a fervent vindication of his value as guide, philosopher, and friend.

Miss T. I guess he's endeavouring to intimate that his wounded self-respect isn't going to be healed under haff a dollar. And every red cent I had went on that old pot! Mr. CULCHARD, will you give him a couple of francs for me?

Culch. I—er—really see no necessity. He's done nothing whatever to deserve it!

Bob P. (eagerly). May I. Miss TROTTER? (Producing a ten-lire note.) This is the smallest change I've got.

Miss T. No. I guess ten francs would start him with more self-respect than he's got any use for. Mr. CULCHARD will give him three—that's one apiece—to punish him for being so real mean!

Culch. (indignantly). Mean? because I—! (He pays and dismisses the Cic.) Now we can examine these monuments in peace—they are really—er—unique examples of the sepulchral pomp of Italian mediævalism.

Miss T. They're handsome tombs enough—but considerable cramped. I should have thought these old Scallywags would have looked around for a roomier burying lot. (To CULCHARD, who shivers.) You aren't feeling sick any?

Culch. No—only pained by such a travesty of a noble name. "Scallywags" for SCALIGERS seems to me, if I may say so, a very cheap form of humour!

Miss T. Well, it's more than cheap—it isn't going to cost you a cent, so I should think you'd appreciate it!

Bob P. Haw—score for you, Miss TROTTER!

Culch. I should have thought myself that mere personality is hardly enough to give point to any repartee—there is a slight difference between brilliancy and—er—brutality!

Bob P. Hullo! You and I are being sat upon pretty heavily, Miss TROTTER.

Miss T. I guess our Schoolmaster's abroad. But why Mr. CULCHARD should want to make himself a train out of my coverlets, I don't just see—he looks majestic enough without that.

[CULCHARD catches up a blanket which is trailing, and says bad words under his breath.

At the Tomb of Juliet.

Culch. (who is gradually recovering his equanimity). Think of it! the actual spot on which Romeo and Juliet—SHAKSPEARE's Juliet—drew their last breath! Does it not realise the tragedy for you?

Miss T. Well, no—it's a disappointing tomb. I reckoned it would look less like a horse-trough. I should have expected Juliet's Poppa and Momma would want, considering all the facts