class="center c4">Mr. Bernard Shaw to the Editor of "The Morning Post."

You have not written my books. You have not written my plays. Any statement to the contrary is an infamous falsehood. No one else, dead or alive, could ever have written anything which I have written. When I have become an imbecile, which is not likely to happen yet, as I am a vegetarian and do not read your rag, it will be time enough for other people to lay claim to my work. Nor have I ever assisted you in conducting that which you call a paper, nor have I ever written an editorial for its columns. Please let this matter have your futile attention.

Miss Daisy Ashford to Lord Haldane.

If I did not believe your Lordship to be really innosent I should be very vexed with you. But let me explain. I have heard it said in reliable quarters that you are the auther of The Young Visiters. Oh, my Lord! my Lord! I thought everybody knew by now that no one helped me even to spell a word. I have read your Lordship's books with pleasure and of course realise their promise. But it is all very diferent stuff from The Young Visiters. Please in the future disclaim all credit for giving me my idears, and in return I can assure you that your skemes for the better education of the people shall have my enthoosiastic suport.

Mr. Arnold Bennett to The Man in the Street.

The last thing that I wish is that you should he misunderstood; all my life I have laboured to explain you to yourself. That my explanation has pleased you is shown by the fact that you buy my books. But you have commenced to give yourself airs, my man, and it is time you were put in your place. My books are so much to your taste that you have been led to believe yourself the author. Now please understand my books are written for you and not by you. You merely exist—thanks to me—and pay. I have been told that I once wrote a book called The Old Wives' Tale. If so, that was in earlier days, and you have long since forgiven me. And do you not owe me something for The Pretty Lady? Have I not shown you that your love is both sacred and profane? As I have enough to contend with from those who care for literature I hope any further word from me on this subject will be unnecessary.

Mrs. Florence Barclay to Lord Fisher.

The phenomenal success of our recent volumes has, I understand, led a certain section of our public to believe that you are the author of several of my books. In particular it has been stated that The Rosary was written by your Lordship. As you know, I have a great respect for the aristocracy, and I do not suggest that you have deliberately put yourself forward as the author of my books. You will, however, understand me when I say that only your Lordship could express all that I feel about the matter. The mixing up of our identities is probably explained by the fact that we are both stylists and seekers for the mot juste. Will you please assist me in making it clear that we work independently? As I am staying in a country parsonage and it is our custom to read one another's letters over the breakfast-table, I shall be glad if any reply you may wish to make should be sent to the Editor of The Times.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to Sir Oliver Lodge.

Our common concern with the life beyond has become so well known that our interests in this present life are in danger of becoming involved. In a volume of Sherlock Holmes stories recently purchased abroad I find you described as the author, and another book assures me that I have written extensively on the Atomic Theory. You will, I am sure, see the harm which I am likely to suffer through such mistakes. Nor does the confusion end here. I find that my novel, The Hound of the Baskervilles, is now stated to be by Sir Conan Lodge, and another book of mine, The Lost World, to be by Sir Oliver Doyle. Also I have seen myself described as "The Principal of Birmingham University," and yourself as the well-known detective of Baker Street. May I solicit your aid in helping me to suppress any further confusion of our respective genii? My best wishes to you and the good work.

LABOUR-SAVING.

["Electric bore, one man, portable."—Trade Journal.]

Our Go-ahead Municipalities.

"Visitors to —— this summer need not fear want of recreation, for the Urban Council on Wednesday granted an application by Mr. —— for leave to place an additional donkey on the beach."—Provincial Paper.

"Mr. Taylor, who had relieved Mr. Higgins, here had the misfortune to see Seymour badly hit over the right eye on attempting to hook one of his rising deliveries."—Daily Paper.

Seymour, we understand, sympathised warmly with Mr. Taylor over this piece of bad luck.

MANNERS AND MODES.

DARBY AND JOAN (FOR THE PREVAILING EPIDEMIC SPARES NEITHER AGE NOR VIRTUE) FAIL TO FIND THE WINNER OF THE 2.30.

AT WIMBLEDON.

Umpire. "Forty, thirty, Slasher."

Diana (fresh from Ascot). "Put me thirty shillings on."

A DOG'S LIFE.

The life of a public man is a dog's life. I don't know why a dog's life should be