warranting his taking the baths and traitement generally at Royat.

Then comes the question of Doctors. "Who shall decide when Doctors disagree?"—but who shall decide when patients disagree about Doctors? "Whom do you go to?" asks the suffering Smith of the invalid Brown. "Well," says Brown, apologetically,—because he is not sure, this being his first visit, that he might not have gone to a better man, "I go to Dr. Chose," and noticing the astonishment depicted on his friend's face, he hastens to explain, "Squills sent me to him." The suffering Smith professes himself puzzled to know why on earth Squills always sends his patients to Chose. "Dr. Rem's the man for you, my boy," says Smith. But Brown feels that he is in the toils of Squills, and that it would not be fair to him or to Chose, if he suddenly left the latter and sought the advice of Dr. Rem, on the sole recommendation of Smith who, after all, is not a professional.

Then two habitués meet. "I always go to Chose," says eczematic Jones, dogmatically, "first-rate fellow, Chose. All the French go to him. They know." "Ah!" returns gouty Robinson, with conviction, "I never have been to anyone but Rem. He's the chap. All the English go to him. Best man in Royat." And if it weren't the hour for one of them to go and drink Eugénie water, and for the other to take his second glass of St. Mart, they would have a row and come to blows.

Puller tells me that there's one London Doctor, describing himself as a Gynæcologist ("A guinea-cologist," parenthetically remarks Puller), who always sends his patients here. I think he says his name is Dr. Barnes. "He sends so many," says Puller, "that I propose changing the name of the place from Royat-les-Bains into Royat-les-Barnes." I see why he introduced the name of Barnes. Fortunately he is so delighted with this jeu de mot, which I fancy I've heard before, that he is off to tell his friends in the Parc, and, as I pass a group, I overhear him explaining the point of it to a French lady and her husband, with whom he has a speaking acquaintance. For Puller likes what he calls "airing his French," and is not a bit shy.

The Band is performing another new tune! How is this? I can account for it. It rained nearly all yesterday, and so the musicians didn't come out. How did they occupy themselves? In rehearsal. Well here's one good effect of rain at Royat, it brings out the new tunes.

MR. PUNCH'S HISTORICAL PARALLELS. No. 2.

THE LORDLY CECIL ENTERTAINS HIS SOVEREIGN. HATFIELD, 1573 AND 1887.

A Pretty Plate to Set Before the Queen.

"The Queen's Plates are henceforth to be devoted to improving the breed of horses."

AN INVITATION.

"Mr. Frederick Maude, Honorary Secretary of the 'Liberal Union,' has resigned that post in consequence of his disapproval of the attitude taken up by the leaders of the 'Liberal Unionist' party towards the leaders of the Liberal party, and of his inability to support the programme of a Tory Government."

ALL IN PLAY.

Dear Mr. Punch,—Town is supposed to be empty, except of the poor persons who are forced to attend the Houses of Parliament, and the toiling millions of the East End, who are, however, of no account in the West. In spite of this dearth of population, the Gaiety (which I attended on your behalf, looking and feeling as much like you as I possibly could) was very full on the first night of Loyal Love, a play which has apparently been put upon the stage for the personal and exclusive benefit of Mrs. Brown-Potter.

Saved by the Bottle.

Certainly this talented lady has vastly improved since she made her first appearance in Man and Wife, and has only to continue at the same rate of progress to become in a very short time a really admirable actress. Loyal Love is rather a foolish piece, and reminded me equally of the Lady of Lyons, Romeo and Juliet, and Box and Cox. The plot was feeble in the extreme; and had not Mrs. Brown-Potter made a decided point by calling a rude and ancient king, who would wear his hat in the presence of ladies, "Old Man," I really think the performance would have fallen rather flat. As it was, the phrase (which was accepted by the "first-nighters" as a colloquial "Americanism") put everyone in good humour, and the last Act, with its amusing mock poisonings, and comical arrests and counter-arrests, went with every token of genial satisfaction. By the way, the "bottle trick" (by which poison is turned into wine) should be treated more avowedly in a spirit of burlesque. Were a decanter of pantomimic proportions introduced, the effect would be excellent. Loyal Love is not a good name for this funny little—it is only in four Acts—play. It is a pity, as the hero and heroine are always declaring that they would like to live and die together on a desert island, that it was not called Mr. and Mrs. Robinson Crusoe, with an explanatory subtitle of the Purposeless Plotter, the Death-Dealing Wine-Cellar, and the Grand Old King.

Heroic Proportions.

At the Adelphi a new and original drama called The Bells of Haslemere, has been produced amidst the enthusiastic applause of the