who on Sundays congregate in that locality. The other day Mr. Hyde Hills was elected to be an Alderman, and all he said was, "I thank you." This is optimi exempli, especially for Aldermen.

Lately I came across the following touching appeal of an impecunious son to his father:—

At the Bigg Market in Newcastle was recently held what a local paper describes as "a demnostration in favour of temperance reform." "Demnostration" is a delightful word. It seems to express in the most compact form enthusiasm and strong language.

A Question of Police.—A few days since Liverpool set another lesson to London. No doubt with the consent of the Liverpudlians (inclusive of "the dangerous classes"), the local police force had a grand field-day. To quote our excellent contemporary, the Courier, "those who witnessed the police's steady march through the streets in three battalions, and their effectively-performed manœuvres in Sefton Park, would hardly realise what the turn-out meant to most of the men. They were on duty through the night, and had very little rest before they had to parade for inspection (with the march-out and review), and the weather being warm, the display involved fatigue, so that the refreshments provided were very welcome." Yes, and no doubt well deserved. But why should London wait? Why should not we have something of the same kind? We might have a grand Police Review in Hyde Park. All that would be necessary would be to arrange that the metropolitan thieves should keep the ground!

Proverbial Parliamentary Economy, or Short Commons for Upper House.—Don't spare the Black Rod, and then you won't have to spoil the Upper-Housemaid.

"WHAT A KNIGHT WE'RE HAVING!"

David Garrick. "Congratulate you, Sir Henry! In the Name of the Profession! 'May you live long, and prosper!'"

HINTS FOR THE PARK.

Don't put your Horse out of the Walk unless you can really Ride.

NOTES FROM A PATIENT'S DIARY.

["Music is a serious therapeutic agent, which exercises a genuine and considerable influence over bodily functions."—The Lancet.]

Monday.—Feel rather out of sorts, slight touch of influenza, I fancy. Send round for Doctor. He shakes his head gravely, and produces stethoscope. I protest that there's nothing wrong with my lungs, and this is, therefore, unnecessary. But he explains that he treats all his patients by music nowadays; supposed stethoscope turns out to be a cornet, on which he performs selections from Il Trovatore for my benefit. Asks me if I feel better, and in order to get rid of him I pretend that I do. Later on in the day a small musical-box arrives, labelled "to be taken twice a day." Find it only plays one tune out of Rigoletto. Pitch it out of window.

Tuesday.—No better. Consult another doctor, who's just taken his degree (in music) at Oxford, and is supposed to be very clever. He feels my pulse, and looks solemn. Then he asks if I've been giving way to Italian opera lately, and appears coldly sceptical when I explain that I have been taking it by medical advice. Prescribes essence of Wagner, to be taken at short intervals. Begin by attending a Richter concert. Dr. Richter's practice is said to be enormous, and every part of St. James's Hall is thronged by his patients.

Wednesday.—Better. Receive a large number of patent medicine circulars—this kind of thing: "Try our Indigestion Waltzes! Warranted to cure. All headache, giddiness and faintness removed at first time of hearing." Here's another: "Dentists superseded! All sufferers from Toothache should attend Herr Boskowsky's course of Dental Piano Recitals. Worth a guinea a stall." I also learn that the Hirsutine Symphony cures baldness, and that the Pink Bavarian Band may be engaged to play "Slumber-Songs" to sufferers from insomnia.

Thursday.—Am aroused by five barrel-organs performing simultaneously under my next-door neighbour's window. Send a note round suggesting they should be dispersed. Answer "Sorry to cause annoyance, but our youngest child is suffering from chickenpox, and has been ordered street-music every three hours." Go out to buy an air-gun. Later in the day, happening to take up the Lancet at the Club, I find in it a long article on "The treatment of pleurisy by Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in C Minor."

Friday.—Two seedy-looking men suddenly appear in the drawing-room after dinner to-night. Discover that they are "The Brothers Tittlebat" from the Abracadabra Music Hall, and that my wife has engaged them, by her doctor's orders, to sing comic songs every evening for a fortnight, in order to cure the depression of spirits from which she believes herself to be suffering. "The Brothers Tittlebat" seem to be suffering themselves from elevation of spirits—gin, to judge by the smell; kick them out, and decide to emigrate to-morrow.

LA DIVA AT DALY'S.

Gismonda is poor stuff. The selection was a mistake. Lucky man Sardou to have Sara for heroine. Great is Sardou and Sara is his profit! Splendid as ever, but genius wasted on Gismonda. She will be seen at her best in other dramas. Wonderful artiste!

Yes, artiste jusqu'au bout des ongles, but why give us these real good tips, painted red? If it were in English, Sara might make some joke about her fingers being "reddy" for the assassination of the villain. This explanation does not exist in French. Probably it was the fashion in the time of Gismonda.

Will any dramatist give Sara an entirely new part in which she will not be compelled to purr, swear (like a cat, not a trooper), scratch, shriek, tumble on settees, clutch curtains, wrestle with cushions, and so forth?

Why, on first night, revive old custom of handing up baskets of flowers, per orchestra, to the heroine of the play and the Star of the Night? Why keep the audience waiting so long between each Act? We are not in Paris, and when we have too much