the practical basis of "a fiver each, and mum's the word on both sides," thus evading the law, saving the Builder a few pounds, and supplementing the salary of the Surveyor. Ulterior results, unsanitary or otherwise, do not come within the compass of this sketch.

STRANGER THAN FICTION!

(Postmarks—Leeds, Hull, and Elsewhere.)

Mr. Punch was assisting at a Congress. The large room in which that Congress was being held was crowded, and consequently the heat was oppressive. The speeches, too, were not particularly interesting, and the Sage became drowsy. It was fortunate, therefore, that a fair maiden in a classical garb (who suddenly appeared seated beside him) should have addressed him. The interruption reassembled in their proper home his wandering senses.

"I fear, Mr. Punch," said the fair maiden, looking at herself in a small mirror which she was holding in her right hand, "that you are inclined to go to sleep."

"Well, I am," replied the Sage, with unaccountable bluntness; "truth to tell, these orations about nothing in particular, spouted by persons with an imperfect knowledge of, I should say, almost any subject, bore me."

"The information is unnecessary," observed the young lady; with a smile. "I share your feelings. But if you will be so kind as to pay a little attention to the speakers while they are under my influence, I think you will discover a new interest in their utterances."

"Are you an hypnotist, Madam?" asked Mr. Punch.

"Well, not exactly. But, when I have the chance, I can make people speak the Truth."

Then Mr. Punch listened, and was surprised at the strange things that next happened.

"I wish to be perfectly frank with you," said a gentleman on the platform; "I am here because I wish to see my name in the papers, and all the observations I have made up to date have been addressed to the reporters. I am glad I can control my thoughts, because I would not for worlds let you know the truth. It is my ambition to figure as a philanthropist, and on my word, I think this is the cheapest and most effective mode of carrying out my intention."

Then the gentleman resumed his seat with a smile that suggested that he was under the impression that he had just delivered himself of sentiments bound to extort universal admiration.

"That is not exactly my case," observed a second speaker, "because I do not care two pins for anything save the entertainments which are invariably associated with scientific research, or philanthropical inquiry. I pay my guinea, after considerable delay, and then expect to take out five times that amount in grudgingly bestowed, but competitionally provoked (if I may be pardoned the expression) hospitality. I attend a portion—a small portion—of a lecture, and then hurry off to the nearest free luncheon, or gratuitous dinner, in the neighbourhood. I should be a tax upon my friends if I dropped in at half-past one, or at a quarter to eight, punctually, and my motives would be too wisely interpreted to a desire on my part to reduce the sum total of my butcher's book. So I merely drop in upon a place where a Congress is being held, and make the most of my membership."

"These startling statements are decidedly unconventional," said Mr. Punch, turning towards his fair companion, "and that your influence should cause them to be made, astounds me. I trust you will not consider me indiscreet if I ask for—"

"My name and address," returned the fair maiden, smilingly, completing the sentence; "Learn, then, that I live at the bottom of a well, to which rather damp resting-place I am about to return; and that in England I am called Truth."

And as the lady disappeared, Mr. Punch fell from his chair, and awoke!

"Dear me, I have been dreaming!" exclaimed the Sage, as he left the meeting. "Well, as everyone knows, dreams are not in the least like reality! But the strangest thing of all was to find Truth in a Congress!"

And it was strange, indeed.

AT THE THEATRE!

The Lyceum again. The Haymarket once more.

"Great Scott!" we exclaim,—not Critical CLEMENT of that ilk, but Sir WALTER,—on again seeing Ravenswood. Since then an alteration in the modus shootendi has been made, and Edgar no longer takes a pot-shot at the bull from the window, but, ascertaining from Sir William Ashton Bishop that Ellen Lucy Terry is being Terryfied by an Irish bull which has got mixed up with the Scotch "herd without," Henry Edgar Irving rushes off, gun in hand; then the report of the gun is, like the Scotch oxen, also "heard without," and Henry reappears on the scene, having saved Ellen Lucy Ashton by reducing the fierce bull to potted beef.

"What shall he have who kills the bull?" "The Dear! the Dear!" meaning, of course, Ellen Lucy Ashton aforesaid. After this all goes well. Acting excellent all round—or nearly all round, the one exception being, however, the very much "all-round" representative of Lady Ashton, whose misfortune it is to have been selected for this particular part. Scenery lovely, and again and again must HAWES MCCHAVEN be congratulated on the beautiful scene of The Mermaiden's Well (never better, in fact), Act III. The love-making bit in this Act is charming, and the classic Sibyl, Ailsie, superb. Nothing in stage effect within our memory has equalled the pathos of the final tableau. It is most touching through its extreme simplicity.

The Haymarket has re-opened with the odd mixture of the excellent French Abbé Constantin and the weak, muddle-headed, Tree-and-Grundy-ised "village Priest," known as the Abbé Dubois, or "Abbé Do Bore," as 'ARRY might call him. Changes are in contemplation, and may have been already announced. Whatever they may be, it is some consolation to learn that this Tree-and-Grundy-ised French Abbé is not likely to be a "perpetual Curate."

MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.

No. II.—BURRA MURRA BOKO.

(By KIPPIERD HERRING, Author of "Soldiers' Tea," "Over the Darodees," "Handsome Heads on the Valets," "More Black than White," "Experimental Dittos," &c., &c.)

[NOTE.—The MS. of this story arrived from India by pneumatic despatch, a few puffs having been apparently sufficient. In a letter which was enclosed with it the author modestly apologises for its innumerable merits. "But," he adds, "I have several hundred of the same sort in stock, and can supply them at a moment's notice. Kindly send £1000 in Bank of England notes, by registered letter, to K. HERRING. No farther address will be required."]

Polla dan anta cat anta. What will you have, Sahib? My heart is made fat, and my eyes run with the water of joy. Kni vestog rind. Scis sorstog rind, the Sahib is as a brother to the needy, and the afflicted at the sound of his voice become as a warming-pan in a fôr postah. Ahoo! Ahoo! I have lied unto the Sahib. Mi ais an dlims, I am a servant of sin. Burra Murra Boko! Burra Murra Boko!

There came a sound in the night as of an elephant-herd trumpeting in anger, and my liver was dissolved, and the heart within me became as a Patoph But'ah under the noon-day sun. I made haste, for there was fear in the air, Sahib, and the Pleez Mahn that walketh by night was upon me. But, oh, Sahib, the cunning of the serpent was with me, and as he passed