protruded, and waved gracefully.) Thank you. Now you can come up again. (She re-appears.) She will now answer any questions any lady or gentleman may like to put to her, always provided you won't ask her how it is done—for I'm sure she wouldn't give me away, would you, She?

She (with a slow bow and gracious smile). Certingly not.

The F.S. (to her Companion). Ask her something—do.

Her Comp. Go on! I ain't got anything to ask her—ask her yourself!

A Bolder Spirit (with interest). Are your feet warm?

She. Quite—thanks.

The Showman. How old are you, She?

She (impressively). Two theousand years.

'Arry. And quite a young thing, too!

A Spectator (who has read the Novel). 'Ave you 'eard from LEO VINCEY lately?

She (coldly). I don't know the gentleman.

Showman. If you have no more questions to ask her, She will now retire into her urn, thanking you all for your kind attendance this morning, which will conclude the entertainment.

[Final disappearance of She. The Audience pass out, feeling—with perfect justice—that they have "had their money's worth."

HOW IT'S DONE.

A Hand-book of Honesty.

No. III.—GRANDMOTHERLY GOVERNMENT.

SCENE I.—St. Stephen's. Sagacious Legislator on his legs advocating a new Anti-Adulteration Act. Few M.P.'s present, most of them drowsing.

Sagacious Legislator. As I was saying, Sir, the adulteration of Butter has been pushed to such abominable lengths that no British Workman knows whether what he is eating is the product of the Cow or of the Thames mud-banks. (A snigger.) Talk of a Free Breakfast Table! I would free the Briton's Breakfast Table from the unwholesome incubus of Adulteration. At any rate, if the customer chooses to purchase butter which is not butter, he shall do it knowingly, with his eyes open. (Feeble "Hear, hear!") Under this Act anything which is not absolutely unsophisticated milk-made Butter must be plainly marked, and openly vended as Adipocerene!

[Amidst considerable applause the Act is passed.

SCENE II.—Small Butterman's shop in a poor neighbourhood. Burly white-apron'd Proprietor behind counter. To him enter a pasty-faced Workman, with a greasy pat of something wrapped in a leaf from a ledger.

Workman. I say, Guv'nor, lookye here. This 'ere stuff as you sold my old woman, is simply beastly. I don't believe it's butter at all.

Butterman (sneeringly). And who said it was? What did your Missus buy it as?

Workman. Why, Adipo—whot's it, I believe. But that's only another name for butter of a cheaper sort, ain't it? Anyhow, it's no reason why it should be nasty.

Butterman (loftily). Now look here, my man, what do you expect? That's Adipocerene, that is, and sold as such. If you'll pay for Butter, you can have it; but if you ask for this here stuff, you must take yer chance.

Workman. But what's it made on?

Butterman. That's no business of mine. If you could anerlyse it—(mind, I don't say yer could)—into stale suet and sewer-scrapings, you couldn't prove as it warn't Adipocerene, same as it's sold for, could yer?

Workman (hotly). But hang it, I don't want stale suet and sewer-scrapings, whatsomever you may call it.

Butterman (decisively). Then buy Butter, and pay for it like a man, and don't come a-bothering me about things as I've nothink to do with. If Guv'ment will have it called Adipocerene, and your Missus will buy it becos it's cheap; don't you blame me if you find it nasty, that's all. Good morning!

[Retires up, "swelling visibly."

Workman. Humph! Betwixt Grandmotherly Government and Manufacturers of Mysteriousness, where am I? That's wot I want to know! [Left wanting to know.

TO ENGELBERG AND BACK.

Being a few Notes taken en route in search of a Perfect Cure.

The Engineers who constructed the gradually ascending road which, slowly mounting the valley, finally takes you over the ridge, as it were, and deposits you at a height of 3800 feet, dusty but grateful, on the plain of Engelberg, must have been practical jokers of the first water. They lead you up in the right direction several thousand feet, then suddenly turn you round, and apparently take you clean back again. And this not once, but a dozen times. They seem to say, "You think you must reach the top this time, my fine fellow? Not a bit of it. Back you go again."

Still we kept turning and turning whither the Practical-joking Engineers led us, but seemed as far off from our journey's end as ever. A roadside inn for a moment deluded us with its light, but we only drew up in front of this while our gloomy charioteer sat down to a good square meal, the third he had had since three o'clock, over which he consumed exactly five-and-twenty minutes, keeping us waiting while he disposed of it at his leisure, in a fit of depressing but greedy sulks.

At length we moved on again, and in about another half-an-hour apparently reached the limit of the Practical-joking Engineers' work, for our surly charioteer suddenly jumped on the box, and cracking his whip furiously, got all the pace that was left in them out of our three sagacious horses, and in a few more minutes we were tearing along a level road past scattered châlets, little wooden toy-shops, and isolated pensions, towards a colossal-looking white palace that stood out a grateful sight in the distance before us, basking in the calm white-blue blaze shed upon it from a couple of lofty electric lights, that told us that up here in the mountains we were not coming to rough it, but to be welcomed by the latest luxuries and refinements of first-rate modern hotel accommodation. And this proved to be the case. Immediately he arrived in the large entrance-hall, the Dilapidated One was greeted by the Landlord of the Hotel et Kurhaus, Titlis, politely assisted to the lift, and finally deposited in the comfortable and electrically-lighted room which had been assigned to him.

"We are extremely full," announced the polite Herr to Dr. MELCHISIDEC; "and we just come from finishing the second dinner,"—which seemed to account for his being "extremely full,"—"but as soon as you will descend from your rooms, there will be supper ready at your disposition."

"You'll just come and look at the Bath-chair before you turn in?" inquired Dr. MELCHISIDEC, of the Dilapidated One, "It's arrived all right from Zurich. Come by post, apparently."

"Oh, that's nothing," continued young JERRYMAN, "why, there's nothing you can't send by post in Switzerland, from a house full of furniture, down to a grand piano or cage of canaries. You've only got to clap a postage-stamp on it, and there you are!" And the arrival of the Bath-chair certainly seemed to indicate that he was telling something very like the truth.

The Trick Chair.

"I don't