is greater than ever. It is the penitential season of Lent; some excellent persons renounce all worldly amusements; others, not quite so excellent, and both lots thinking, it may be, no small beer of themselves, we may term the first lot Treble Excellent and the second Double Excellent—the latter division think that concerts possibly, sacred concerts certainly, and certain other forms of mild and non-theatrical entertainments, are of a sufficiently severe character to constitute, as it were, a form of discipline. Then there are the larger proportion of those "who," as Mrs. Malaprop would say, "'care for none of these things,' like GALILEO, my dear," and who inquire. "What is the state of the odds as long as we think we're happy?" and who would indulge in balls and theatres, and in every other form of amusement, while such pursuits afforded them, or seemed, to afford them, any pleasure. To the first section, i.e., the "unco guid," DRURIOLANUS has nothing to offer, not even a course of sermons by popular preachers; but to the two others he has much to say. For these, last Saturday, he commenced the first of his series of Lenten Oratorios at Covent Garden—it was the 14th of February, and this was his Valentine—and on the 17th, i.e., the Tuesday afterwards, having made, so to speak, a clean sweep of everything serious, out he comes with his Fancy Dress and Masked Ball. Elijah the Prophet, on Saturday, in the Covent Garden Calendar, must be reckoned among the "minor profits," seeing that the biggest profit would be found in the Bal Masqué on Tuesday. Over the doors should be the motto, "Festina Lente," whereof the Druriolanian translation must be, "Keep it up in Lent." Ave Janus Druriolanus!

OLD TIMES REVIVED.

What! when London Assurance is going off so well every night, isn't it a pity that it should go off altogether? CHARLES WYNDHAM as Dazzle is delightfully flashy, and FARREN as the old beau, Sir Harcourt, admirable. Miss MOORE charming, Mrs. BEERE bright and sparkling; BOURCHIER quite up to "the Oxonian" mark of Tom and Jerry; BLAKELEY delicious, and GIDDENS as good a Dolly Spanker as you'd wish to see. It's too good to be "taken off." Not that the piece itself is a perfect gem, but the acting! Tout est là. Oddsfish, your Majesty, CHARLES REX, Merry Monarch of the Cri, don't remove it altogether, but let us have it just once or twice a week during the season. CHARLES, "our friend," do! It's worth while, if but to see you sitting carelessly at the end of the piece in that chair, R.H., as if you didn't care for anything or anybody. Only—cut the tag and come to the Curtain.

THE ETHICS OF MATCH-BOXES.

BY COUNT DOLLSTOI.

(Intended for a Contemporary, but found to be too short.)

I.

What is the true explanation of the use which people make of matches—of safety matches, wooden matches, wax matches, and, less commonly, of fusees? Ask any man why he uses such things, and he will tell you that he does it to get a light, or because others do it.

Is this true? You will probably think so. Let us examine the question. Why does a man hold his hand in front of a match when he lights it in the street? To screen it from the wind, or to hide it from the sight of passers-by? Why do ladies leave the dinner-table before the men begin to smoke? To avoid the smell of tobacco—which is well known to be aromatic, healthy, and delightful—or because the natural modesty of women shrinks from witnessing the striking of a match? Why, in a railway-carriage, do you hold your fusee out of window when you light it? Is it because you do not care about being half-choked—a paltry plea—or is it to conceal from young persons who may be in the carriage the sparkle which must inevitably remind them of wicked and alluring eyes?

"To get a light, or because others do it." Is that true? Do not trifle with the question. Read all my works. Do not get them from a contemptible circulating library, but buy them.

II.

Some may not yet be convinced that the striking of matches is suggestive and immoral. To me nearly everything is suggestive, but there are some stupid persons in England. I will be patient with them, and give them more evidence.

A wax match is called a vesta. Who was Vesta? But this is too horrible. I cannot pursue this point in a periodical which is read in families. I can only refer you to the classical dictionary, and remind you that everything must infallibly suggest its opposite. Again, there are matches which strike only on the box. It distresses me to write these words. The idea of "onlyness," of restriction, must bring matrimony to the mind of everyone. If you do not know what I think about marriage, buy The Kreutzer Sonata. It is not customary to have more than one wife. Consequently, anything which has one in it—as, for instance, the date of WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR—reminds me of marriage, and is, therefore, degrading. Why, the very word "match" suggests marriage: and yet we allow young children to sell whole boxes of them in the streets. Horrible! Do you think our lower orders would become discontented, and strike, if they had not seen matches doing it first? Still more horrible!

Finally, you strike a match that never struck you, that never offended you in any way. Is that just, or even manly? Yet, in nine cases out of ten, the law takes no notice of the offence.

"To get a light, or because others do it." Are you not convinced now that, when you use these words, you are not speaking the truth?

III.

I do not think I ever met anybody who was quite as moral, or quite as original, as I am. You should give a complete set of my works to each of your children. I might have generalised on the ill-effects of those vices from a special case—my own case. Had I done so, I could have got it printed. I can get anything printed that I write. I preferred to take a newer line, and to show you how vile you are when you use matches. Everything is vile. But you are wondering, perhaps, how a great novelist becomes a small faddist. You must wait till next month, and then read my article on the immorality of parting one's hair with a comb. A common table-fork is the only pure thing with which one can part one's hair. Combs deaden the conscience. But more of this anon.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

What is this the Baron reads in the D.T. of Feb. 9, and in the Daily Graphic of the same date? Here is a portion of the extract from the D.T.:—"The Monthly Meeting of that quaint Literary Society, 'Ye Odd Volumes,' at Limmer's Hotel, brought together not merely a goodly show of the Volumes themselves, but an unusually large array of visitors," and then follows the distinguished list, the crowning point being reached when we come to the name of "The Baron de BOOK-WORMS of Punch," and in the Daily Graphic the daring reporter goes a step farther, as, after giving the name of a certain honoured guest, he parenthetically explains that this academical convive is the "Baron de B.-W.!" Erreur! I, the Baron de B.-W., being of sound mind and body, hereby declare that the Baron himself was not present. And why? Well, do my readers remember the honest milk-maid's retort to the coxcomb who said he wouldn't marry her? Good. Then, substituting "me" for "you," and "he" for "she," the Baron can adopt the maiden's reply. After this, other reasons would be superfluous.

How came the reporter to fall into so great an error?