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ENTHUSIASM À LA RUSSE!

SCENE—A Bureau de Police at St. Petersburg. Present, Russian Bigwig and Subordinate.

Russian Bigwig (reading letter). "And they are to be received with the greatest possible enthusiasm!" I can scarcely believe my eyes! The Fleet of the French Republic!

Subordinate (using a Muscovite imprecation). Caviare droski!

Rus. Big. (severely). Slave! (Sub. cringes.) Another word, and I will have you knouted to death! It is the wish of our Little Father, the Czar of the Universe.

[They both fall on their knees, remove their hats, and sing the National Hymn.

Sub. (bowing to the ground). And what are the Imperial wishes?

Rus. Big. That not only shall the "Marseillaise" be tolerated when played by the French, but also be performed by our own bands. (With a burst of rage.) Oh, Caviare droski!

Sub. (on his knees). I would also add an oath, O Supreme Protector-of-the-Spirit-of-my-dead-Grandmother, had you not forbidden that extreme expression of opinion.

Rus. Big. You recall me to myself. O Son-of-PETER-son-of-PETER-son-of-PETER-son-of-TOMMY. I was wrong. But it makes my blood boil to think that our Master and his ancestors who scorned LOUIS PHILIPPE and NAPOLEON III. should recognise a Republic!

Sub. (aside). Say you so—this to the CZAR—thou Nihilist! (Aloud.) My Lord-the-comforter-of-the-spirit-of-my-first-cousin-once-removed-on-my-mother's-side, is indeed right! It is a painful sight!

Rus. Big. (aside). Say you so—this to the CZAR—thou Nihilist! (Aloud.) But perhaps we might improve matters. Supposing that the "Marseillaise" were imperfectly performed?

Sub. (with note-book). Excellent, my Lord! excellent! It shall be played out of tune on a score of regimental bands! Good, my Lord! good!

Rus. Big. And could not a translation be furnished suggesting ideas foreign to the original?

Sub. Again capital, my Lord. I will see that the troops have a version that gives the old legend (stolen from us by the English) of "The Song of Sixpence, or a pocketful of Rye-bread," as the real translation.

Rus. Big. A happy thought! The moral is wholesome. The Monarchical principle is advocated in the approved counting out of money and consumption of bread and honey by their Majesties, and the right of life and death is suggested by the pecking off of the nose of the housemaid while employed in hanging out the clothes! And about the troops—have they been warned that they might some day be expected to give a hated alien an enthusiastic reception?

Sub. They have, my Lord. And in anticipation of such an occasion, they have been taught for the last six months how to cheer in a whisper.

Rus. Big. Good! And now to a pleasanter duty. Have you those hundred thousand copies of Punch that were yesterday seized at the frontier?

Sub. I have, my Lord!

Rus. Big. (with fiendish glee). To Siberia with them! Come, help me to post them!

Sub. (trembling). But, my Lord, should Punch be read by the political prisoners who lie covered with chains in the secret mines under the lowest mountain in the Czar's dominions? What then?

Rus. Big. (in an awesome whisper). Mark me well! In the present pitiable state of the prisoners, such a feast of mirth-compelling waggery would kill them—yes, kill them—with laughter!

[Exeunt stealthily to put this craftily-conceived plot into guilty execution.

A NEW LEADER.

["At present the followers are obliged to be amiable because the Leader is amiable. Under the Leader I suggest they would be less amiable, and would be at liberty to say stronger things."—Mr. ATKINSON, M.P., in the House of Commons.]

Chorus of Amiable Tories.

GENUS IRRITABILE.

First Bard. "SEEN MY SONNETS IN THE PACIFIC WEEKLY?"

Second Bard. "YES."

First Bard. "LIKE THEM?"

Second Bard. "WELL,—A—CANDIDLY—I—"

First Bard. "OH, IF IT COMES TO THAT,