Yet, were that all, some well might turn away

With custom's passing courtliness, to-day,

And bid a cold farewell

To the great priest, shrewd marshaller of men,

Subtle of verbal fence with tongue or pen,

Ascetic of the cell.

THE SANITARY CONGRESS AT VENICE.—Mrs. RAM's Nephew was talking on this subject, when his Aunt was heard murmuring to herself, "I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs;" then she looked up, and repeating the last word, observed, "Well, it never struck me before, often as I've heard that line quoted. But what an extraordinary thing to make a bridge of! I suppose it was painted over first, because I know that's how 'size' is commonly used."

The Irish Curate (to the New Vicar). "THAT POOR MAN, SIR, HAS ALWAYS GOT A SKELETON JUST IN FRONT OF HIM THAT FOLLOWS HIM ABOUT WHEREVER HE GOES!"

THE BOXING IMBROGLIO.

ONLY FANCY!

Mr. CHAPLIN has, we hear, entered with native enthusiasm into his mission to the Agricultural Labourer. It was entirely his own idea. "The Liberals have their Rural Conferences," he said at a recent Cabinet Council, "and we should do something of the same kind; only we must go one better. Of course the delegates liked their trip to London (expenses paid, their free breakfast, their shake of Mr. GLADSTONE's hand, and the opportunity of gazing on the supple form of Mr. SCHNADHORST.) That's all very well for them. But think of the hundreds of thousands green with jealousy because they weren't selected for the trip? These are all ripe to vote for us at the General Election if only delicately handled. What you want is a man of commanding presence, unfailing tact, a knowledge of horses, and some gift of oratory. If no one else occurs to you, I'll go." No one else did occur to the mind of the Cabinet. So the Minister of Agriculture set forth on his missionary enterprise.

We have been gratified by the receipt of many tokens of interest and appreciation elicited by our paragraph last week, reporting the state of the household markets. One takes the form of a parcel of Russian tongues. "These," writes our esteemed Correspondent (we omit complimentary preface), "should before cooking be soaked for a week in cold water, and then boiled for a day." We are not disposed to spoil a ship for a ha'p'orth of tar, and shall improve upon these generous instructions. Having spent a week and a day in personally directing the preliminary process, we intend to grill the tongues for thirty-six hours, fry them for an afternoon, stew them for two days, hang them out of the window for five hours, and then bray them in a mortar. We fancy what is left will be worth eating.

RYMOND has been reading, with much interest, HENED's account of how he got the Influenza, and what he did with it. Apparently the first thing to do is, to "send for a thermometer," (as others would send for a Doctor), and take it to bed with you.

"Evidently," HENED writes last week in his journal, "when a person does not feel well, he should try his temperature, and, if it be abnormally high, he should go to bed, and stay there until it comes down."—"Of course," RYMOND observes, with rare lapse into cynicism, "when the bed comes down, he is bound to go."

MATRIMONY UP TO DATE.

[The Defendant in a recent breach of promise case wrote to his intended, "When we are married you will have to sit with me when I am queer."]

CELA VA SANS DIRE.—In reply to the Salvationists' Solicitors, an opinion was given, signed by Sir CHARLES RUSSELL, with WIT. Why drag in WIT? When CHARLES RUSSELL's name appears, the wit is taken for granted.

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

No. XXIV.

SCENE—The Piazza of St. Mark at night. The roof and part of the façade gleam a greenish silver in the moonlight. The shadow of the Campanile falls, black and broad, across the huge square, which is crowded with people listening to the Military Band, and taking coffee, &c., outside the caffés. Miss TROTTER and CULCHARD are seated at one of the little tables in front of the Quadri.

Miss T. I'd like ever so much to know why it is you're so anxious to see that Miss PRENDERGAST and me friendly again? After she's been treating you this long while like you were a toad—and not a popular kind of toad at that!

Culch. (wincing). Of course I am only too painfully aware of—of a certain distance in her manner towards me, but I should not think of allowing myself to be influenced by any—er—merely personal considerations of that sort.

Miss T. That's real noble! And I presume, now, you cann't imagine any reason why she's been treading you so flat.

"A mean cuss? Me! Really—"

Culch. (with a shrug). I really haven't troubled to speculate Who can tell how one may, quite unconsciously, give offence—even to those who are—er—comparative strangers?

Miss T. Just so. (A pause.) Well, Mr. CULCHARD, if I wanted anything to confirm my opinion of you, I guess you've given it me!

Culch. (internally). It's very unfortunate that she will insist on idealising me like this!

Miss T. Maybe, now, you can form a pretty good idea already what that opinion is?