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You do well, my dear Lord, to spread GRANVILLE'S renown.

Knightly, loyal, and courteous to monarch or clown,

He had pluck, and swift speech, though no mere Party Pump.

To our late platform level he hardly worked down;

But the popular sign of his day was "The Crown,"

Of ours 'tis "The Magpie and Stump."

TWO DROMIOS.—One day last week at Highgate, a certain or uncertain WILLIAM PEA, horsedealer, was summoned by the Police for furious driving. The Police knew him well by sight, but not well enough, as he clearly proved what Mr. Weller Senior called "a alleybi." Evidently Mr. PEA has a double, and "as like as two Peas" is peculiarly applicable in this case. For if the other one isn't a Pea, he has been taken for one by the Pee-lers.

QUESTION OF POLITENESS.—Except in the case of a man's father having been "a big gun" at any time, to call anyone "a Son of a Gun," has hitherto been considered a gross insult. Is it equally insulting to speak of a Lady as "a Daughter of a Canon?"

AN EMPTY TRIUMPH.

(A Story of Show Sunday.)

It was Show Sunday; lovers of Art were streaming in and out of every Studio they could hunt up, fired with a laudable ambition to break the record by the number they visited in the hours between luncheon and dusk.

The residence of so rising a painter as TINTORETTO TICKLER was naturally a place in which no person of any self-respect would neglect to be seen; and on this particular afternoon the entrance-hall, sitting-rooms, and studio were simply choked with an eager throng of friends, acquaintances, and utter strangers; for TINTORETTO'S lavish hospitality was well known, and no expense had been spared to give his guests as favourable an impression of his talent as possible. A couple of knights, clad in complete steel—the local greengrocer and an Italian model—took the guests' hats, and announced their names; there were daffodils and azaleas in profusion; the Red Roumanians performed national airs in the studio-gallery; Italian mandolinists sang and strummed on the staircase, and, in the dining-room, trim maid-servants, in becoming white caps and streamers, dispensed coffee, claret-cup, and ices to a swarm of well-conducted social locusts.

Just outside his painting-room stood TINTORETTO TICKLER, at the receipt of compliment, which was abundantly and cheerfully paid. Indeed, the torrent of congratulation and delicately-expressed eulogy was almost overwhelming. One lovely and enthusiastic person told him that the sight of his "Dryad Disturbing a Beanfeast" had just marked an epoch in her mental development, and that she considered it quite the supreme achievement of the Art of the Century. A ponderous man in spectacles, whom TICKLER had no recollection of having ever met before in his life, encouraged him by his solemn assurance that his "Jews Sitting in a Dentist's Waiting-room, in the reign of King John," was perfectly marvellous in its realism and historical accuracy, and that it ought to become the property of the Nation; while an elderly lady, in furs and a crimped front, declared that the pathos of his nursery subject—a child endeavouring to induce a mechanical rabbit to share its bread-and-milk—was sending her home with tears in her eyes. Some talked learnedly of his "values," his "atmosphere," and the subtlety of his modelling; all agreed that he had surpassed himself and every living artist by his last year's work, and no one made any mistake about the nature of his subjects, perhaps because—in consideration for the necessities of the British Art-patron—they had been fully announced and described in the artistic notes of several Sunday papers.

When they got outside, it is true, their enthusiasm slightly evaporated; TICKLER was going off, he was repeating himself, he had nothing that was likely to produce a sensation this year, and most of his pictures would probably never be seen again.

As, however, these last remarks were not made in TINTORETTO'S presence, it might have been thought that the unmistakable evidences of his success which he did hear would have rendered him a proud and happy painter,—but if he was, all that can be said was that he certainly did not look it. He accepted the most effusive tributes with the same ghastly and conventional smile; from feminine glances of unutterable gratitude and admiration he turned away with an inarticulate mumble and an averted eye; at times he almost seemed to be suppressing a squirm. If expression is any index to the thoughts, he was neither grateful nor gratified, and distinctly uncomfortable.

A painter-friend of his, who had been patiently watching his opportunity to get a word with him as he stood there exchanging handshakes, managed at last to get near enough for conversation. "Very glad to find there's no truth in it!" he began, cordially. "No truth in what!" said TICKLER, a little snappishly, for he was getting extremely fractious, "the compliments"?

"No, no, my dear boy. I mean in what a fellow told me outside just now—that some burglars broke into your studio last night, and carried off all your canvasses—a lie, of course!"

"Oh, that?" said TICKLER, "that's true enough—they left nothing behind 'em but the beastly frames!"

"Then what on earth——?" began the other, in perplexity, for another group was just coming up, beaming with an ecstasy that demanded the relief of instant expression.

"Well—er—fact is," explained poor TICKLER, in an undertone, "I did think of shutting the studio up and getting away somewhere—but my wife wouldn't hear of it, you know; said it would be such a pity to have had all the expense and trouble for nothing, and didn't believe the mere absence of pictures would make any particular difference. And—er—I'm bound to say that, as you can see for yourself, it hasn't!"

And even as he spoke, he had to resign himself once more to a farewell burst of positively fulsome appreciation.

THE KING AND THE CLOWN.

PAYNFUL PROCEEDINGS; OR, AFTER THE PANTOMIME'S OVER.

[See Times Report, Friday last, April 1st, "All Fools' Day."]

KING HERBERT CAMPBELL THE FIRST, and HARRY PAYNE, the Clown, were sitting together, quaffing, after hours, and when work was done, just as in the good old times was the wont of The King and the Cobbler, or The King and the Miller. To them entered a Constable, intent on duty, and no respecter of persons. Often had he seen the Clown maltreat a policeman on the stage, nay, had seen him unstuff him, cut his head off and blow him limb from limb from a gun, and then put him together again; the only mistake being that the unfortunate official's head was turned the wrong way. So this Constable, too, looking backwards, as had done the poor pantomimic policeman, remembered all the slights, insults, and injuries, publicly inflicted on his cloth for many years, and now rejoiced—Ha! ha!—at last at having the Clown, the original JOEY, nay, the last of the JOEYS, in his grasp.

Poor KING HERBERT the Merry