(excitedly). You shall not speak of my mother. My mother is sacred. She shall not be referred to in the tainted atmosphere of a Court of Justice.

[Applause.

Magistrate. This hypocrisy shall not serve you. You never loved your mother!

[Prolonged sensation.

Prisoner. Your worship, you are a liar!

[Loud cheers.

Magistrate. This to the Bench from the gutter! For you know you were found drunk and incapable in the gutter. What were you doing there?

Prisoner (tearfully). I was dreaming of my mother, my loved mother.

[Sympathetic applause.

Magistrate. You do not deserve to have a mother!

[Prolonged sensation.

Prisoner (scornfully]. Only a magistrate could make such a cold-blooded observation!

[Cheers.

Magistrate. For all that you are fined five shillings and costs! Remove the wretched prisoner!

[The accused was then removed amidst expressions of sympathy from the body of the Court.

There, Sir, would not that be far better reading than paragraphs about gigantic gooseberries and leaders upon the sea serpent? Perhaps my suggestion may be adopted in the proper quarter. Hoping that this may be the case, the police case,

I remain, Yours respectfully,
The Man in the Reporter's Box.

NOBLESSE OBLIGE.

(New Version.)

"Let Art and Commerce, Laws and Learning die,
But leave us still our Old Nobility!"
Without them, in our democratic day,
Who will the part of princely patriot play?
Who else will keep a splendid Family Seat,
And claim—for its defence—a mighty Fleet?
Who else will make Bank Holidays a joy
To wandering workman and to wondering boy?
Who else will rear big fortunes upon Rent,
Or palaces on Unearned Increment?
Monopolise art's treasures and life's pleasures,
And throw out dangerous democratic measures?
Who else will keep up England's glorious name?
Who else preserve her prestige—and her game?
Who else will wear the purple and the ermine,
And proudly stamp out Socialistic vermin?
Who else in one grand field-day, 'midst the Peers,
Undo the labours of ignoble years?
Who else in solemn ranks, like three-tailed Turks,
Defend the power of Privilege and Perks?
And 'tis these most magnanimous Mamelukes,
Our patriot Earls and foe-defying Dukes,
A traitorous Chancellor would dare to—Tax!!!
Ah! where's the dungeon, and oh! where's the axe?
Noblesse oblige! But sure the obligation
Cannot involve that horror, Graduation!
Is't not enough to rule, and guide, and bless,
And soar as shining samples of Success?
While with our Nobles England's glory waxes,
The Proletariat's proud to—pay the Taxes!

LYRE AND LANCET.

(A Story in Scenes.)

PART VII.—IGNOTUM PRO MIRIFICO.

Scene XII.—The Amber Boudoir at Wyvern—immediately after Lady Cantire and her daughter have entered.

Lady Cantire (in reply to Lady Culverin). Tea? oh yes, my dear; anything warm! I'm positively perished—that tedious cold journey and the long drive afterwards! I always tell Rupert he would see me far oftener at Wyvern if he would only get the Company to bring the line round close to the Park Gates, but it has no effect upon him! (As Tredwell announces Spurrell, who enters in trepidation.) Mr. James Spurrell! Who's Mr.——? Oh, to be sure; that's the name of my interesting young poet—Andromeda, you know, my dear! Go and be pleasant to him, Albinia, he wants reassuring.

Lady Culverin (a trifle nervous). How do you do, Mr.—ah—Spurrell? (To herself.) I said he ended in "'ell"! (Aloud.) So pleased to see you! We think so much of your Andromeda here, you know. Quite delightful of you to find time to run down!

Spurrell (to himself). Why she's chummy, too! Old Drummy pulls me through everything! (Aloud.) Don't name it, my la—hum—Lady Culverin. No trouble at all; only too proud to get your summons!

Lady Culv. (to herself). He doesn't seem very revolutionary! (Aloud.) That's so sweet of you; when so many must be absolutely fighting to get you!

Spurr. Oh, as for that, there is rather a run on me just now, but I put everything else aside for you, of course!

Lady Culv. (to herself). He's soon reassured. (Aloud, with a touch of frost.) I am sure we must consider ourselves most fortunate. (Turning to the Countess.) You did say cream, Rohesia? Sugar, Maisie dearest?

Spurr. (to himself). I'm all right up to now! I suppose I'd better say nothing about the horse till they do. I feel rather out of it among these nobs, though. I'll try and chum on to little Lady Maisie again; she may have got over her temper by this time, and she's the only one I know. (He approaches her.) Well, Lady Maisie, here I am, you see. I'd really no idea your aunt would be so friendly! I say, you know, you don't mind speaking to a fellow, do you? I've no one else I can go to—and—and it's a bit strange at first, you know!

Lady Maisie (coloured with mingled apprehension, vexation, and pity). If I can be of any help to you, Mr. Spurrell——!

Spurr. Well, if you'd only tell me what I ought to do!

"My keys! Why, what do you want them for?"

Lady Maisie. Surely that's very simple; do nothing; just take everything quietly as it comes, and you can't make any mistakes.

Spurr. (anxiously). And you don't think anybody'll see anything odd in my being here like this?

Lady Maisie (to herself). I'm only too afraid they will! (Aloud.) You really must have a little self-confidence. Just remember that no one here could produce anything a millionth part as splendid as your Andromeda! It's too distressing to see you so appallingly humble! (To herself.) There's Captain Thicknesse over there—he might come and rescue me; but he doesn't seem to care to!

Spurr. Well, you do put some heart into me, Lady Maisie. I feel equal to the lot of 'em now!

Pilliner (to Miss Spelwane). Is that the Poet? Why, but I say—he's a fraud! Where's his matted head? He's not a bit ragged, or rusty either. And why don't he dabble? Don't seem to know what to do with his hands quite, though, does he?