Don’t touch Goschens, they are not a speculative Stock.  You certainly might do worse than the Rio Diavolos Galvanics.  Do not hesitate, but put the little all of your five orphan nieces into them at once, and wait for the rise.

* * * * *

ON THE CARDS.

(BY A WHIST-LOVING MALADE-IMAGINAIRE.)

  Oh, where shall I hit on a “perfect cure”? 
  (What ails me I am not quite sure that I’m sure)
  To Nice, where the weather is nice—­with vagaries? 
  The Engadine soft or the sunny Canaries? 
  To Bonn or Wiesbaden?  My doctor laconic
  Declares that the Teutonic air is too tonic. 
  Shall I do Davos-Platz or go rove the Riviera? 
  Or moon for a month in romantic Madeira? 
  St. Moritz or Malaga, Aix, La Bourboule? 
  Bah!  My doctor’s a farceur and I am—­a fool. 
  I will not try Switzerland, Norway, or Rome. 
  I’ll go in for a rest and a rubber—­at home. 
  A Windermere wander, and Whist, I feel sure,
  Will give what I’m seeking, a true “Perfect Cure.”

* * * * *

A BUBBLE FROM THE SUDS.—­A Firm of Soap-boilers have been sending round a circular to “Dramatic Authors” of established reputation, and (no doubt) others, offering to produce gratis the best piece submitted to them at a “Matinee performance at a West End Theatre.”  The only formality necessary to obtain this sweet boon is the purchase of a box of the Firm’s soap, which will further contain a coupon “entitling the owner to send in one new and original play for reading.”  The idea that a Dramatic Author of any standing would submit his work to such a tribunal, even with the dazzling prospect of a Matinee in futuro, is too refreshing!  However, as literary men nowadays fully appreciate the value of their labour, the idea, in spite of the soap with which it is associated, may be dismissed with the words, “Won’t Wash!”

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Why doesn’t some publisher bring out The Utterbosh Series, for, upon my word, says the Baron, the greater part of the books sent in for “notice” are simply beneath it.  Here’s one on which I made notes as I went on, as far as I could get through it.  It is called Nemesis:  a Moral Story, by SETON CREWE.  Its sole merit would have been its being in one volume, were it not that this form, being a bait to the unwary, aggravates the offence.  The heroine is Lucinda, a milliner’s apprentice.  Being compromised by a young gentleman under age, who suddenly quits the country, she goes to confess her sin to the simple-minded Curate, who sees no way out of the difficulty except by marrying his penitent, which he does, and after the christening of her first-born, a joyous event that occurs at no great interval after the happy wedding-day, the Curate, the Reverend Mr. Smith, is transferred by his