I attend a portion—­a small portion—­of a lecture, and then hurry off to the nearest free luncheon, or gratuitous dinner, in the neighbourhood.  I should be a tax upon my friends if I dropped in at half-past one, or at a quarter to eight, punctually, and my motives would be too wisely interpreted to a desire on my part to reduce the sum total of my butcher’s book.  So I merely drop in upon a place where a Congress is being held, and make the most of my membership.”

“These startling statements are decidedly unconventional,” said Mr. Punch, turning towards his fair companion, “and that your influence should cause them to be made, astounds me.  I trust you will not consider me indiscreet if I ask for—­”

“My name and address,” returned the fair maiden, smilingly, completing the sentence; “Learn, then, that I live at the bottom of a well, to which rather damp resting-place I am about to return; and that in England I am called Truth.”

And as the lady disappeared, Mr. Punch fell from his chair, and awoke!

“Dear me, I have been dreaming!” exclaimed the Sage, as he left the meeting.  “Well, as everyone knows, dreams are not in the least like reality!  But the strangest thing of all was to find Truth in a Congress!”

And it was strange, indeed.

* * * * *

AT THE THEATRE!

THE LYCEUM AGAIN.  THE HAYMARKET ONCE MORE.

“Great Scott!” we exclaim,—­not Critical CLEMENT of that ilk, but Sir WALTER,—­on again seeing Ravenswood.  Since then an alteration in the modus shootendi has been made, and Edgar no longer takes a pot-shot at the bull from the window, but, ascertaining from Sir William Ashton Bishop that Ellen Lucy Terry is being Terryfied by an Irish bull which has got mixed up with the Scotch “herd without,” Henry Edgar Irving rushes off, gun in hand; then the report of the gun is, like the Scotch oxen, also “heard without,” and Henry reappears on the scene, having saved Ellen Lucy Ashton by reducing the fierce bull to potted beef.

[Illustration]

“What shall he have who kills the bull?” “The Dear! the Dear!” meaning, of course, Ellen Lucy Ashton aforesaid.  After this all goes well.  Acting excellent all round—­or nearly all round, the one exception being, however, the very much “all-round” representative of Lady Ashton, whose misfortune it is to have been selected for this particular part.  Scenery lovely, and again and again must HAWES MCCHAVEN be congratulated on the beautiful scene of The Mermaiden’s Well (never better, in fact), Act III.  The love-making bit in this Act is charming, and the classic Sibyl, Ailsie, superb.  Nothing in stage effect within our memory has equalled the pathos of the final tableau.  It is most touching through its extreme simplicity.