Sub. (with note-book).  Excellent, my Lord! excellent!  It shall be played out of tune on a score of regimental bands!  Good, my Lord! good!

Rus.  Big. And could not a translation be furnished suggesting ideas foreign to the original?

Sub. Again capital, my Lord.  I will see that the troops have a version that gives the old legend (stolen from us by the English) of “The Song of Sixpence, or a pocketful of Rye-bread,” as the real translation.

Rus.  Big. A happy thought!  The moral is wholesome.  The Monarchical principle is advocated in the approved counting out of money and consumption of bread and honey by their Majesties, and the right of life and death is suggested by the pecking off of the nose of the housemaid while employed in hanging out the clothes!  And about the troops—­have they been warned that they might some day be expected to give a hated alien an enthusiastic reception?

Sub. They have, my Lord.  And in anticipation of such an occasion, they have been taught for the last six months how to cheer in a whisper.

Rus.  Big. Good!  And now to a pleasanter duty.  Have you those hundred thousand copies of Punch that were yesterday seized at the frontier?

Sub. I have, my Lord!

Rus.  Big. (with fiendish glee).  To Siberia with them!  Come, help me to post them!

Sub. (trembling).  But, my Lord, should Punch be read by the political prisoners who lie covered with chains in the secret mines under the lowest mountain in the Czar’s dominions?  What then?

Rus.  Big. (in an awesome whisper).  Mark me well!  In the present pitiable state of the prisoners, such a feast of mirth-compelling waggery would kill them—­yes, kill them—­with laughter!

    [Exeunt stealthily to put this craftily-conceived plot into
    guilty execution.

* * * * *

A NEW LEADER.

["At present the followers are obliged to be amiable because the Leader is amiable.  Under the Leader I suggest they would be less amiable, and would be at liberty to say stronger things.”—­Mr. ATKINSON, M.P., in the House of Commons.]

CHORUS OF AMIABLE TORIES.

  Hear! hear!  Mr. A. We are amiable too,
  For we follow our amiable Leader, like you;
  But when forced to say, “Bless you!” we choke with our spleen,
  And we add, sotto voce, “You know what I mean.” 
  While we sit spick and span as a picture by FRITH,
  And contend with our feelings, to please Mr. SMITH.

  Oh, we pule and we prate, we are nerveless and weak,
  And we swallow, like Pistol, the odorous leek. 
  We palter with truth, and we flatter our foes,
  And we cringe, and we crawl, and are led by the nose. 
  We are fools soft of speech, and without any pith,
  For we smother our feelings to suit Mr. SMITH.