Yes, Madam, it is indeed without charge.  Do not tempt us.  Instant dismissal is the penalty.

Certainly, Mein Herr, you could get the same politeness before the EMPEROR issued his Imperial instructions.

But then the charge was a thaler!

* * * * *

THE GREAT TWIN BRETHREN.

    ["I do not wish to call Mr. GLADSTONE by a name which would
    be both tasteless and pointless.”—­Mr. A.V.  Dicey’s Letter to
    the Times.]

  Tasteless and pointless, DICEY?  Well, the time is out of joint,
  And you were born to set it right, though not with “taste” and “point.” 
  We cannot all do all things, Sir, and if you save the State
  (As the great Twin Brethren mean to in despite of HARCOURT’s hate),
  What does it matter, DICEY, if your letters are not quite
  In that style epistolary, which our fathers called “polite”? 
  ’Tis a little too meticulous—­in you—­and rather late,
  After giving Mr. GLADSTONE such a wholesome slashing “slate.” 
  Take heart of grace, dear DICEY, and don’t let Sir WILLIAM’s “point”
  In your tough (if tasteless) armour find a vulnerable joint. 
  “Old Timbertoes” won’t trouble, Sir, to wish that you were dead,
  And his taste (not point) forbids him to call you “Old Wooden-head!”

* * * * *

KEEP WATCH!

    [A Visitor fishing off Deal Pier brought up a gold watch
    and chain on his hook.  It is supposed to be one lost by a
    resident, but the lucky angler has not been seen since.]

  Paradoxical portent!  Most worthy of rhyme
  Is this fortunate angler who tried to kill time. 
  Fate made him the offer, and, wisely, he book’d it;
  He not only killed time, but he caught it,—­and “hook’d it.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  MR. PUNCH VISITS SCARBOROUGH SPA.]

* * * * *

BOULANGER.

  So high he floated, that he seemed to climb;
  The bladder blown by chance was burst by time. 
  Falsely-earned fame fools bolstered at the urns;
  The mob which reared the god the idol burns. 
  To cling one moment nigh to power’s crest,
  Then, earthward flung, sink to oblivion’s rest
  Self-sought, ’midst careless acquiescence, seems
  Strange fate, e’en for a thing of schemes and dreams;
  But CAESAR’s simulacrum, seen by day,
  Scarce envious CASCA’s self would stoop to slay,
  And mounting mediocrity, once o’erthrown,
  Need fear—­or hope—­no dagger save its own.

* * * * *