THIS IS WHAT SHE IMAGINED IT TO BE IN HER DREAM OF THE 12TH OF
AUGUST.]

* * * * *

MEMORABLE.

SIR,—­So many punning Epitaphs have recently appeared in the Times a propos of “BOB LOWE,” that I am sure you will now allow me to produce and publish what was rejected by your Editor, long before the decease of the above-mentioned eminent Statesman.  I thought it, and still think it, uncommonly good; but the then Editor said, “No—­it is unseemly to joke about the decease of a living celebrity.”  Now on the good old maxim of “Nil nisi bonum,” I beg you will produce this, as I’m sure it is, and always was, uncommonly bonum, and like good wine, all the better for keeping.  Here it is:—­

ON THE LATE B.L.

  Bob! has he gone above the sky? 
  We hope that it is so. 
  Yet when above, however high,
  He’ll always be B.-LOWE.

I’ve seen nothing to equal this; at least, being a judge of such things, I may safely say so, adding humbly, “A poor thing, but mine own.”

Yours, L.S.  PRIT D’ESCALIER.

* * * * *

ACCIDENTAL JOKE.—­When does an explosion do no harm?  When a husband blows his wife up—­and she deserves it.

* * * * *

INFRA DIG.

Sweet, in a sordid age, it is to find One Abdiel to enticement bravely blind, One class not thrall to Plutus.  But, hurroo!  England rejoice aloud, for thou hast two.  Sweet are the uses of—­Advertisement, To huckster souls, whose god is Cent-per-cent.  The Mart, the Forum, and—­alas!—­the Fane.  Self-trumpeting, in type, cannot restrain; The leaded column and the poster smart Seduce the Histrio; e’en the thrall of Art Bows to the modern Baal of Pot and Paste, That deadly foe of Modesty and Taste.  The Poet poses publicly, the Scribe Knows how to vaunt, to logroll, and to bribe.  But there be those share not the general taint; The pestle-wielding Sage, the silk-gowned Saint.  Redeem our fallen race from the dark shade That would confuse Professions with mere Trade.  No, briefs and bills of costs may loom too big, Harpagon hide beneath a horsehair wig, Sangrado thrive on flattery and shrewd knack.  And Dulcamara, safe in silence, quack; But—­chortle, oh ye good, rejoice, ye wise!—­ Physic and Law will never—­Advertise!

* * * * *

“THE PARIAH.”—­In the latest copy to hand of that wonderful penn’orth of gossip and information, Sala’s Journal, Vol.  I. No. 16, and in the very first line of the light and leading article, our “G.A.S.” asks “Is Woman a Pariah?” Of course she is not, we reply, not even if she be the very masculinest of females.  Some, if they are “Riahs” at all, are “Ma-riahs.”  “Riah,” it may be remembered, is the abbreviated form of the name as in the once popular Coster’s song of “What cheer Riah?” Whether spelt with or without an “h” is of no consequence, the Coster not being particular.