I have cited this tale at length, because some carping, malevolent scribes have dared to insinuate, actually to insinuate in print, that the Grand Duke and his Order have no existence.  To these jelly-faced purveyors of balderdash I only say this:—­How, if His Serene Highness be a myth, could I receive from him the letter I published last week? But, to make assurance doubly sure, I sent the following dispatch to the Grand Duke:—­“Mooncalves cast anserous doubts on your serene existence, and on that of Order.  Kindly make me Grand Cross, and send decoration in diamonds.”.  To this I have received the following reply:—­“You are Grand Cross made.  Order mit diamenten und perlen now is being at the post-office by my Grand Chamberlain for transmission abroad registered.”

This should strike detraction dumb, I propose also to publish a selection of congratulations from other Continental potentates, but of this, as SHAKSPEARE says, Anon, anon!

Permit me, in the meantime, to go half-way towards revealing my identity by adopting a pseudonym drawn from an immortal work, and subscribing myself prophetically yours (and the public’s),

TIPPOO TIP.

* * * * *

A NEW PLAGUE.

SIR,—­I understand that those who suffer oppression are permitted to turn to you for relief, and I am told, further, that there is no wrong which you are unable to remedy.  Listen for a few moments to my tale of woe, and then say if you can strike a blow on my behalf.  I am an author, that is to say, I have written a book, and have lately published it at my own expense.  I was told by a friend of mine, who has some experience in these matters (he is the Sporting Correspondent of the Fortnightly Glass of Fashion), that it would be well for me to make some arrangement with my publishers as to Royalty.  I therefore gave orders that presentation copies, suitably bound, were to be forwarded to Her Gracious MAJESTY and the rest of the Royal Family, including, of course, the Duke of CLARENCE.  My publisher seemed surprised, but offered no objection, and I was therefore able to congratulate myself on having successfully smoothed over a difficulty which, if I am to believe Mr. WALTER BESANT, too often troubles the young author.  This, however, is neither here nor there.  I merely mention the incident to show that I am not altogether lacking in savoir faire.

As I said, I am an author.  My book is a romance entitled, The Foundling’s Farewell.  Of course you have heard of it.  It is blood-curdling but sympathetic, romantic but realistic, pathetic and sublime.  The passage, for instance, in which the Duke of BARTLEMY repels the advances of the orphan charwoman is—­but you have read it, and I need not therefore enlarge further upon it.  After it had been published two days, I began to look eagerly into all the daily and weekly papers for critical notices of my magnum opus.  I persisted for a fortnight, and failing to see any, wrote an angry letter to my publishers.  On that very day the last post brought me three letters in unknown hands.  I opened the first listlessly, I read what it contained, and (may an author confess his weakness?) gave a wild shout of triumph when I found that one of the enclosures was a newspaper extract referring to my work.  Here it is, as it appeared on the form enclosed:—­