“SO NO MAYER AT PRESENT FROM YOURS TRULY THE ENTREPRENEUR OF THE FRENCH PLAYS, ST. JAMES’S THEATRE.”—­It is hard on the indefatigable M. MAYER, but when Englishmen can so easily cross the Channel, and so willingly brave the mal-de-mer for the sake of a week in Paris, it is not likely that they will patronise French theatricals in London, even for their own linguistic and artistic improvement, or solely for the benefit of the deserving and enterprising M. MAYER.  Even if it be mal-de-mer against bien de Mayer, an English admirer of French acting would risk the former to get a week in Paris.  We are sorry ’tis so, but so ’tis.

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“THE MAGAZINE RIFLE.”—­Is this invention patented by the Editor of The Review of Reviews?  Good title for the Staff of that Magazine, “The Magazine Rifle Corps.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  UNNECESSARY CANDOUR.

Critic.  “BY JOVE, HOW ONE CHANGES!  I’VE QUITE CEASED TO ADMIRE THE KIND OF PAINTING I USED TO THINK SO CLEVER TEN YEARS AGO; AND VICE VERSA!”

Pictor.  “THAT’S AS IT SHOULD BE!  IT SHOWS PROGRESS, DEVELOPMENT!  IT’S AN UNMISTAKABLE PROOF THAT YOU’VE REACHED A HIGHER INTELLECTUAL AND ARTISTIC LEVEL, A MORE ADVANCED STAGE OF CULTURE, A LOFTIER—­”

Critic.  “I’M GLAD YOU THINK SO, OLD MAN.  BUT, CONFOUND IT, YOU KNOW!—­THE KIND OF PAINTING I USED TO THINK SO CLEVER TEN YEARS AGO, HAPPENS TO BE YOURS!”]

* * * * *

BETWEEN THE QUICK AND THE DEAD.

  The Appeal’s to Justice!  Justice lendeth ear
  Unstirred by favour, unseduced by fear;
  And they who Justice love must check the thrill
  Of natural shame, and listen, and be still. 
  These wrangling tales of horror shake the heart
  With pitiful disgust.  Oh, glorious part
  For British manhood, much bepraised, to play
  In that dark land late touched by culture’s day! 
  Are these our Heroes pictured each by each? 
  We fondly deemed that where our English speech
  Sounded, there English hearts, of mould humane. 
  Justice would strengthen, cruelty restrain. 
  And is it all a figment of false pride?
  Such horrors do our vaunting annals hide
  Beneath a world of words, like flowers that wave
  In tropic swamps o’er a malarious grave?

  These are the questions which perforce intrude
  As the long tale of horror coarse and crude,
  Rolls out its sickening chapters one by one. 
  What will the verdict be when all is done? 
  Conflicting counsels in loud chorus rise,
  “Hush the thing up!” the knowing cynic cries,
  “Arm not our chuckling enemies at gaze
  With charnel dust to foul our brightest bays! 
  Let the dead past bury its tainted dead,
  Lest aliens at our ‘heroes’ wag the head.” 
  “Shocking! wails out the sentimentalist.