“My dear friend,” was the reply, “I hope I am as patriotic as most people, but I cannot sacrifice my just interest entirely to sentiment.  What can you give me in exchange for my present life?  I have recreation-rooms, libraries, polytechnics, and every sort of amusement?”

“But also drill and discipline,” urged the other.

“Which I am told by my medical attendant (whose services by the way are gratuitous), are excellent for my health.  This being so, I can scarcely complain of those institutions.  Then I have excellent pay and ample food.  Now, I ask you frankly, can the advantages offered by Trade compare for a moment with the privileges, as a soldier, I now enjoy?  Tell me frankly, shall I improve my position by giving up the Army?”

And Mr. ELLERSDEE was compelled to answer in the negative!

* * * * *

THE DIARY OF AN OLD JOKE.

(POSTHUMOUSLY PRINTED BY KIND PERMISSION OF WIT, HUMOUR, & CO., LIMITED.)

April 1.—­My birthday; have no idea which.  Old as the hills, but not quite so pointed; venerable, but broken down, and used up; not the Joke I used to be; once the rich darling of Society:  but it (Society) didn’t pay, so had to work hard for a living. Tit Bits, the National Observer, and the Chancery Judges, have impoverished me.  Never mind—­I’ll be revenged—­resolve to keep a Diary—­“weekly diary of a weakly”—­oh dear! my old infirmity again.  Must really be more careful.

April 2.—­In with the rest of them, for a (North-) Easter outing.  HACKING, in the train, tried to palm me off upon HORNBLOWER, who had actually the impudence to affect that he “couldn’t see me”; as if I hadn’t obviously made his reputation for years!  The best of it is, that HORNBLOWER is always airing me in public, and dropping me in private.  Blow HORNBLOWER!

April 3.—­Out to dinner.  What a hypocrite Society is!  Everyone pretended never to have heard me before.  I was allotted to Miss HORNBLOWER (worse luck!) and she positively called me “Her own!”—­at my age, too!  It’s indecent.  Complained to HORNBLOWER, who now faced round, and maintained that he was the first to bring me out.  I could almost have cried.  No wonder I fell flat, and injured myself.  Why, Sir, SIDNEY SMITH was my godfather, and was always trotting me out as a prodigy, and trading on me.  I supported him, Sir, when I was but an infant phenomenon; I supported him—­but I can’t support HORNBLOWER.

April 4.—­Went to the theatre, as I was told I figured in the play; claimed a free pass to the Stalls from the box-office boy, who was rude; showed him my card; he looked scared, and said it was all right.  The actors were full of me:  very gratifying; but everybody laughed!  Just like their cheek!  There’s nothing laughable, I should fancy, about anything so played out as I’ve become.  Ugh! how I detest irreverence!  HORNBLOWER and HACKING have both written to the papers, maintaining that I belong to them, and that the theatre has no right to have me impersonated on the Stage; they term it “Thought Transference,” “The Brain-Wave,” or something outlandish; and to think that HACKING, who reviews HORNBLOWER’s effusions, once spoke of me as stale!  They had better not try my patience too far, I can tell them.