April 5.—­Sunday.  Want change, and rest.  Made for the O’WILDE’s sanctum.  Cabman took the change, and O’WILDE the rest.  Have known all the celebrities of the century, but like O’W. the most.  For one so young, he’s truly affable; made me quite at home; promised to put me up—­or in, I forget which; and then he uttered this remarkable “preface”—­“Jokes are neither old nor young:  they are simply mine or thine—­that is all.”  Nevertheless.  I’m sure to be in his bad books before long.

April 6.—­“Horrible outrage—­an Old Joke, in trouble again”—­so run the newspaper placards—­was collared forcibly by two masked ruffians in Grub Street, and dispatched post-haste to Punch office. Mr. P., however, had known me from a boy, and was not to be imposed upon.  He sent me back promptly, on Her Majesty’s Service, warning me that, unless I went off, I should probably be knocked on the head.  Dear EVERGREEN POLICINELLO! but not so evergreen as all that.  He knows my constitution won’t stand these liberties.  The desperadoes turn out to be HORNBLOWER and HACKING, as I suspected.  In defence they alleged I had struck them forcibly! Mr. P. vows he’ll proceed against them for nuisance—­interfering with Ancient Lights.

April 7.—­Very weak, from effects of yesterday.  The heart taken out of me.  Consult my Doctor.  To judge from the prints in his waiting-room, I’m popular enough still with his patients.  Says I’m suffering from a bad attack of Printer’s Devils, but can’t make me younger; replied that my desire was to be older.  He looked grave, and rejoined, “Impossible”; prescribed a course of Attic salts; as I came out, met Sir WILFRID LAWSON.  He declares I don’t look a day older than when he first knew me; but then, he’s licensed to be sober on the premises!  Ah, how I love the House of Commons!

April 8.—­Worn to a skeleton; sinking fast, but I’ll die hard.  Make my will.  Bequeath Autographs of TALLEYRAND and JOE MILLER to Madame Tussaud’s; everything else to be sold for the foundation of an Asylum for Old Jokes.  A knock at the door.  Heaven help me!—­two Interviewers!  “Come in,” I said, with the conventional “cheery voice.”  Anticipated the worst, but worse than I anticipated.  HORNBLOWER and HACKING are brooding over me; assert they have been sent by the LORD MAYOR.  “Thought Transference” again!  Well, I should have committed suicide, and now I can be released without crime.  It won’t last long.  If I might suggest my obsequies, I should like to be cremated in Type.  HACKING begs my blessing, and pretends to weep at hearing the last of me.  Hope I shan’t ever have to haunt HORNBLOWER!

Editor’s Postscript.—­We have paid a pious visit to his last Jesting-place; on the urn is inscribed,—­

PLEASE TO FORGET THE GHOST OF THE SAME OLD JOKE.

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