No. 283. Not Crossley, but Kindly.  CLAUDE CALTHROP.

No. 333. Professor Huxley.  By Hon. JOHN COLLIER.  When it isn’t the Professor, it might serve for Sir GEORGE GROVE.  Bravo, Honourable JOHN!  “Hang him, JOHN COLLIER!” (SHAKSPEARE adapted.)

No. 390.  A Boy to the very life, or a Life Boy.  JAMES SANT, R.A.  It’s a picture of Master HUGH BURDETT MONEY COUTTS.  How well this name will look on a cheque for a cool thousand or so!  But to see the Hue of health on his cheek is better than seeing the colour of that HUGH’S money.

No. 414.  Portrait of Author W. PINERO, Esq.  Painted by JOSEPH MORDECAI, who has done to Author PINERO what HAMAN would have done to MORDECAI, i.e., hung him.

No. 439.  Sitting for Don Quixote.  WILLIAM E. LOCKHART.

No. 459. Stiff Collar Day; or, Just Back from the Wash, “And, confound it! she’s been washing my shirt and tie together, and spoilt ’em both.  Wish I had another lot ready, but haven’t, so must go to Academy as I am,” said WALTER S-WASH-BUCKLER LETHBRIDGE, and finished up with an impetuous and irrepressible “Hang it!” “I will,” replied the Artist, JOHN PETTIE, R.A.

No. 544. Josephine Grimaldina; or, Female Clown, the next novelty in Pantomime, dedicated to the author and composer of L’Enfant Prodigue.  JOHN S. SARGENT.

No. 667. Feeling his Bumps; or, Phrenology in the Olden Time.” ERNEST NORMAND.

No. 651.  Gentleman ready for riding, but no spurs.  “Where the deuce have I put them?” he is evidently saying.  “All ready but that.  Can’t find ’em anywhere!” A picture which quite tells its own (JULIAN) STORY.

* * * * *

THE RIGHTS AND WRONGS OF LABOUR.

(At the service of the Ch-nc-ll-r of the Exch-qu-r, if he purposes writing a Prophetic Romance.)

MACAULAY’S New Zealander had arrived prematurely.  London Bridge was not reduced to its centre pier, and St. Paul’s Cathedral was certainly not in ruins.  Still there was an uncanny look about town.  On the Embankment electric tram-cars were running, but they seemed to be little patronised.  Here and there he noticed a pedestrian leisurely going his way, but the side-walks appeared, to all intents and purposes, abandoned.  At length he reached a garden-seat, upon which was sprawling a Typical Working Man.  The New Zealander gave this interesting individual “Good morning,” and made some common-place remark about the weather.

“Fine day!” returned the T.W.M., rather surlily.  “Well, what does it matter to me?  If it rains, I stay at home; if it don’t, why I don’t either.”

“I am a stranger seeking for information,” explained the New Zealander; “so I am sure you will excuse me if I ask you how much do you pay for your house?”

“Pay for my house!” ejaculated the T.W.M.  “Why, nothing of course!  And I pay nothing too for my sons at Oxford, and the girls at Cambridge.  And I get my clothes free, and my food comes in gratuitously.  Why, you must be a stranger if you don’t know that!  Why everything and anything is paid by the Government—­out of the Income Tax.”