In the last Act there is a situation reminding us strongly of one short scene in Caste; there—­so delicately and touchingly treated by its author; here—­so repulsively treated by IBSEN.  Let it be reduced to serious burlesque, and let us have it played by PENLEY as George Tesman, ARTHUR ROBERTS (with a song) as Judge Brack, WEEDON GROSSMITH as Ejlbert Loevborg, Miss LOTTIE VENNE as Mrs. Hedda Tesman, Mrs. JOHN WOOD as Aunt Juliana, and Miss JESSIE BOND (with song and dance) as Mrs. Elvsted.  It is announced in the bill as “IBSEN’s Last Play.”  There’s a crumb of comfort in this.

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES.

OATMEAL PORRIDGE.—­Would some Scotch housewife kindly enlighten me as to the proper mode of preparing the above delicacy?  I fancy there must be some mistake about the method I have hitherto adopted.  Is it really necessary to “boil for forty-eight hours, and then mix with equal quantities of gin, Guinness’s Stout, Gum Arabic, and Epsom Salts?” I have followed this recipe (given me by a young friend, who says he has often been in Scotland) faithfully, but the result is not wholly satisfactory.  I doubt whether genuine porridge should be of the consistency of a brick-bat, or taste of hair-oil.—­UNDAUNTED.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  CLERICAL AESTHETICS.

Fair Parishioner.  “AND DO YOU LIKE THE PULPIT, MR. AURIOL?”

The New Curate.  “I DO NOT.  ER—­IT HIDES TOO MUCH OF THE FIGURE, AND I LIKE EVERY SHAKE OF THE SURPLICE TO TELL!”]

* * * * *

“BLOOD” V.  “BULLION.”

  “Well then, it now appears you need my help. 
  Go to then:  you come to me, and you say,
  ’SHYLOCK, we would have moneys’—­you say so;
  You that did void your rheum upon my beard,
  And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
  Over your threshold:  moneys is your suit. 
  What should I say to you?  Should I not say
  ‘Hath a dog money?’”

Merchant of Venice, Act I., Scene 3.

  “With bated breath and whispering humbleness?”
  Not so!  There comes a season when the stress
  Of insolent and exacting tyranny
  Makes the most patient turn. 
                              Autocracy,
  Without the despot’s vaunted virtue, pride,
  Shows small indeed.  Can Power lay aside
  Its swaggering port, and low petition make
  (Driven by those Treasury thirsts which never slake)
  For help from those it harries?  PHARAOH’s scourge
  Was the taskmaster’s weapon, used to urge
  The Hebrew bondsmen to their tale of toil,
  But they round whom the Russian’s knout thongs coil,
  Are of the breed of those the Russian palm
  Can make petition to.  Could triumph balm
  The wounds of ages, here were balm indeed;
  But blood revolts.