After this, I feel that a buckle, somewhere or other, has turned traitor, and inventing an excuse with a readiness worthy of TOMMY TUCKER himself, I suddenly, but cautiously, retire.  I descend the grand staircase between two rows of beefeaters reclining drowsily at their ease.  Fast asleep, some of ’em, after too much beef.  Imagine myself a prisoner, in disguise of course, escaping from the Tower in the olden time.  Then, fearing the collapse of another buckle or button, or the sudden “giving” of a seam, I steal cautiously past the Guards—­then past serried ranks of soldiers under the colonnade—­then—­once more in the street of Bow, and I am free!  I breathe again.

Hie thee home, my gallant steed (an eighteenpenny fare in a hansom), and let me resume the costume of private life, trifle with a cutlet, drain the goblet and smoke the mild havannah. Sic transit gloria Wednesday!

(Signed.) (Mysteriously.) THE DUKE OF DIS GUISE.

P.S.—­Although there was more money in the house than on any previous occasion, yet never did I see so many persons who had “come in with orders,” which they displayed lavishly, wearing them upon their manly buzzums.

* * * * *

MEN IN POSSESSION.

The Manager of Covent Garden is Sheriff HARRIS.  Can all his operatic officials all over the house be correctly termed “Sheriff’s Officers”?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE GERMAN EMPEROR’S VISIT.

SKETCHES ON THE SPOT.—­BY OUR OWN GAILY CHAFFIC ARTIST.]

* * * * *

IMPERIAL IMPRESSIONS.

That they are not accustomed to ultra punctuality in the arrival of steam-yachts at Port Victoria.

That some one ought to catch it for not looking after the water-pipes in the State dining-room.

That it is rather trying to have to remain dignified with your boots in three inches of water.

That the Eton Volunteers are just the sort of boys to follow the tradition of the past, and win a second Waterloo.

That still it was a little awkward to have to review them in the pauses of a thunderstorm.

That the wedding as a wedding was not bad, but a couple of hundred thousand troops or so posted as a guard of honour, would have made it more impressive.

That Buckingham Palace is rather triste, when it is populated on the scale of one inhabitant to the square mile.

That Covent Garden Opera House, decorated with leagues of flower wreaths, is the finest sight in the world.

That Sheriff AUGUSTUS GLOSSOP HARRIS deserves a dukedom, and, if he were a German, should have it.

That one State Ball is like every other, but still it was very well done on Friday.

That the visit to the City was an entire success (although I wish the audience had made up their minds whether they would stand up or sit while I was speaking), thanks no doubt to the influence of the Sheriff.