“Now that JOSEPHINE is true to me,” he murmured, “I have no objection to a further century of existence, or even two.”

And he continued his walk.  He had never seen so many taverns in his life.  On every side of him were distilleries, public-houses, and beer-shops.  He marvelled that a man of so many summers should have chosen such a bibulous spot for his home.

“He must be exceedingly eccentric,” he thought to himself; “however, that is nothing to me.  If he can teach me how to live continuously, this bag of gold, now mine, shall change masters.”

The small coin of the realm was presented, and PETER stood face to face with the Sage of the Ages.

“What do you want?” asked the ancient Alchymist, with a glistening eye.  “What d’ye want with an old man—­a very old man?” And the Sage wept.

“I meant not this,” remonstrated PETER, greatly distressed at the incident.  “I came here merely to crave your aid.  I wish to live now, for JOSEPHINE is true to me.”

“Who’s JOSEPHINE?” asked the Sage, in the same thick voice.  “Never heard of JOSEPHINE.  JOSEPHINE’s bore—­swindle!  Old JOSEPHINE’s jolly humbug!”

“Well, let that pass,” said PETER, “I am here to ask you why you have lived so long.  You are one hundred and twenty-seven years old, I think, and yet you are still alive.”

“Why, certainly.  But you know all about it.  Secret no longer.  Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE has told the Times how it’s done.  Consider it great shame.  Takes the bread, so t’ speak, out of one’s mouth.”  Here the Sage gave a lurch and seated himself accidentally on a stuffed alligator.  Seeing that his host was about to indulge in an untimely nap, PETER thought the moment had arrived to urge him to reveal his wonderful secret.  “I implore you to tell me how you have managed to live for so many years when all your contemporaries are gone.”

“Well, sure I don’t mind,” was the reply.  “Won’t hurt me—­may do you good.  Want to know how it’s managed?”

“That I do, indeed,” was the earnest answer,

“Why reason I’ve lived for more than century and quarter is this!  I’ve never been—­mind, never been during all that time—­see—­during all that time—­never been sober!”

PETER was astounded.

“Why, Sir WILFRID LAWSON says—­” he began.

“Never mind what Sir WILF-LAWSON says, I say if you want, keep your health you must—­hic—­always—­be—­in—­in—­intoxicavated!  Now go to public-house.  My patients in public-houses yonder.”

And, urged by a sense of duty, PETER withdrew; and, joining the Sage’s cures, found them in various stages of renewed health, and increased intoxication.

* * * * *

THE BITTER CRY OF THE BRITISH BOOKMAKER.

(AFTER A FAMOUS ORIGINAL.)

  ’Tis a very good land that we live in
  To lend, or to lose, or to give in;
  But to sell—­at a profit—­or keep a man’s own,
  ’Tis the very worst country that ever was known. 
  Men give cash for their wines, wives, weeds, churches and cooks,
  But your genuine Briton won’t pay for his—­Books!