[He turns majestically upon his heel and leaves the party
    stupefied.

’Ector. (with mild regret).  It do seem a pity though, so pleasant as we were together, till this come up!

Freddy.  And CARRIE’s Aunt MARIA. gone off in a tantrum, too.  We shall have a job to find ’er now!

Lottie and Carrie.  Oh, do hold your tongues, both of you.  You and your automatic machines!

’Ector and Freddy. Our automatic machines!  Why, we never—­

Lottie and Carrie.  If you say one word more, either of you, we’ll go home! [FREDDY and ’ECTOR follow them meekly in search of Aunt MARIA as the Scene closes in.

* * * * *

VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

(IN FLEET STREET.)

  Oh raucous street—­“Echo,” whose vile vox clamantis
    Is, like the Salvationist’s shout, heard a mile hence,
  I wish, how I wish,—­ah! yes, that what we want is!—­
    Some Cockney Narcissus could charm you to silence. 
  Ah, me! no such luck; in the clear autumn twilight
    Your shriek on my tympanum stridently jars.
  “Echo” murders repose, mars the daffodil sky light;
    And if one thing sounds worse ’tis “the Voice of the Stars”!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  JUST CAUGHT THE POST!]

Sir J-m-s F-rg-ss-n loquitur:—­

  Just in time to catch the Post! 
  Pheugh!  But the Pats would have “had me on toast”
  (As ’ARRY would say in his odious slang),
    If I had been but a little bit later. 
  Out o’ breath as it is.  Ah, hang
  This hurrying business!  My mouth’s like a crater,
  Dreadfully dry, and doosedly hot. 
  Rather a downer, this is, for SCOTT’s lot! 
  Feared Mrs. Manchester might just say
  (In the popular patter of my young day)
  “It is all very well (with a wink and a jeer),
  But you, Master FERGUSSON, don’t lodge here!”
      All right now, though!  Saved my bacon. 
      My defeat might the Cause have shaken. 
  Just in time.  There!  Popped it in! 
  Awfully glad it conveys a Win;
  Although One Fifty ain’t much to boast,—­
  ’Twixt you and me and the (General) Post!

* * * * *

WILLIAM HENRY SMITH.

BORN, JUNE 24, 1825.  DIED, OCTOBER 6, 1891.

  O’er-busy Death, your scythe of late seems reaping
    Swiftly our heads of State;
  The wise who hold our England’s weal in keeping,
    The gentle and the great.

  GRANVILLE is gone; and now another Warden
    Falls with the fading leaf,
  Leaving at Hatfield sorrow, and at Hawarden
    Scarcely less earnest grief.

  All mourn the Man whose simple steadfast spirit
    Made hearty friends of all. 
  Whilst manhood like to his her sons inherit
    England need fear no fall.