Chorus of Stu. Why, certainly!

Em. of the Emp. What, in the Liberty of the Fatherland?

Chorus of Stu. To be sure—­why not?

Em. of the Emp. And the Prosperity of the People—­mind you, only the People?

Chorus of Stu. Exactly—­don’t you?

Em. of the Emp. And further.  You wish well to the Freedom of the Press?

Chorus of Stu. That was our toast!  What next?

Em. of the Emp. (producing staff of authority).  That, in the name of His Majesty, I arrest you!

Chorus of Stu. (astounded).  Arrest us!  Why?

Em. of the Emp. Because, if you believe in the Liberty of the Fatherland, ask for the Prosperity of the People, and admire the Freedom of the Press, you must be drunk!—­very drunk!  In virtue of the new law (which punishes the crime of intoxication), away with them!

    [The Students are loaded with chains, and imprisoned,
    for an indefinite period, in the lowest dungeon beneath the
    castle’s moat.  Curtain.

* * * * *

OUR HUMOROUS COMPOSER.—­What Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN said or sung before deciding on taking a Villa at Turbie, on the Riviera,—­“Turbie, or not Turbie, that is the question.”  He is now hard at work writing a new Opera (founded, we believe, on Cox and Box), and “I am here,” he says, in his quaint way, “because I don’t want to be dis-turbie’d.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE “RETURNED EMPTY.”]

Returned Prodigal sings, to the tune of “Randy Pandy, O!":—­

  Well, here I’m back from Mashonaland! 
    Mine’s hardly a proud position. 
  My ideas in going were vaguely grand,
    And—­look at my present condition!

  I may cool my heels on this packing-case;
    ’Tis a little mite like me, Sir! 
  Say my “candid friends,” as they watch my face,
    “O.I.C.U.R.M.T., Sir!”

    I’m the prodigal GRANDY-PANDY, oh! 
    Returned to my native landy, oh! 
  With a big moustache, and but little cash,
    Though the latter would come in handy, oh! 
    Like the nursery Jack-a-dandy, oh! 
    I may “love plum-cake and candy,” oh! 
  But tarts and toffies, or sweets of office,
    Seem not—­at present—­for GRANDY, oh!

  Well, I chucked them up,—­was it nous or pique?
    Is the prodigal worst of ninnies? 
  The fatted calf, and the better half
    Of his father’s love—­and guineas,—­
  May fall to his share as he homeward lies,
    When the husks have lost their flavour.
  My calf?  Well, it does not greet my eyes,
    And I don’t yet sniff its savour. 
      I’m a prodigal GRANDY-PANDY, oh! 
      Retired from Mashona-landy, oh! 
    I’m left like a laggard.