of by a number of persons called the Board, who are said to taste it and see that it is good; and if there is any left, which may occasionally happen, the poor are allowed to finish it.  This valuable privilege is secured by tickets; and these tickets are found to be forged to a very large amount—­some say indeed to the amount of 14,000 basins.  It is not usual to pay off these soup tickets, but a sort of interest can be had upon them by standing just over the railings of the house in Red Lion Square, when the Secretary’s dinner is being cooked or served up, and a certain amount of savoury steam is then put into circulation.  The house has been besieged all day with “innocent holders,” who, on giving their tickets in, cannot get them back again.  The genuine tickets are known by the stamp, which is a soup plate rampant, and a spoon argent,—­the latter being the emblem of the subscribers.

A great deal is said of a new company, whose object is to take advantage of a well-known fact in chemistry.  It is known that diamonds can be resolved into charcoal, as well as that charcoal can be ultimately reduced to air; and a company is to be founded with the view of simply reversing the process.  Instead of getting air from diamonds, their object will be to get diamonds from air; and in fact the chief promoters of it have generally drawn from that source the greater part of their capital.  The whole sum for shares need not be paid up at once; but the Directors will be satisfied in the first instance with 10 per cent. on the whole sum to be raised from the adventurers.  It is intended to declare a dividend at the earliest possible period, which will be directly the first diamond has been made by the new process.

* * * * *

CON.  BY SIBTHORP AND STULTZ.

Why are batteries and soldiers like the hands and feet of tailors?—­Because the former make breaches (breeches), and the latter pass through them.

* * * * *

THE ROMANCE OF A TEACUP.

SIP THE THIRD.  GOS-SIP.

  That hour devoted to thy vesper “service”—­
    Dulcet exhilaration! glorious tea!—­
  I deem my happiest.  Howsoe’er I swerve, as
    To mind or morals, elsewhere, over thee
  I am a perfect creature, quite impervious
    To care, or tribulation, or ennui—­
  In fact, I do agnize to thee an utter
  Devotion even to the bread and butter.

  The homely kettle hissing on the bar—­
    (Urns I detest, irrelevant pomposities)—­
  The world beyond the window-blinds, as far
    As I can thrust it—­this defines what “cosset” is—­
  What woe that rhyme such scene of bliss must mar! 
    But rhyme, alas! is one of my atrocities;
  In common with those bards who have the scratch
  Of writing, and are all right with Catnach.