“Be under no apprehension,” was the reply.  “I have a strong desire to shorten the life of a certain person, but have not the nerve to do it.  If I ever succeed, will it be a case deserving capital punishment?”

The Lawyer pondered a moment, and then replied.  “I have no wish to offer my counsel; but, as you have exhausted my time for consideration, I would propose that you should try the matter for yourself.  Become intoxicated, put yourself within the clutches of the law, and then see whether his Lordship will assume the black cap.”

“You are very good,” returned the would-be homicide, “but I have one difficulty.  When I make up my mind to remove a person by unconventional means (for choice, a carving-knife), and consume the necessary amount of alcohol to insure intoxication—­”

“Yes,” interjected the Lawyer, who had now opened the outer door.

“I find, on reaching intoxication, that I have entirely forgotten the identity of the man I have marked for my victim.  Then I have got to grow sober before I can remember who it is.  Annoying, isn’t it?”

And, wishing the Eminent Counsel a pleasant holiday, the visitor disappeared into the Inner Temple.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  AT THE SOUTH SEA-SIDE.]

* * * * *

THE HAT TO THE PARASOL.

(A SCHERZO IN NOBS AND STICKS.)

[Illustration]

  Reflection polished of highbred
    And unreflecting graces,
  I scintillate o’er STREPHON’s head
    At gala, rout or races;
  Mine is the black but comely blend,
    And mine the crowning touches
  That so demurely recommend
    The dandy to the duchess.

  Out on thee, cruel Parasol,
    Of lace, the pearl, and satin;
  And glinting like a fairy doll
    With many a burnished patin;
  Cool, charming as the dainty dame
    Who twirls thy coromandel;
  Thou flauntest proudly since thy name,
    Like hers, can boast its handle!

  The cynosure of wondering beaux,
    I boast a soul above thee;
  No fate can mar my calm repose,
    Or make me cease to love thee;
  Supreme above the common tile,
    My own affronts unheeding,
  I bow and compliment and smile,
    The Chesterfield of breeding.

  Out on thee, trinket idly swayed! 
    Could any courtier dare see,
  Through such perfections so displayed,
    The mere “Belle Dame sans merci”? 
  Could man believe a thing so soft,
    So framed for gentle passion,
  Might wound, and wound not once but oft
    The jaunty glass of fashion?

  Yet sooth it is; and here I stand
    A martyr to my tenets—­
  That orthodoxy smooth and grand
    Of LINCOLN’s fane and BENNETT’s;
  Unruffled once and unperplexed,
    Collapsing now like jelly,
  And but a sermon on the text
    Sic transit lux capelli.