TO CAPITALISTS.

It is rumoured that Macready is desirous of disposing of his “manners” previous to becoming manager, when he will have no further occasion for them.  They are in excellent condition, having been very little used, and would be a desirable purchase for any one expecting to move within the sphere of his management.

* * * * *

REASON’S NE PLUS ULTRA.

  A point impossible for mind to reach—­
  To find the meaning of a royal speech.

* * * * *

AN APPROPRIATE NAME.

The late Queen of the Sandwich Islands, and the first convert to Christianity in that country, was called Keopalani, which means—­“the dropping of the clouds from Heaven.”

EPIGRAM ON THE ABOVE.

  This name’s the best that could be given,
    As will by proof be quickly seen;
  For, “dropping from the clouds of Heaven,”
    She was, of course, the raining Queen.

* * * * *

CAUTION TO SPORTSMEN.

Our gallant friend Sibthorp backed himself on the 1st of September to bag a hundred leverets in the course of the day.  He lost, of course; and upon being questioned as to his reason for making so preposterous a bet, he confessed that he had been induced to do so by the specious promise of an advertisement, in which somebody professed to have discovered “a powder for the removal of superfluous hairs.”

* * * * *

OUT OF SEASON.

A LYRIC, BY THE LAST MAN—­IN TOWN.

  Chaos returns! no soul’s in town! 
    And darkness reigns where lamps once brightened;
  Shutters are closed, and blinds drawn down—­
    Untrodden door-steps go unwhitened! 
  The echoes of some straggler’s boots
    Alone are on the pavement ringing
  While ’prentice boys, who smoke cheroots,
    Stand critics to some broom-girl’s singing.

  I went to call on Madame Sims,
    In a dark street, not far from Drury;
  An Irish crone half-oped the door. 
    Whose head might represent a fury. 
  “At home, sir?” “No! (whisper)—­but I’ll presume
    To tell the truth, or know the raison. 
  She dines—­tays—­lives—­in the back room,
    Bekase ’tis not the London saison.”

  From thence I went to Lady Bloom’s,
    Where, after sundry rings and knocking,
  A yawning, liveried lad appear’d,
    His squalid face his gay clothes mocking
  I asked him, in a faltering tone—­
    The house was closed—­I guess’d the reason—­
  “Is Lady B.’s grand-aunt, then, gone?”—­
    “To Ramsgate, sir!—­until next season!”