Myself Lady Macbeth, with legs nearly a yard asunder—­face and throat outstretched, and covered with a plentiful white lather—­right arm brandishing aloft one of Paget’s best razors, and left thumb and forefinger grasping my nose.  In front of me stood my faithful Hindoo valet, Verasawmy by name, with a soap-box in one hand, while his other held up to his master’s gaze a small looking-glass, over the top of which his black face, surmounted by a red turban, was peering at me with grave and earnest attention.

A wondering pause of a few seconds prevailed, and then one loud, rending, and continuous peal of laughter and screams shook the universal house.

As if smitten with sudden catalepsy, I was without power to move a single muscle of my body, and for the space of two minutes remained in a stupor in the same attitude—­immovable, rooted, frozen to the spot where I stood.  At length recovering at once my senses and power of motion, I bounded like a maniac from the stage, pursued by the convulsive roars of the spectators, and upsetting in my retreat the unlucky Verasawmy, who rolled down to the footlights, doubled up, and in a paroxysm of terror and dismay.

Lieutenant Frederick Gahagan had good reason to bless his stars that in that moment of frenzy I did not encounter him, the detestable origin of the abomination that had just been heaped upon my head.  I am no two-legged creature if I should not have sacrificed him on the spot with my razor, and so merited the gratitude of his regimental juniors by giving them a step.

I have never since, either in public or private life, appeared in petticoats again.

* * * * *

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—­No. 14.

  Oft have I fondly heard thee pour
    Love’s incense in mine ear! 
  Oft bade thy lips repeat once more
    The words I deemed sincere! 
  But—­though the truth this heart may break—­
  I know thee false “and no mistake!”

  My fancy pictured to my heart
    Thy boasted passion, pure;
  Dreamed thy affection, void of art,
    For ever would endure. 
  Alas! in vain my woe I smother! 
  I find thee very much “more t’other!”

  ’Twas sweet to hear you sing of love,
    But, when you talk of gold,
  Your sordid, base design you prove,
    And—­for it must be told—­
  Since from my soul the truth you drag—­
  “You let the cat out of the bag!”

* * * * *

STARVATION STATISTICS FOR SIR ROBERT PEEL

That the people of this country are grossly pampered there can be no doubt, for the following facts have been ascertained from which it will be seen that there have been instances of persons living on much coarser fare than the working classes in England.