That Mr. Gilbert himself had some mistrust of his own passion for logical paradoxes may be inferred from the fact that the following passage has, from the first, been omitted in the performance: _Rod._ It’s not too late, is it? _Han._ Oh Roddy! (_bashfully_). _Rod._ I’m quite respectable now, you know. _Han._ But you’re a ghost, ain’t you? _Rod._ Well yes――a kind of ghost. _Han._ But what would be my legal _status_ as a ghost’s wife? _Rod._ It would be a very respectable position. _Han._ But I should be the wife of a dead husband, Roddy! _Rod._ No doubt. _Han._ But the wife of a dead husband is a widow, Roddy _Rod._ I suppose she is. _Han._ And a widow is at liberty to marry again, Roddy! _Rod._ Dear me, yes――that’s awkward. I never thought of that. _Han._ No, Roddy――I thought you hadn’t. _Rod._ When you’ve been a ghost for a considerable time it’s astonishing how foggy you become! The acting copy now also dispenses with the equally ingenious quibbles which appeared to give offence to the audience on the first night, as follows:―― _Robin._ Stop a bit――both of you. _Rod._ This intrusion is unmannerly. _Han._ I’m surprised at you. _Robin._ I can’t stop to apologise――an idea has just occurred to me. A Baronet of Ruddygore can only die through refusing to commit his daily crime. _Rod._ No doubt. _Robin._ Therefore, to refuse to commit a daily crime is tantamount to suicide! _Rod._ It would seem so. _Robin._ But suicide is, itself, a crime――and so, by your own showing, you ought none of you to have ever died at all! _Red._ I see――I understand! We are all practically alive! _Robin._ Every man jack of you! _Rod._ My brother ancestors! Down from your frames! (_The Ancestors descend._) You believe yourselves to be dead――you may take it from me that you’re not, and an application to the Supreme Court is all that is necessary to prove that you never ought to have died at all! (_The Ancestors embrace the Bridesmaids._) From the omission of this conversation it now follows that the “ancestors,” having once returned to their picture frames, remain there. ――――:o:―――― AN APPEAL, AFTER E. A. POE. Once upon a midnight dreary, Gilbert pondered weak and weary, Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for, When a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing, As of some one madly clinging to the bell at his front door; “It is D’Oyly Carte,” he muttered, “ringing at my big front door, Merely this, and nothing more.”