After this came an explanation. The genius noticing that when a clever man dies there is always a run upon his works, died himself. At any rate that was the impression in the minds of everyone save a friendly executor, who collected the money for his estate. Then the friendly executor paid the proceeds to the imaginary deceased. "And shall you resume work?" asked the Sculptor, after he had recovered from his astonishment. "Not I. You need be under no alarm that anyone will compare your portrait with the original. I have had enough of work, and with my recently accumulated capital, shall try my hand at speculation. Good bye, if you are in my neighbourhood, look me up. You will find me anywhere between the Arctic and Antarctic Zones." And then he went over to America, put his money into wooden nutmegs, and promptly became a millionaire. * * * * * THE "ONE-HORSE" HOUSEHOLDER. (_A Solemn Social Ditty._) [Illustration] In a region where freshly-built suburbs lie ending 'Mid plots of the glum market-gardener's ground,-- Its bare, tenantless frontages gloomily blending With grime and neglect that are rampant all round, Runs the street, so forlorn it could not be forlorner, Where, looking straight down a "no thoroughfare" road, With the blaze of a new public-house at the corner, The sad "One-horse" Householder finds his abode! 'Tis a wilderness wild of dread dilapidations, Where one feeble gas-light illumines the street, While right over the way fourteen kitchen foundations Of houses unfinished the aching eye greet! How he first chanced to find it his friends often wonder. No omnibus runs within miles of his door,-- Nor a train, be it either above-ground or under, Wakes life with its thrice welcome whistle and roar. If you call at that house, you'll be knocking and ringing, Till, with forcible language, you're leaving the place, When a slavey, who comes up the hall gaily singing, Flings open the door, with a smut on her face. You ask "if they're in," and she looks you all over,-- It's clear she's quite new to an afternoon call,-- P'raps takes you for _Turpin_, _Bill Sikes_, the _Red Rover_; But she says that she'll "see," and leaves you in the hall. You are ushered upstairs, which a Dutch carpet graces, To a drawing-room, curtained at threepence a yard, Where Japanese gimcracks appear in odd places, Though ASPINALL clearly has proved their trump card; For here it envelopes a plain kitchen-table, There a weak wicker lounge which invites not repose; And at length you are seated, as well as you're able, On a folding arm-chair that half threatens to close.