STUDIES FROM THE NEW-DE.--The rage for "New"-ness, which commenced with the New Humour, is extending to the theatres. _The New Boy_ now has for a competitor _The New Woman_. What matters, so long as neither is a Nui-S'ance? * * * "Finest English!" "By their fruits ye shall know them," these vendors of peaches, Tomatoes, and cob-nuts, and currants and cherries; But what we yet lack is the wisdom that teaches Detection of fraudulent fruits, nuts, and berries, Which come from abroad, to the Britisher's table, All marked "Finest English!" that lying old label! A Trade Mark _is_ wanted--to badge these false brutes, That BULL may not only know them but their fruits. * * * THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.--_Cot_-age (Infancy), _Trot_-age (Nursery Toddler), _Hot_-age (Youth), _Shot_-age (Sport), _Knot_-age (Matrimonial), "_Pot_"-age (Celebrity), and _Dot_-age (Senility). * * * THE REAL FALL OF MAN.--Falling in love! * * * * * [Illustration: HOLIDAY CHARACTER STUDIES. _Mrs. Stanley Bounderson_ (née _Martha Fullalove, the Liverpool heiress_). "WHAT WOULD _DOADY_ DO, IF HIS LOVING LITTLE WIFEY DIDN'T CARRY HIS GREAT HEAVY WATERPROOF FOR HIM WHEN IT LEAVES OFF RAINING, AND HE WANTS TO SMOKE?" _Mr. Stanley Bounderson (alias Doady)._ "HE'D CARRY IT HIMSELF, I SUPPOSE!" _Jones, Q.C. (aside to Mrs. Jones)._ "YES; AND BE TWICE AS FOND OF HIS LITTLE WIFEY INTO THE BARGAIN, YOU BET!" [_Which is best, to love much, like Mrs. S. B, or be much loved, like Mrs. J.?_] * * * * * [Illustration: DON'T "COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS"! MR. P. (_sleepily_). "GO AWAY--GO AWAY!--I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU!"] * * * * * DON'T "COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS"! OR, THE SLEEPY SAGE AND THE BLAMEFUL ETHIOPIANS. _A Sea-side Sketch in September._ SCENE--_A Sea-shore in holiday time._ PRESENT--A Sleepy Sage _in holiday attire_. _Sleepy Sage (soliloquises)._ "Here cease more questions," as my prototype _Prospero_ says. Why, cert'nly! Here cease--for the time being--_all_ questions, especially political ones, "burning" ones, as the perorating parrots of Party controversy--confound 'em!--call them. Question me no questions! Ask me no questions, and I'll give you no snubs. "Thou art inclined to sleep," continues _Prospero_. I am. "'Tis a good dulness And give it way."