The programme, by the way, contained one or two other similar eccentricities. Miss ST. JOHN was announced as inquiring in a song of BEHREND'S, "Why do your big tears _fears_ fall, Daddy?"--hardly a fair question to be addressed to any parent. Fortunately she preferred to sing the line in a less enigmatical form, but the gifted author of _Daddy_, should insist on correcting his own proofs next time. Then we had a "descriptive Piece for Orchestra,"--_The Bulgarian Patrol_, in which the melody began faintly, and came nearer and nearer with the clank of metal, till it gradually died away again in the distance. "Oh, wot a novelty!" as I heard a street-vendor remark the other day concerning the "panorammer of the Lord Mayor's Show," he was offering to a dubious public. But the public at Her Majesty's applauded the _Bulgarian Patrol_ as impartially as they did his Turkish forerunner. (_Signed_) A. BOUTIGO JONES. * * * * * ADVICE GRATIS.--Young HOFFMANN is Hoff! Gone from our gaze, perhaps, with a COOK'S Ticket. But, anyhow, the Juvenile Phenomenal Pianist has gone. Peace go with him--let him rest. Don't allow him to get within half a mile of a piano, or he is sure to go to pieces. All work and all play will make young HOFFMANN a dull Young Man. Beware, O Parents and Guardians, in time. * * * * * _À PROPOS_ OF A CERTAIN ILLUSTRIOUS SUFFERER.--Who shall decide when Doctors disagree? The Patient. This is the sad Moral, MACKENZIE. [Illustration: THE GRAND OLD _JANUS_. "QUITE RIGHT, CONSTABLE!" | "QUITE WRONG, CONSTABLE!!"] * * * * * 'ARRY ON LAW AND ORDER! [Illustration] DEAR CHARLIE, Ascuse shaky scribble; I'm writing this letter in bed. Went down to the Square, mate,--last Sunday,--and got a rare clump on the 'ed. Beastly shame, and no error, my pippin! Me cop it! It's too jolly rum. When a reglar Primroser gits toko, one wonders wot next there will come. It wos all Bobby's blunder, in course; Mister BURLEIGH and me was "mistook." _I_ went jest for a lark, nothink else, and wos quietly slinging my 'ook, Wen a bit of a rush came around me, a truncheon dropped smack on my nob, And 'ere I ham, tucked up in bed, with a jug of 'ot spruce on the 'ob. 'Ard lines, ain't it, CHARLIE, old hoyster? A barney's a barney, dear boy, And you know that a squeege and a skylark is wot I did always enjoy. A street-rush is somethink splendacious to fellers of sperrit like me, But dints and diakkylum plaster will spile the best sport, dontcher see.