however, failed to count (as an old wag, with a taste for ancient jests, observed to a brother droll), because the Gallic nobleman got killed immediately after the ceremony? Need I hint that Mr. GLENNEY was falsely accused of murder, to be rescued at the right moment by the ever-useful and forgiving WARNER? Need I say that Mr. HENRY PETTITT was cheered to the echo for his piece, and Sir AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS for his stage management? No, for other chronicles have given the news already; and it is also superfluous to describe the fun of those excellent comedians, Mr. HARRY NICHOLLS and Miss FANNY BROUGH. All I can say is, if you want to see a good piece, well mounted, and capitally acted all round, why go to Old Drury, and you will agree with me (and the old wag with a taste for ancient jests) that Sir AUGUST-US might add September, October, November, and December to his signature, as _A Sailor's Knot_ seems likely to remain tied to the Knightly Boards until it is time to produce the Christmas Pantomime. So heave away, my hearties, and good luck to you! * * * * * SONGS FOR THE PRO. AND CON. THEOSOPHICAL CONTROVERSIALISTS.--"_All round Mahatmas_," "_He's a jolly good Chela!_" "Row, _Brothers_, Row!" and "_Why did my 'Masters' sell me?_" * * * * * [Illustration: CRICKETANA. YOUNG LADIES V. BOYS. _Fair Batter_ (_ætat._ 18). "NOW, JUST LOOK HERE, ALGY JONES--NONE OF YOUR PATRONAGE! YOU _DARE_ TO BOWL TO ME WITH YOUR LEFT HAND AGAIN, AND I'LL BOX YOUR EARS!"] * * * * * "NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH." _A SCENE VERY FREELY ADAPTED FROM "THE CRITIC."_ _Enter Mr. PUNCH, First Commissioner of Police, Inspector, and Constables._ _Commissioner_. Oh! very valiant Constables: one is the Inspector himself, the others are ordinary P.C.'s. And now I hope you shall hear some better language. I was obliged to be plain and intelligible in my manifesto, because there was so much matter-of-fact ground for remonstrance, and even chiding; but still, 'i faith, I am proud of my men, who, in point of fact, are fine fellows. _Mr. P._ Unquestionably! But let us listen--unobserved, if so it may be. _Inspector_. How's this, my lads! What cools your usual zeal, And makes your helméd valour down i' the mouth? Why dimly glimmers that heroic flame Whose reddening blaze, by civic spirit fed, Should be the beacon of a happy Town? Can the smart patter of a Bobby's tongue Thus stagnate in a cold and prosy converse, Or freeze in oathless inarticulateness? No! Let not the full fountain of your valour Be choked by mere official wiggings, or Your prompt consensus of prodigious swearing Be checked by the philanthropists' foaming wrath, Or high officialdom's hostility! _Mr. P._ There it is, Mr. Commissioner; they admit your by no means soft impeachment. _Commissioner_. Nay, listen yet awhile!