_Prisoner._ Merely this, that the man who last night broke into the jeweller's shop was not myself but another. I had nought to do with the crime. The constable has sworn that the caitiff had pea-green hair. Now I have not pea-green hair; my locks are black. _Magistrate._ Assertion is not proof. By the anthropometrical system we can spot you. Look at yourself in the glass and you will see that your hair _is_ pea-green. _Prisoner._ You are wrong, Sir. You see my curls are of raven black. (_Removes his wig._) Am I not right? Am I not entitled to release? _Magistrate._ Certainly. Officers, do your duty. Release your prisoner! [_The accused is liberated, and, in the company of some trusted pals, leaves the Court without a stain upon his character, and with the intention of doing a little more burgling before he is many hours older. Curtain._ * * * * * On reading a "Smart" Novel. Heavy moralities, _à la_ SARAH GRAND, Are tedious oft, and trivial to boot; But some who write of Vice with a "a light hand," Merit the impact of a heavy foot. * * * * * [Illustration: A SEPARATE IRISH CHAMBER! (_After a rough Sketch by the Right Hon. J. Ch-mb-rl-n!_) ["Since the defeat of the Home Rule Bill they (the Irish Party) have all been engaged in blackening each other's characters, and painting each other's portraits; and I venture to say that the result of that is not a gallery of pictures, but a _Chamber of Horrors_."]] * * * * * THE COMPLAINT OF THE MODERN LOVER. My peerless but progressive Fair, To you my heart I proffer. Time was when one knew where you were, And how to make an offer. Now, all too swiftly you advance For Damon to pursue you. Take pity on his ignorance, And tell him _how_ to woo you! If strong on Woman's Rights you are, Upon her wrongs I'll ponder: I'll win for you a _Wanderjahr_, If I with you may wander. Or does Humanity enthrall? Before the summer passes I'll run a moral Music Hall To renovate the Masses. Say, shall I write to you in verse Of metre strange and frantic, Which by neglect of barriers Proves genius gigantic? Is modern fiction dear to you? In scandal while I grovel, I will endeavour to outdo Its most pernicious novel! Belovèd, of _which_ patent creed Shall I uplift the banner? By telepathy shall I plead, Or in the usual manner? If after Occult Truth you grope, Though now I'm no Mahatma, From earthly bonds I yet might hope-- For you--to free my Atma! Shall I by Geomancy show Your lot and mine united, The sign of _Acquisitio_ Foretelling love requited? Or shall I from the planets prove That long before I knew you Our fates were linked? My modern love, Oh, tell me _how_ to woo you! * * * * *