NO MORE LAW OFFICERS!--"An Automatic Recorder on the Forth Bridge" was a heading to a paragraph in the _St. James's_ last Saturday. The announcement must have startled Sir THOMAS CHAMBERS, Q.C. Heavens! If there is one Automatic Recorder in the North, why not another in the South? Automatic Recorders would be followed by Automatic Common Serjeants, and--Isn't it too awful! * * * * * [Illustration: RATHER A LARGE ORDER. _The Herr Professor_. "ACH--BEST MISS ROSY, VILL YOU KINDLY TURN ME OVER!"] * * * * * LOOKING FORWARD. (_EXTRACT FROM "THE DAILY PRIZE-FIGHTER," SEPTEMBER 24, 1900._) Yesterday morning LOO BOBBETT and BEN MOUSETRAP had an interview with Mr. PHEASANT, the Magistrate presiding in the North-West London Police Court. The approaches to the Court were crowded from an early hour. Amongst those in the street we noticed BILLY BLOWFROTH, and SAM SNEEZER, the well-known pot-boys from "The Glove and Wadding" and "The Tap o'Claret" Hotels, SHINY MOSES, AARON ISAACS, and SANDY the Sossidge (so-called by his friends on account of his appearance), the celebrated bankers from the West-end of Whitechapel, and a large gathering of the _élite_ of the Lambeth Road. Inside the Court the company was, if possible, even more select. Mr. TITAN CHAPEL, the proprietor of the Featherbed Club, was the first to arrive in his private brougham, and he was followed at short intervals by the Earl of ARRIEMORE, Lord TRIMI GLOVESON, Mr. TOOWITH YEW, Mr. BRANDIC OHLD, Mr. SPLITTS ODER, Mr. GINCOCK TALE, and Mr. ANGUS TEWBER, with a heap more of the best known patrons of sport in the Metropolis. Little time was cut to waste in the preliminaries, and it was generally acknowledged at the end of the day that no prettier set-to had been witnessed for a long time than that which took place at the North-West London Police Court. We append below some of the more salient portions of the evidence. _Inspector Chizzlem_. I produce a pair of gloves ordinarily used at London boxing matches. [_Produces them from his waistcoat pocket._ _Mr. Pheasant_ (_the Magistrate_). Pardon me. I don't quite understand. Were the gloves that you produce to be used at this particular competition? _Inspector Chizzlem_. No, your Worship. These are one ounce gloves. The gloves with which these men were to fight are known as "feather-weight" gloves. _Mr. Pheasant_. Ah, I see. Feather-weight, not feather-bed, I presume. (_Loud Laughter, in which both the accused joined._) Have you the actual gloves with you? _Mr. Titan Chapel_ (_from the Solicitor's table_). I have brought them, Sir. Here--dear me, what can I have done with them? I thought I had them somewhere about me. (_Pats his various pockets. A thought strikes him. He pulls out his watch_.) Ah, of course, how foolish of me! I generally carry them in my watch-case. [_Opens watch, produces them, and hands them up to Magistrate_.