THOUGHTS—NOT WORTH A PENNY.

(Fragment from the Burlesque-Romance of "No Cents; or, The New Criticism.")

The Critic of the new cult visited a tailor's establishment, and was delighted with all he saw. There were coats, and vests, and other garments.

"I make some fifty per cent. profit," said the proprietor of the establishment, stroking his moustache with a hand adorned with many a diamond ring. "Of course it causes some labour, thought, and time—but I get my money for my trouble."

"And why not?" replied the Critic. "Are you not worth it? Do you not devote your energy to it? Must you not live?"

And, having said this, the Reviewer visited another place of business. This time he had entered the office of a Stockbroker.

"Of course it is rather anxious work sometimes," said the alternative representative of a bull and a bear. "But it pays in the long run. I manage to keep up a house in South Kensington, and a carriage and pair, out of my takings."

"Again, why not?" responded the Critic. "You have a wife and family. Must you not live?" Then the Critic visited Cheesemongers, and Bankers, Solicitors, and Upholsterers. At last, he reached the modest abode of an Author.

"Ah!" said he, in a tone of contempt; "you write books and plays! Why?

"Why, to sell them," answered the Poet, in a faltering voice.

"Sell them!" echoed the Critic, in tones of thunder. "What do you mean by that?"

"Why, one must live!"

"Nonsense! The universe can get on very well without anyone. You might be dispensed with; and, if it comes to that, so might I. Yes, I am not wanted."

"Quite true!" murmured the Author; "indeed, you are not!"

"And, after all, what is your work? Mere brain action! Anyone who could wield a pen could do it for you! And you expect to be paid, as if you were a tradesman—a Tailor or an Upholsterer!"

"But am I not a man and a brother? Do I not get hungry, like anyone else? Have I not a wife and family?"

"That is entirely beside the question," persisted the Critic. "All you have to consider are the claims of Art. Now, Art is not to be served by paid votaries."

"Then I suppose am unworthy," replied the Author, mournfully shaking his head. Well, let us exchange places. You shall be the Author, and I will be the Critic."

"Very sorry, my dear friend, but that is an unjust division. By that means you would receive all the money."

"And why not? If I am to write, why am I not to be paid?"

"Because it is beneath the dignity of an Author to write with a view to obtaining cash."

"Indeed! Well, I am tired of work. You have nothing to do but criticise. Let us swap positions."

"Are you mad?" shouted the Critic. "Why, I am fond of my work. You don't imagine I am going to give up my salary to you? Why, it would demoralise you. I know the drawback of the system." And the Author applied himself to the study of the New Criticism, and it seemed as great a mystery to him as ever.

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

Mount Street, Grosvenor Square.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Nothing but a keen sense of duty, coupled with the possession of the smartest thing in waterproof overcoats ever seen, would have tempted me to go racing last week; but the claims of Hurst Park were not to be denied, and my reward was, assisting at perhaps the most successful meeting ever held there—(the backers "went down" to a man, and so did the excellent lunch—so what more could you want?)—and, in addition, being told by at least twenty people, the name of the winner of the Cesarewitch!—they all named different horses, so that one is almost certain to be able to say next week, in that annoying tone of voice people adopt after a successful prophecy—(this does not apply to Just Prophets, who are notoriously modest in success)—"There! I told you it was a certainty for Whiteface!—couldn't lose!—of course you backed it, after what I told you!"—which of course was the very reason why you hadn't backed it; however—as he may really be able to tell you something on a future occasion, you put on a ghastly smile, and say—"Oh, yes—I had a trifle on—but my money was on Blackfoot before you told me—but it got me out!"—and it does "get you out" too, for nothing is more annoying than to be told you "ought to have won a good stake!"

However, with regard to the great race next week, I am fortunately able to set aside all "information received," because I have had a dream!—not one of the ordinary lobster-salad kind of racing-dreams one reads about—(naturally I should not have an inferior kind, having ordered in a stock of the "best selected," one to be taken every night at bed-time)—in which the dreamer only sees one horse—but a most complicated affair, from which it will be an easy task for anyone skilled in dream-lore to extract the winner!

Well—I had been rather upset during the day, so to quiet my nerves, on reaching home, I took, before going to bed, just a little Golden Drop of Brandy as an Insurance against restlessness—went to sleep, and dreamt that my friends Lady Villikins and Madame d'Albany, with their maid Helen Ware, were attacked on their way from Illsley to Weymouth, by some Dare Devil of a Circassian, whose horse's hoofs rang in a Metallic manner on the road! They were rescued in the pass of Ben Avon by the gallant Burnaby, who after a long Rigmarole, squared their captor, Roy Neil, with a Hanover Jack, and acted as their Pilot to safe quarters at Versailles! There!—that was my dream—and I think it points most conclusively to the winner; and, anyone unable to pick the right one, need only back them all, and there you are!—or at least you may be. If they don't care to do this, they can avail themselves of my verse selection—which I did not dream—and which, therefore, is quite as reliable.

Yours, devotedly, LADY GAY.

Cesarewitch Selection.

P.S.—This advice is not intended for confirmed Topers.

"SUR LE TAPIS."—If the new Carpet Knight, Sir BLONDEL MAPLE—which is our troubadourish way of spelling it—be exceptionally successful on the Turf, isn't he just the man to "make his 'pile' and cut it"?

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Not the least interesting figure in the circle of The Racing Life of Lord George Bentinck, which Messrs. BLACKWOOD produce in a handsome volume, is that of JOHN KENT, who, under the editorship of Mr. FRANK LAWLEY, tells the story. KENT was trainer to Lord GEORGE during the period when, to quote the characteristic Disraelian phrase, his Lordship became "Lord Paramount of the Turf." It is forty-four years since Lord GEORGE was found lying dead on his face in the water-meadows near Welbeck Abbey. Yet KENT remembers all about him—his six feet of height, his long black frock-coat, his velvet waistcoat, his gold chain, and his "costly cream-coloured satin scarf of great length, knotted under his chin, with a gold pin stuck in it." These scarves cost twenty shillings a-piece, and it was one of Lord GEORGE's fancies never to wear one a second time. When he died whole drawersful of them were found, and honest JOHN KENT purchased half-a-dozen from his Lordship's valet, who seems to have kept his eye on them. Did he ever wear them on Sundays? My Baronite who has been reading the book trows not. JOHN KENT knows his place better than that, and when he goes the way that masters and servants tread together, the scarves will doubtless be found tucked away in his chest of drawers. My Baronite is not able to take the same lofty view of the defunct nobleman who played at politics and worked at racing as does his faithful old servitor. Lord GEORGE seems to have been, as the cabman observed of the late JOHN FORSTER, "a harbitery gent," kind to those who faithfully serve him (as one is kind to a useful hound), but relentless to any who offended him or crossed his path. Moreover, whilst, as his biographer devoutly says, he purified the turf, he was not, upon occasion, above fighting blacklegs with their own weapons. The book gives clear glimpses of men and times which, less than half a century dead, will never live again. It pleasantly testifies that, though no man may be a hero to his valet, Lord GEORGE BENTINCK remains one in the eyes of his trainer.

The Baron not having read a three-volume novel for some considerable time, may safely affirm, instead of taking his oath, that Mrs. OLIPHANT's The Cuckoo in the Nest is one of the best he has come across for quite two months. It opens well, and if it drops a bit about the middle, there are all sorts of surprises yet in store for the reader, who, the Baron assures him or her, will be rewarded for his, or her, perseverance.

The Baron begs to recommend the latest volume of the Whitefriars Library, called King Zub, by W.H. POLLOCK. Zub is a wise poodle, and the waggish tale of the dog gives the name to the collection. The Fleeting Show is quite on a par with The Green Lady in a former collection by the same author, and such other stories as Sir Jocelyn's Cap and A Phantom Fish will delight those who, like the Baron, love the mixture as before of the weird and the humorous. In the Phantom Fish there is much local dialect, and The Baron coming across the expression, "a proper bender," is inclined to ask if this is not Zummerzetsheer for, and only applicable to, a running hare? The Baron remembers the expression well, though 'tis years since he heard it, and owns to being uncertain as to whether it is not Devonian or Cornish. That he heard it applied to a hare apparent he is prepared to make oath and say; but he is not in the least prepared to assert that it is not generally applied as an expression of admiration for adroitness in avoiding pursuit. "Be that as it may, give me King Zub and the other stories, a good fire, a glass of spiritual comfort, a cosy chair, and a soothing pipe, and I am prepared to spend a pleasant evening," says

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

(By Mr. Punch's own Grouse in the Gun-room.)

In our last (it is Mr. Punch who speaks), we indicated very briefly the conversational possibilities of the Gun. It must be observed, that this treatise makes no pretensions to be exhaustive. Something must, after all, be left to the ingenuity of the young shooter who desires to talk of sport. All that these hints profess, is to put him in the way of shining, if there is a certain amount of natural brightness to begin upon. The next subject will be—

Cartridges.

To a real talker, this subject offers an infinite variety of opportunities. First, you can begin to fight the battle of the powders, as thus:—

"What powder are you shooting with this year, CHALMERS?"

"Schultze."

"How do you find it kill?"

"Deadly—absolutely-deadly: best lot I've ever had."

You need not say anything more now. The discussion will get along beautifully without you, for you will have drawn, (1), the man who very much prefers E.C., which he warrants to kill at a distance no other powder can attain to; (2), the man who uses E.C. or Schultze for his right barrel, and always puts a black-powder cartridge into his left; (3), the detester of innovations, who means to go on using the good old black-powder for both barrels as long as he lives; and (4), the man who is trying an entirely new patent powder, infinitely superior to anything else ever invented, and is willing to give everybody, not only the address of the maker, but half a dozen cartridges to try.

You cannot make much of "charges" of powder. Good shots are dogmatic on the point, and ordinary shots don't bother their heads about it, trusting entirely to the man who sells them their cartridges. Still you might throw out, here and there, a few words about "drams" and "grains." Only, above all things, be careful not to mention drams in connection with anything but black powder, nor grains, except with reference to Schultze or E.C. A laboriously-acquired reputation as a scientific shot has been known to be ruined by a want of clearness on this important point.

"Shot." Conversationally much more valuable than powder. "Very few people agree," says a well-known authority; "as to what is the best size of shot to use, and many forget that the charge which will suit one gun, and one description of game, will not do as well for another. Usually, one gun will shoot better one size of shot than will another, and we may safely say, that large bores shoot large shot better than do smaller bores." This last sentence has the beautiful ring of a profound truism. Lay it by for use, and bring it out with emphasis in the midst of such disagreement and forgetfulness as are here alluded to. "If a shooter is a good shot," says the same classic, "he may use No. 6 early in the season, and only for partridges—afterwards, nothing but No. 5. To the average shot, No. 6 throughout the season." This sounds dreadfully invidious. If a good shot cannot kill grouse with No. 6, how on earth is a merely average shot to do the trick? But, in these matters, the conversationalist finds his opportunity. Only they must not be pushed too far. There was once a party of genial, light-hearted friends, who went out shooting. Early in the day, slight differences of opinion made themselves observed with reference to the size of shot. Lunch found them still more or less good-tempered, but each obstinately determined not to give way even by a fraction on the point under discussion.

Afterwards they began again. The very dogs grew ashamed of the noise, and went home. That afternoon there was peace in the world of birds—at least, on that particular shooting—and the next morning saw the shooting-parties of England reduced by one, which had separated in different dog-carts, and various stages of high dudgeon, for the railway station. So, please to be very, very careful. Use the methods of compromise. If you find your friend obstinately pinned to No. 5, when you have declared a preference for No. 6, meet him half-way, or even profess to be converted by his arguments. Or tell him the anecdote about the Irishman, who always shot snipe with No. 4, because, "being such a little bird, bedad, you want a bigger shot to get at the beggar." You can then inform him how you yourself once did dreadful execution among driven grouse in a gale of wind with No. 8 shot, which you had brought out by mistake. You may object that you never, as a matter of fact, did this execution, never having even shot at all with No. 8. Tush! you are puling. If you are going to let a conscientious accuracy stand in your way like this, you had better become dumb when sporting talk is flying about. Of course you must not exaggerate too much. Only bumptious fools do that, and they are called liars for their pains. But a little exaggeration, just a soupçon of romance, does no one any harm, while it relieves the prosaic dullness of the ordinary anecdote. So, swallow your scruples, and

DOE VERSUS ROE(DENT).

["The basements of the Royal Courts of Justice have lately been invaded by swarms of mice. They have become very audacious, and have penetrated into the Courts themselves, whose walls are lined with legal volumes, the leaves of which provide them with a rich feast."—Daily Paper.]

WHY THE FRENCH WON THE BOAT-RACE.

(Answers supplied by an Unprejudiced Briton.)

Because the English Eight had had no practice on the Seine.

Because the Londoners had had a fearful passage crossing the Channel.

Because they smashed their boat, and had to have it repaired.

Because the English steering might have been better.

Because the weather was intolerable, and chiefly affected the Englishmen.

Because the Londoners had no chance of pulling together.

Because the French knew the course better than the English.

Because the race should have been rowed weeks before.

Because the race should not have been rowed for months.

Because the British naturally liked to see the foreigners win.

And last (and least), because the French had by far the better crew!

ECCLESIASTICAL INTELLIGENCE.—The style, title, office, and dignity of Archbishop of Canterbury, with all appurtenances thereto belonging, with all emoluments, spiritualities and temporalities appertaining, have been conferred by letters patent, under supreme authority, according to Act V. Henricus Noster in such cases made and provided, on the Rev. Mr. VINCENT, in consequence of the retirement of the Right Rev. ARTHUR STIRLING from the said office; the duties of which he so recently and so effectively performed between the hours of ten-thirty and eleven-fifteen every night for several months at the Theatre Royal Lyceum. We are in a position to add, that his resignation of this high and valuable office, has not taken place in consequence of any question as to the validity or invalidity of orders ("not admitted after 7·30"), nor has this step been rendered imperative by reason of any "irregularity" in "properties" or "appointments."

☞ NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.