In any case, where do they expect to go to?

* * * * *

EXCESSIVE EXTRAVAGANCE.--The ladies' bonnets are all "running to
waist."

* * * * *

[Illustration: A CAPITAL IDEA FOR THE "EUGENIES."

_Frederick._ "GOOD GRACIOUS, ANGELICA, YOU DON'T MEAN TO GO OUT WITH
YOUR HAIR IN THAT STYLE?"

_Angelica._ "INDEED, SIR, I DO. IT'S EXTREMELY CLASSICAL, AND TAKEN FROM
THE 'IONIC.'"]

* * * * *

A LITERARY MILLIONAIRE.

Nobody expects to hear of a Literary Millionaire in England, unless it
be the author of a Million of Facts, or a Million Nuts to Crack for
Christmas. In France, however, authors are more fortunate, for SCRIBE,
the celebrated dramatist, has just purchased an estate, for which he has
given upwards of ten thousand pounds sterling. Fancy an English
dramatist purchasing, or even succeeding to any estate whatever, except,
perhaps, man's estate, though even this he scarcely ever seems to reach,
for he seldom appears to arrive at years of discretion.

We wonder that poor SCRIBE can feel secure in the enjoyment of his
purchase, without being under the apprehension that some English
translator or adapter will attempt to translate the property and adapt
it to his own use in some way or other. The French author has been
accustomed to have all his plots mercilessly seized, and why should not
his ground plots be subjected to the same piratical process? SCRIBE is
the author of his own fortune, and we shall not be astonished to find
some of our British dramatists--from mere habit--attempting to
appropriate the proceeds of his authorship, by claiming a portion of the
fortune he has realised. If some of our playwrights should ever purchase
estates, we may be sure they would be "copy"-hold, inasmuch as nothing
original--not even an original lease--could be expected at their hands.

* * * * *

A HOWL FROM THE HIPPOPOTAMUS.

AIR--"_I'm a Broken-hearted Gardener._"

I'm a hippish Hippopotamus, and don't know what to do,
For the public is inconstant and a fickle one too;
It smiled once upon me, and now I'm quite forgot.
Neglected in my bath, and left to go to pot.
And it's oh! oh! out of joint is my nose,
It's a nasty Ant-eater to whom every one goes.

He is my abhorrence, I think him quite a hum,
He's worse than that Marine Vi-va-ri-um;
He beats the Knowsley beaste