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Khedive (moodily). Humph! Wish the Egyptian quarters were trustworthy." Grande action diplomatique? Quite makes one's mouth water!

Sultan. Doesn't it? The same infernal-but influential-news-sheet says: "The young KHEDIVE knows that not only would he meet with a personally kindly reception, but that the grievances he is known to be anxious to pour out would fall on ready ears." There, at least, the Giaour" rag" is right. Pour away, my ABBAS! "Keep your eye on your father-or Suzerain-and he will pull you through." [Winks and whiffs. Will he, though?

Khedive (whiffing and winking). And that Turkish Bodyguard ?

Sultan (warmly). At your service at any moment, my dear ABBAS!

Khedive (smoking furiously with closed eyes). Ah! if they would only let me alone, let me rule my subjects in my own Oriental way-as you do yours in Armenia, for example-then, indeed, I could have a good time, and plenty of treasure.

Sultan (significantly). Out of which my little formal trifle of Tribute might come easily and regularly-eh, ABBAS?

Khedive. Quite so, Padishah! Bah! These brutal, blundering Britishers don't understand the Art of Government as adapted to Eastern Ideas.

Sultan (soothingly). Well, never mind, ABBAS. We'll lay our heads together, anon, now you are here, and-who knows? Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves. Something like a "Turkish Occupation this- eh? And how do you like this Turkish tobacco ?

Khedive (blowing vigorously). Smokes easily, and makes a big cloud. In which I fancy I can see myself driving the British Lion out of the Nile Valley at the point of the bayonet.

Sultan (dreamily). And I picture myself comfortably replenishing my Treasury with that Tribute! Like music, ABBAS?

Khedive (uneasily). Ye-e-e-s. Why!

Sultan (promptly). Then I'll tip you something soothing.

I'll sing thee songs of Arabi,

And tales of far Cash ne-ar!

Strange yarns to move thee to a smile,

Or melt thee to a te-ar !

[Sings.

And dreams of delight shall hover bright,
And smoke-born vi-i-sions rise

Of artful "fake," which well may wake

Wild wonder in thine eyes.

I'll move thee to a smile

With dreams of far Cash ne-e-e-e-ar!
[Left dreaming.

LACONIC.

A VISION OF ROYALTY. (Written after a surfeit of the Illustrated Papers.) YE Royalties of England, how beautiful ye are ! The special artists claim you, they track you from afar. In uniforms and diamonds, with sceptre and with crown,' In many a picture-paper those artists set you down. And thus the British public may gaze upon its QueenThey make her small, but dignified, of most majestic mien. She smiles-the artist marks her; she frowns-the artist quails, And soothes himself by drawing H.R.H. the Prince of WALES. He draws him at foundation stones, a trowel in his hand (The point of silver trowels I ne'er could understand); He draws him opening railways, or turning sods of grass, And he draws him as a Colonel, in helmet and cuirasse. We see him dressed for London, a-riding in the RowI wonder if he ever finds his London pleasures slow; And we see him down at Sandringham, his country-home in Norfolk, Where the Royal pair are much beloved, especially by poor folk. And oft at public dinners, in Garter and in Star,

We see his Royal Highness enjoying his cigar.

I wish they wouldn't vary quite so much his Royal figure,
For they sometimes make him leaner, and sometimes make him bigger.
But, be that as it may, I feel that, while my life endures,

I know by heart my Prince's face, my future King's contours.

A stiff examination in the Prince of WALES I'd pass,
And in all his princely attitudes they'd give me a first-class.

The Duke of YORK, our Sailor Prince, I think I've got him pat;
I've never seen him face to face, but what's the odds of that?
In illustrated papers I have watched him every day

Since he went and popped the question to the pretty Princess MAY.
I've seen them plain or coloured in fifty different styles,
Just like a pair of turtle-doves, all bills and coos and smiles.
I never saw a turtle-dove that smiled upon its pet afore,
But he who writes of bridal pairs is bound to use the metaphor.

Oh, Princess MAY, oh, Princess MAY, in crayon or in oil you
Are loveable and beautiful, they can't avail to spoil you.
They did their worst, and did it well, those special-artist wretches,
To make you like a stolid block in all their special sketches.

So this, my meek petition, to those artists is addressed,
Give Royalties of every sort a little welcome rest.

I cannot bear my Royal ones-of loyalty I'm full-
To look like wax and sawdust, with limbs of cotton-wool.
And thus, when next you draw them (oh, may the time be long
To make them human beings will surely not be wrong.
And if you'll take a hint from me you'll earn a nation's thanks,
By drawing these prize princely ones a little less like blanks.

LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES.-Sala's Journal, full of interesting and entertaining matter, has lately been giving very sensible advice as to Palmistry, which is again in vogue. The Palmists appear to be doing so uncommonly well just now, that this year will be memorable, for them at least, as "the Palmy days" of chiromancy.

MRS. NICKLEBY IN THE CHAIR.

A Song of Sympathetic Suggestion.

["Poor Mrs. NICKLEBY, who had at no time been remarkable for the possession of a very clear understanding, had been reduced by the late changes in affairs to a most complicated state of perplexity....

I don't know what to think, one way or other, my dear,' said Mrs. NICKLEBY; 'NICHOLAS is so violent, and your uncle has so much composure, that I can only hear what he says, and not what NICHOLAS does. Never mind-don't let us talk any more about it.'...

"Now Mrs. NICKLEBY was not the sort of person to be told anything in a hurry, or rather to comprehend anything of peculiar delicacy or importance on a short notice....

"Anybody who had come in upon us suddenly would have supposed that I was confusing and distracting, instead of making things plainer; upon my word they would.'.

"I am very sorry indeed,' said Mrs. NICKLEBY. I am very sorry indeed for all this. I really don't know what would be the best to do, and that's the truth; ... but if it could be settled in any friendly manner-and some fair arrangement was come to, so that we undertook to have fish twice a week, and a pudding once, or a dumpling, or something of that sort, I do think it might be very satisfactory and pleasant for all parties."

"This compromise, which was proposed with abundance of tears and sighs, not exactly meeting the point at issue, nobody took any notice of it." Dickens's" Nicholas Nickleby."] AIR-" Nickledy Nod."

OH! where are we next to be carried,
My own dear NICKLEBY NOD P
We're worried, and hurried, and harried!
In pickle has no one a rod ?

NOTHING TO NOBODY!"

Obstruction's becoming a bore;

We're victims of boor, clown, and cad. It seems of our "noble six hundred " A solid majority's mad! DICKENS was surely prophetic, My own dear NICKLEBY NOD! The plight of yourself is pathetic, The state of the House appears odd. Can't we live quiet and decent? The shindy makes common sense sad: It seems from occurrences recent

The mass of the House must be mad!
Whom should we ask to protect us,
My own dear NICKLEBY NOD?
A rowdy rot seems to infect us

And Nemesis looks leaden-shod.
Shouldn't we look to the Chair
To save us from garrulous fad,
When row-de-dow fills all the air,

"Settled in some friendly manner?"
My own poor NICKLEBY NOD,
CHAMBERLAIN, SEXTON, and TANNER
(Say) as "fair friends" would look odd.
GLADSTONE, and BALFOUR, and SAUNDERSON,
Might keep the peace, and be glad ;
But while malignity maunders on
NICKLEBY policy's-mad!

"Some fair arrangement?"-with RUSSELL?
My own poor NICKLEBY NOD,
Hark how they howl, shriek, and hustle!
Nay; you must whip out the rod.
Wish you had brought it forth sooner.
NICKLEBY role, my dear lad,

Of mild, muddled, well-meaning mooner,
Won't work-with a House gone mad!

NEWS FROM UGANDA.-"A conference," so the Times special lately wrote, "took

And the bulk of the House is gone mad? place between Bishop TUCKER and Mon

Cynics may find it amusing.

My own dear NICKLEBY NOD, This venomous mutual abusing.

Thersites seems ranked as a god. Billingsgate sways our big swells,

Talent plays Brummagem Cad. 'Tis worse than Sarcasm of Sadler's Wells. You're mild-and your House is mad!

More is to come in the Autumn,
My own poor NICKLEBY NOD!

seigneur HIRTH," with a view to amicably arranging their respective missions. Monseigneur HIRTH wished to sing the old nigger melody of "Out ob de way ole Dan Tucker." Imperial Commissioner objected. Bishop TUCKER, lineal descendant of the celebrated little Thomas who "cried for his supper," wanted to have all the black and white bread to himself according to the ancient nursery tradition of the TUCKER family. Commissioner, quite a GALLIO in

We trust by that time you'll have taught 'em his way, wouldn't hear of it. Ultimately

Some decency-e'en by the rod. "Not say any more about it ?"

That will scarce answer, my lad! Patience may soothe, but I doubt it Much-when the culprits are mad!

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the two ecclesiastical antagonists came to terms, the Commissioner (Our Own) wisely observing that as the object of both missions was a spiritual one, there ought to be no Hirthly ground for disagreement."