players break my heart; but I go on sticking 'em

of course.

Nutts. To be sure.

Business before feelings.

Have you seen Miss Rayshall, the French actress at the St James's?

Nosebag. Not yet. I'm waiting till she goes to the 'Aymarket.

Tickle. But she isn't a-going there.

Nosebag. Isn't she? How can she help it? Being of the French stage, somebody's safe to translate her. Tickle. Ha, so I thought. But all the French

players have been put on their guard; and there isn't one of 'em will go near the Draymatic Authors' Society without two policemen.

Pucker. Well, I'm not partic'lar; but really, gen'l'men, to talk in this way about plays and players, on a Sunday morning too, is a shocking waste of human life. I was about to say—

Nutts. Clean as a whistle, Mr Slowgoe. Mr Tickle, now for you. (TICKLE takes the chair.)

Pucker. I was about to say, it's nice encouragement to go a-soldiering—this flogging at Hounslow.

Nutts. Yes, it's glory turned a little inside out. For my part, I shall never see the ribbands in the hat of a recruiting soldier again—the bright blue and red-that I shan't think of the weals and cuts in poor White's back.

Pucker. Or his broken heart-strings.

Nutts. What a very fine thing a soldier is, isn't he? See him in all his feathers, and with his sword at his side, a sword to cut laurels with-and in my 'pinion, all the laurels in the world was never worth a bunch of wholesome watercresses. See him, I say, dressed and pipeclayed and polished, and turned out as if a soldier was far above a working man, as a working man's above his dog-see him in all his parade furbelows, and what a splendid cretur he is, isn't he? How stupid 'prentices gape at him, and feel their foolish hearts thump at the drum parchment, as if it was played upon by an angel out of heaven! And how their blood-if it was as poor as London milk before-burns in their bodies, and they feel for the time-and all for glory-as if they could kill their own brothers! And how the women

Female voice. (From the back.) What are you talking about the women, Mr Nutts? Better go on with your shaving, like a husband and a father of a family, and leave the women to themselves.

Nutts. Yes, my dear.

(Confidentially.) You

know my wife? Strong-minded cretur.

Pucker. For my part, to say nothin' against Mrs Nutts, I hate women of strong minds. To me they always seem as if they wanted to be men, and

couldn't. I love women as women love babies, all the better for their weakness.

Nosebag. Go on about the sojer.

Nutts. (In a low voice.) As for women, isn't it dreadful to think how they do run after the pipeclay? See 'em in the Park-if they don't stare at rank and file, and fall in love with hollow squares by the heap. It is so nice, they think, to walk arm-inarm with a bayonet. Poor gals! I do pity 'em. I never see a nice young woman courtin' a soldier -or the soldier courtin' her-as it may be, that I don't say to myself, "Ha! it's very well, my dear. You think him a sweet cretur, no doubt; and you walk along with him as if you thought the world ought to shake with the sound of his spurs and the rattling of his sword, and you hold on to his arm as if he was a giant that was born to take the wall of everybody as wasn't sweetened with pipeclay. Poor gal! You little think that that fine fellow -that tremendous giant-that noble cretur with mustarshis to frighten a dragon, may to-morrow morning be stript to his skin, and tied up, and lashed till his blood-his blood, dearer to you than the blood in your own good-natured heart-till his blood runs, and the skin's cut from him ;-and his officer, who has been, so he says, 'devilishly' wellwhipt at schools perhaps, and therefore thinks flogging very gentlemanly—and his officer looks on

with his arms crossed, as if he was looking at the twisting of an opera-dancer, and not at the struggling and shivering of one of God's mangled creturs-and the doctor never feels the poor soul's pulse (because there is no pulse among privates), and the man's taken to the hospital to live or to die, according to the farriers that lashed him. You don't think, poor gal, when you look upon your sweetheart, or your husband, as it may be, that your sweetheart, or the father of your children, may be tied and cut up this way to-morrow morning, and only for saying 'Hollo' in the dark, without putting a 'sir' at the tail of it. No: you never think of this, young woman; or a red coat, though with ever so much gold-lace upon it, would look like so much raw flesh to you."

Nosebag. I wonder the women don't get up a Anti-Bayonet 'Sociation—take a sort of pledge not to have a sweetheart that lives in fear of a cat.

Slowgoe. Doesn't the song say, "None but the brave deserve the fair"?

Nosebag. Well, can't the brave deserve the fair without deserving the cat-o'-nine-tails?

Nutts. It's sartinly a pity they should go together. I only know they shouldn't have the chance in my case, if I was a woman.

Mrs Nutts. (From within.) I think, Mr Nutts, you'd better leave the women alone, and

Nutts. Certainly, my dear. (Again confidentially.) She's not at all jealous; but she can't bear to hear me say anything about the women. She has such a strong mind! Well, I was going to say, if I was a sojer, and was flogged

Nosebag. Don't talk any more about it, or I shan't eat no dinner. Talk o' somethin' else.

Slowgoe. Tell me-Is it true what I have heard? Have they christened the last little Princess? And what's the poppet's name?

Nosebag. Her name? Why, Hél-ena Augusta Victoria.

Slowgoe. Bless me! Helleena-

Nosebag. Nonsense! You must sound it Hélthere's a-goin' to be a Act of Parliament about it. Hél-with a haccent on the first synnable.

Slowgoe. What's a accent?

Nosebag. Why, like as if you stamped upon it. Here's a good deal about this christening in this here newspaper; printed, they do say, by the 'thority of the Palace. The man that writes it wears the royal livery; scarlet run up and down with gold. He says (reads), "The particulars of this interesting event are subjoined; and they will be perused by the readers with all the attention which the holy rite as well as the lofty ranks of the parties present must command.”

Nutts. Humph! "Holy rite" and "lofty