ent perhaps, but none the less satisfying. Miss Felicity
Quackenboss's portrait of Saint Vitus is perhaps the most arresting
contribution to the exhibition, and portrays the Saint intoxicated with
the exuberance of his own agility. It is a very carnival of contortion.
Mr. Widgery Pimble transcribes very searchingly the post-prandial
lethargy of a boa-constrictor, the process of deglutition being
indicated with great dignity and delicacy, as might be expected from so
austere a realist. From one angle the figure might be taken for a Bengal
tiger, and from another for a zebra--a good proof of the suggestiveness
of the artist's method. But, whether it be reptile or quadruped, the
spirit of repletion broods over the canvas with irresistible force. Mr.
Thaddeus Tumulty sends some admirable drawings in _pise de terre_, one
of which, called "The Pragmatist at Play," is a masterpiece of
osteological _bravura_....

* * * * *

"Dr. Solff, the German Minister for the Conolies, has left for
Constantinople."

_Egyptian Mail._

Another injustice to Ireland.

* * * * *

TRUTHFUL JAMES

ON DOCTORS.

"You're not looking well," said the staff of _The Muddleton Weekly
Gazette_ sympathetically.

"No, Sir. Can't sleep, Sir. Haven't done for days till last night. I
went off beautiful quite early, and then the new nurse come and woke me
to give me my sleeping draught. That finished it for the night. Strange
thing, sleep. There's no sense about it. Take Bill Hawkins now, a pal of
mine in B Company. He was hit and took to hospital. Not serious at all.
'Me for a rest cure,' he says. But he was in that hospital for weeks and
weeks, getting worse and worse; he couldn't sleep a wink. The more they
drugged him, and the more sheep he counted, the more wide-awake he was.
The doctors got angry and called him an obstinate case. He said it
wasn't poisons but noise he needed, so they fetched an orderly and set
him banging one of them frying-pan baths with a ram-rod. In five minutes
Bill falls asleep as peaceful as a lamb, and the orderly, being tired,
stops. Up leaps Bill, wide awake as ever, asking what's wrong. Naturally
they couldn't bang a bath for him all night every night, and the house
surgeon was just thinking about getting ready a slab in the mortuary,
when Bill's brother, an engine-driver, comes along. He took Bill to his
box just outside Charing Cross station a