nto a sweat; and from the abandoned hussies who
sue tenors for breach of promise; and from all alleged musicians who do
not shrivel to the size of five-cent cigars whenever they think of old
Josef Haydn--good Lord, deliver us!

_IV.--For Hangmen_

From clients who delay the exercises by pausing to make long and
irrelevant speeches from the scaffold, or to sing depressing Methodist
hymns; and from medical examiners who forget their stethoscopes, and
clamor for waits while messenger boys are sent for them; and from
official witnesses who faint at the last minute, and have to be hauled
out by the deputy sheriffs; and from undertakers who keep looking at
their watches and hinting obscenely that they have other engagements at
10:30; and from spiritual advisers who crowd up at the last minute and
fall through the trap with the condemned--good Lord, deliver us!

_V.--For Magazine Editors_

From Old Subscribers who write in to say that the current number is the
worst magazine printed since the days of the New York _Galaxy_; and from
elderly poetesses who have read all the popular text-books of sex
hygiene, and believe all the bosh in them about the white slave trade,
and so suspect the editor, and even the publisher, of sinister designs;
and from stories in which a rising young district attorney gets the dead
wood upon a burly political boss named Terrence O'Flaherty, and then
falls in love with Mignon, his daughter, and has to let him go; and from
stories in which a married lady, just about to sail for Capri with her
husband's old _Corpsbruder_, is dissuaded from her purpose by the news
that her husband has lost $700,000 in Wall Street and is on his way home
to weep on her shoulder; and from one-act plays in which young Cornelius
Van Suydam comes home from The Club at 11:55 P. M. on Christmas Eve,
dismisses Dodson, his Man, with the compliments of the season, and draws
up his chair before the open fire to dream of his girl, thus preparing
the way for the entrance of Maxwell, the starving burglar, and for the
scene in which Maxwell's little daughter, Fifi, following him up the
fire-escape, pleads with him to give up his evil courses; and from poems
about war in which it is argued that thousands of young men are always
killed, and that their mothers regret to hear of it; and from essays of
a sweet and whimsical character, in which the author refers to himself
as "we," and ends by quoting Bergson, Washington Irving or Agne