THE PERSONAL EQUATION.

THE PERSONAL EQUATION.THE PERSONAL EQUATION.Ducal Butler(showing Art Treasures of Stilton Castle). "The Three Graces—after Canova!"Mrs. Ramsbotham."How interesting! And pray, which is thepresentDuchess?"

Ducal Butler(showing Art Treasures of Stilton Castle). "The Three Graces—after Canova!"

Mrs. Ramsbotham."How interesting! And pray, which is thepresentDuchess?"

["My complaint being of a nervous character, I share the opinion of my doctor that, if I pass the winter in the midst of my accustomed surroundings and occupations, it will be the most likely means of promoting my recovery."—Prince Bismarck's reply to the German Emperor's Letter.]

Only to leave me to my tub!Ha! had himthereI flatter me!Too late, myAlexander, now to butter or to batter me!You "Dropped the Pilot"—with that youthful confidence that some adore—The "whirligig of time" has turned; the "Pilot" drops the "Commodore."Aficofor Imperial "Pots," and their young princely progenies.Belated condescension won't conciliateDiogenes.Cynic and Conqueror exchange compliments Ciceronian,But—there's a sting in some smooth words, for a mouthing Macedonian.Mine are notsanitary"tubs," the Varzin, or the other oneAt Friedrichsruh, you hint. Oh get away, and do not bother one!I've got a "nervous system" now, and noisy, young, despotical,"Shock-headed Peters" worry one, when aged and neurotical.Your castles, and your palaces, and things, in Central Germany,I "trample on"—like Plato's pride. Ha! does that make you squirm any?Confer with your Court Marshal, if you like; I only promise I'llTransfer my Tub—to Friedrichsruh, when up to change of domicile."How to command men" is my skill, as 'twas of him of Pontus, Sire,Youcan't command such men as I just when you chance to want us, Sire!As soon as DoctorSchweningersays he has no objection, Sire,I'll travel to another Tub—but not of your selection, Sire.Sings—'Midst castles and palaces though Imightroam,Be it ever so humble there's no place like home.The charm of the Tub seems to hallow me there,Which all Central Germany's castles can't share.Home! home! Sweet, sweet home!Though 'tis only a Tub, there is no place like home!An exile from court, castles dazzle in vain.Oh! give me my Tub and I'll gladly remain.A proudAlexanderI'm sorry (!) to snub,But—keep your fine castles, leave me to my Tub!Home! home! Sweet, sweet home!Though you mayn't like its "climate," there's no place like home![Left curled up in it.

Only to leave me to my tub!Ha! had himthereI flatter me!

Too late, myAlexander, now to butter or to batter me!

You "Dropped the Pilot"—with that youthful confidence that some adore—

The "whirligig of time" has turned; the "Pilot" drops the "Commodore."

Aficofor Imperial "Pots," and their young princely progenies.Belated condescension won't conciliateDiogenes.Cynic and Conqueror exchange compliments Ciceronian,But—there's a sting in some smooth words, for a mouthing Macedonian.

Aficofor Imperial "Pots," and their young princely progenies.

Belated condescension won't conciliateDiogenes.

Cynic and Conqueror exchange compliments Ciceronian,

But—there's a sting in some smooth words, for a mouthing Macedonian.

Mine are notsanitary"tubs," the Varzin, or the other oneAt Friedrichsruh, you hint. Oh get away, and do not bother one!I've got a "nervous system" now, and noisy, young, despotical,"Shock-headed Peters" worry one, when aged and neurotical.

Mine are notsanitary"tubs," the Varzin, or the other one

At Friedrichsruh, you hint. Oh get away, and do not bother one!

I've got a "nervous system" now, and noisy, young, despotical,

"Shock-headed Peters" worry one, when aged and neurotical.

Your castles, and your palaces, and things, in Central Germany,I "trample on"—like Plato's pride. Ha! does that make you squirm any?Confer with your Court Marshal, if you like; I only promise I'llTransfer my Tub—to Friedrichsruh, when up to change of domicile.

Your castles, and your palaces, and things, in Central Germany,

I "trample on"—like Plato's pride. Ha! does that make you squirm any?

Confer with your Court Marshal, if you like; I only promise I'll

Transfer my Tub—to Friedrichsruh, when up to change of domicile.

"How to command men" is my skill, as 'twas of him of Pontus, Sire,Youcan't command such men as I just when you chance to want us, Sire!As soon as DoctorSchweningersays he has no objection, Sire,I'll travel to another Tub—but not of your selection, Sire.

"How to command men" is my skill, as 'twas of him of Pontus, Sire,

Youcan't command such men as I just when you chance to want us, Sire!

As soon as DoctorSchweningersays he has no objection, Sire,

I'll travel to another Tub—but not of your selection, Sire.

Sings—

'Midst castles and palaces though Imightroam,Be it ever so humble there's no place like home.The charm of the Tub seems to hallow me there,Which all Central Germany's castles can't share.Home! home! Sweet, sweet home!Though 'tis only a Tub, there is no place like home!

'Midst castles and palaces though Imightroam,

Be it ever so humble there's no place like home.

The charm of the Tub seems to hallow me there,

Which all Central Germany's castles can't share.

Home! home! Sweet, sweet home!

Though 'tis only a Tub, there is no place like home!

An exile from court, castles dazzle in vain.Oh! give me my Tub and I'll gladly remain.A proudAlexanderI'm sorry (!) to snub,But—keep your fine castles, leave me to my Tub!Home! home! Sweet, sweet home!Though you mayn't like its "climate," there's no place like home!

An exile from court, castles dazzle in vain.

Oh! give me my Tub and I'll gladly remain.

A proudAlexanderI'm sorry (!) to snub,

But—keep your fine castles, leave me to my Tub!

Home! home! Sweet, sweet home!

Though you mayn't like its "climate," there's no place like home!

[Left curled up in it.

[Albert Moore, the exquisite decorative painter, died on September 25, at the age of fifty-two, "without Academic honour."]

"Loveis enough." Beauty, it seems, is not.And yet upon our land's artistic fame,It seems—does it not, Sirs?—a bitter blotThat the official roll lacks this great name!No matter! The R. A., with tight-closed door,Hath less—of honour; English Art hathMoore.

"Loveis enough." Beauty, it seems, is not.

And yet upon our land's artistic fame,

It seems—does it not, Sirs?—a bitter blot

That the official roll lacks this great name!

No matter! The R. A., with tight-closed door,

Hath less—of honour; English Art hathMoore.

"Did you hearPaderewskithe pianist?" asked someone of our old friend Mrs. R. "Oh, yes," she replied; "I was most fortunate. He played for several hours at a friend's house, and he gave us the whole of his Repartee."

Riddle by 'Arry.—"Look 'ere, if you're speakin' of a young unmarried lady bein' rather 'uffy, what well-known river would you name?—Why,'Miss is 'ippy', o' course."

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES.ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES.Alexander."IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN DO FOR YOU? CASTLE? OR ANYTHING OF THAT SORT?"Diogenes."NO—ONLY TO LEAVE ME TO MY TUB!!"

Alexander."IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN DO FOR YOU? CASTLE? OR ANYTHING OF THAT SORT?"Diogenes."NO—ONLY TO LEAVE ME TO MY TUB!!"

GUESTS TO BE AVOIDED.GUESTS TO BE AVOIDED."Hullo, Old Man! How's it you're Dining at the Club? Thought your Wife told me she had the Browns and Smiths to Dinner this evening?""No—that was Yesterday. This evening she has the Odds and Ends!"

"Hullo, Old Man! How's it you're Dining at the Club? Thought your Wife told me she had the Browns and Smiths to Dinner this evening?"

"No—that was Yesterday. This evening she has the Odds and Ends!"

(A new Volunteer Song, "in vulgar parlance," Brought up to date, after Lord Tennyson.)

["It is not going too far to say that thousands of men best fitted, physically and morally, to serve as officers or in the ranks, hold aloof from the Volunteers, because they are keenly alive to inefficiency of the average Volunteer. In vulgar parlance they look upon Volunteering as 'bad form.'"—The Times.]

There is a sound that must terribly jarOn the ears of the West in our finical day;'Tisn't a sound of battle and war,But of something much worse in its "vulgar" way.Storm's warm about Volunteer "form,"Ready, be ready against that storm!"Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!"Be not deaf to the sound that warns!What? "Bad form!"—that's a prig's last plea.Are figs of thistles? or grapes of thorns?How can W. feel with E. C.?"Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!"Ready to meet "Sassiety's" storm!Riflemen, Riflemen, shun "bad form!"Reform your "form"! Abide nothing "low"!Look to yon butts, and take good aims!But better a miss, or a magpie or so,Thanthat bad, bad form which "Sassiety" shames.Storm's warm about Volunteer "form,"Ready, be ready against that storm!Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen—"Form!!!"For "form" be ready to do or die"Form," in "Sassiety's" name, and theQueen's!"In vulgar parlance" "good form"'s the cry—Though only a fribble knows what it means.But "Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!"Ready, be ready to meet the stormAgainst the Riflemen's "shocking bad form!"

There is a sound that must terribly jar

On the ears of the West in our finical day;

'Tisn't a sound of battle and war,

But of something much worse in its "vulgar" way.

Storm's warm about Volunteer "form,"

Ready, be ready against that storm!

"Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!"

Be not deaf to the sound that warns!What? "Bad form!"—that's a prig's last plea.Are figs of thistles? or grapes of thorns?How can W. feel with E. C.?"Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!"Ready to meet "Sassiety's" storm!Riflemen, Riflemen, shun "bad form!"

Be not deaf to the sound that warns!

What? "Bad form!"—that's a prig's last plea.

Are figs of thistles? or grapes of thorns?

How can W. feel with E. C.?

"Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!"

Ready to meet "Sassiety's" storm!

Riflemen, Riflemen, shun "bad form!"

Reform your "form"! Abide nothing "low"!Look to yon butts, and take good aims!But better a miss, or a magpie or so,Thanthat bad, bad form which "Sassiety" shames.Storm's warm about Volunteer "form,"Ready, be ready against that storm!Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen—"Form!!!"

Reform your "form"! Abide nothing "low"!

Look to yon butts, and take good aims!

But better a miss, or a magpie or so,

Thanthat bad, bad form which "Sassiety" shames.

Storm's warm about Volunteer "form,"

Ready, be ready against that storm!

Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen—"Form!!!"

For "form" be ready to do or die"Form," in "Sassiety's" name, and theQueen's!"In vulgar parlance" "good form"'s the cry—Though only a fribble knows what it means.But "Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!"Ready, be ready to meet the stormAgainst the Riflemen's "shocking bad form!"

For "form" be ready to do or die

"Form," in "Sassiety's" name, and theQueen's!

"In vulgar parlance" "good form"'s the cry—

Though only a fribble knows what it means.

But "Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!"

Ready, be ready to meet the storm

Against the Riflemen's "shocking bad form!"

'ON THE CHANCE.'"ON THE CHANCE."Young Mamma."What have you got there, my good Man?"The "Good Man" (seeing she is not a Potato Customer). "Only Boiling Water, Ma'am. You see, this time O' Year, the Sea gets rather cold, and some of the Ladies are so particular about their little Toddlekins, bless 'em!"Young Mamma (struck with the idea). "Oh, then, please be here To-morrow morning at Eight o'clock, and bring two Cans!"[At once tenders him a Shilling. Needless to say Our Artist was not up in time to see if appointment was kept punctually.

Young Mamma."What have you got there, my good Man?"

The "Good Man" (seeing she is not a Potato Customer). "Only Boiling Water, Ma'am. You see, this time O' Year, the Sea gets rather cold, and some of the Ladies are so particular about their little Toddlekins, bless 'em!"

Young Mamma (struck with the idea). "Oh, then, please be here To-morrow morning at Eight o'clock, and bring two Cans!"

[At once tenders him a Shilling. Needless to say Our Artist was not up in time to see if appointment was kept punctually.

["As to the course which the English Government should take in this matter, he was in favour of their acting on the principles enunciated in the Sermon on the Mount; but when it was found that a contrary course was necessary, then they must drop the sermon and have recourse to the sword."—The Bishop ofDerry, in Westminster Abbey, on the subject of Mashonaland.]

Of old the bully swaggered free,He recked not how the fight arose;He wore his warlike panoply,A hireling and a man of blows.He knew no mercy, was not meek(The meek are blessèd, said the Lord);If one should smite him on the cheek,He turned, but turned to draw his sword.He trod the weaker in the mire,Nor stayed from blood his mailèd hand,And tramped in fury and in fireThrough many a devastated land.I blame him not, it was his trade;Though small his care for wrong or right,At least he fought himself, nor stayedAt home to bid the others fight.Long since we've placed him on the shelf;Behold instead, his crosier drawn,Within the sacred Minster's selfA bully blustering in lawn.A broad-brimmed stirrer up of strife,"I hold," he cries, "of small accountHis sense who stoops to base his lifeUpon the Sermon on the Mount."That is, if unprepared to strike.Some help that Sermonmayafford.You suit yourselves, and, when you like,You drop it and you draw the sword."Go to, you loud and foolish priest,Nor scorn the precepts you should keep.Still is it true that, west or east,The wolves are sometimes clothed like sheep.And here ('twas thus in ancient days)False prophets shame the Master still.And congregations chant the praiseOf blatant BishopBobadil.

Of old the bully swaggered free,He recked not how the fight arose;He wore his warlike panoply,A hireling and a man of blows.

Of old the bully swaggered free,

He recked not how the fight arose;

He wore his warlike panoply,

A hireling and a man of blows.

He knew no mercy, was not meek(The meek are blessèd, said the Lord);If one should smite him on the cheek,He turned, but turned to draw his sword.

He knew no mercy, was not meek

(The meek are blessèd, said the Lord);

If one should smite him on the cheek,

He turned, but turned to draw his sword.

He trod the weaker in the mire,Nor stayed from blood his mailèd hand,And tramped in fury and in fireThrough many a devastated land.

He trod the weaker in the mire,

Nor stayed from blood his mailèd hand,

And tramped in fury and in fire

Through many a devastated land.

I blame him not, it was his trade;Though small his care for wrong or right,At least he fought himself, nor stayedAt home to bid the others fight.

I blame him not, it was his trade;

Though small his care for wrong or right,

At least he fought himself, nor stayed

At home to bid the others fight.

Long since we've placed him on the shelf;Behold instead, his crosier drawn,Within the sacred Minster's selfA bully blustering in lawn.

Long since we've placed him on the shelf;

Behold instead, his crosier drawn,

Within the sacred Minster's self

A bully blustering in lawn.

A broad-brimmed stirrer up of strife,"I hold," he cries, "of small accountHis sense who stoops to base his lifeUpon the Sermon on the Mount.

A broad-brimmed stirrer up of strife,

"I hold," he cries, "of small account

His sense who stoops to base his life

Upon the Sermon on the Mount.

"That is, if unprepared to strike.Some help that Sermonmayafford.You suit yourselves, and, when you like,You drop it and you draw the sword."

"That is, if unprepared to strike.

Some help that Sermonmayafford.

You suit yourselves, and, when you like,

You drop it and you draw the sword."

Go to, you loud and foolish priest,Nor scorn the precepts you should keep.Still is it true that, west or east,The wolves are sometimes clothed like sheep.

Go to, you loud and foolish priest,

Nor scorn the precepts you should keep.

Still is it true that, west or east,

The wolves are sometimes clothed like sheep.

And here ('twas thus in ancient days)False prophets shame the Master still.And congregations chant the praiseOf blatant BishopBobadil.

And here ('twas thus in ancient days)

False prophets shame the Master still.

And congregations chant the praise

Of blatant BishopBobadil.

[Mr.Auberon Herbertsays "the rapacious and spendthrift" woodmen of the Crown have recently felled two hundred oaks in the New Forest.]

Woodmen, spare those trees!You're playing up rare jokesIn felling, at your ease,Hundreds of British oaks.We'd ax you stay your axe.Come! no official rot!OrPunch's wrath may wax,And then—you'll get it hot.Those old familiar treesAre glory and renown.Don't think your business,please,Is just to hew them down!Weaskyou, for the nonce.If such appeal is vain,We'll bid you, sharp, at once,"Cut"—anddon'tcome again!

Woodmen, spare those trees!

You're playing up rare jokes

In felling, at your ease,

Hundreds of British oaks.

We'd ax you stay your axe.

Come! no official rot!

OrPunch's wrath may wax,

And then—you'll get it hot.

Those old familiar treesAre glory and renown.Don't think your business,please,Is just to hew them down!Weaskyou, for the nonce.If such appeal is vain,We'll bid you, sharp, at once,"Cut"—anddon'tcome again!

Those old familiar trees

Are glory and renown.

Don't think your business,please,

Is just to hew them down!

Weaskyou, for the nonce.

If such appeal is vain,

We'll bid you, sharp, at once,

"Cut"—anddon'tcome again!

(To Sir John Gilbert, R.A., on his receiving the Freedom of the City.

By an Old Boy.)

Good Black (and White) Knight,Our youth's joint delight,With that other Black Knight, dear SirWalter's(Whom you pictured well),Ancient memories swell,Till language, in praising you, falters.You drew, with such dash,Allour heroes; they flashOn our memories. Ah, we thankedyousoFor Dons, Rosinantes,And Sanchos (Cervantes!)"Leather-Stocking," and Robinson Crusoe.Our fancies still carryYour (Shakspeare's) King Harry,We know our own boyhood's sound slumbersWere haunted by Pucks,Robin Hoods, Friar Tucks,And scenes from your brave Christmas Numbers.God bless you, SirJohn,For your Knight and your Don,Who moved our youth's fervour and pity!Sure every Old BoyHopes you long may enjoyThe freedom (and health) of our City!

Good Black (and White) Knight,

Our youth's joint delight,

With that other Black Knight, dear SirWalter's

(Whom you pictured well),

Ancient memories swell,

Till language, in praising you, falters.

You drew, with such dash,

Allour heroes; they flash

On our memories. Ah, we thankedyouso

For Dons, Rosinantes,

And Sanchos (Cervantes!)

"Leather-Stocking," and Robinson Crusoe.

Our fancies still carry

Your (Shakspeare's) King Harry,

We know our own boyhood's sound slumbers

Were haunted by Pucks,

Robin Hoods, Friar Tucks,

And scenes from your brave Christmas Numbers.

God bless you, SirJohn,

For your Knight and your Don,

Who moved our youth's fervour and pity!

Sure every Old Boy

Hopes you long may enjoy

The freedom (and health) of our City!

Q.When is a sailor like a French journalist?A.When he has to "sign articles."

Q.When is a sailor like a French journalist?

A.When he has to "sign articles."

WHO WOULD NOT BE A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT?WHO WOULD NOT BE A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT?

A NEAT WAY OF PUTTING IT.A NEAT WAY OF PUTTING IT.Cabby(to Clergyman, who has paid the legal fare). "Won't leave me much for the Hoffertory next Sunday, Sir, will it?"

Cabby(to Clergyman, who has paid the legal fare). "Won't leave me much for the Hoffertory next Sunday, Sir, will it?"

Everybody must remember the apparently causeless panic that seized the various European governments only a few years ago. It was the dead season. Members of Parliament were all disporting themselves on the various grouse-moors which are specially reserved for that august legislative body in order that there may be no lack of accuracy in the articles of those who imagine that the 12th of August brings to every M.P. a yearning for the scent of heather and the sound of breech-loading guns. Suddenly, and without any warning, a great fear spread through Europe. Nobody seemed able to state precisely how it began. There were, of course, some who attributed it to an after-dinner speech made by the German Emperor at the annual banquet of the Blue Bösewitzers, the famous Cuirassier regiment of which the Grand Duke ofSchnupftuchsteinis the honorary commanding officer. Others again saw in it the influence ofM. Paul Deroulède, while yet a third party attributed it with an equal assumption of certainty to the fact that Austria had recently forbidden the import of Servian pigs. They were all wrong. The time has come when the truth must be known. The story I am about to tell will show my extraordinary friend,Picklock Holes, on an even higher pinnacle of unmatchable acumen than that which fame has hitherto assigned to him. He may be vexed when he reads my narrative of his triumphs, for he is as modest as he is inductive; but I am determined that, at whatever cost, the story shall be made public.

It was on one of those delightful evenings for which our English summer is famous, that HOLES and I were as usual sitting together and conversing as to the best methods of inferring an Archbishop from a hat-band and a Commander-in-Chief from a penny-whistle. I had put forward several plans which appeared to me to be satisfactory, butHoleshad scouted them one after another with a cold impassivity which had not failed to impress me, accustomed though I was to the great man's exhibition of it.

"Here," saidHoles, eventually, "are the necessary steps. Hat-band, band-master, master-mind, mind-your-eye, eye-ball, ball-bearing, bear-leader, Leda and the Swan, swan-bill, bill-post, post-cart, cart-road, roadway, Weybridge, bridge-arch, arch-bishop. The inference of a Commander-in-Chief is even easier. You have only to assume that a penny-whistle has been found lying on the Horse-Guards' Parade by the Colonel of the Scots Guards, and carried by him to the office of the Secretary of State for War. Thereupon you subdivide the number of drummer-boys in a regiment of Goorkhas by the capital value of a sergeant's retiring pension, and——"

But the rest of this marvellous piece of concise reasoning must remain for ever a secret, for at this moment a bugle-call disturbed the stillness of the summer night, andHolesimmediately paused.

"What can that mean?" I asked, in some alarm, for Camberwell (our meeting place) is an essentially unmilitary district, and I could not account for this strange and awe-inspiring musical demonstration.

"Hush," saidHoles, with perfect composure; "it is the agreed signal. Listen. The great Samovar diamond, the most brilliant jewel in the turquoise crown of Hungary, has been lost. The Emperor ofAustriais in despair. Next week he is due at Pesth, but he cannot appear before the fierce and haughty Magyars in a crown deprived of the decoration that all Hungary looks upon as symbolical of the national existence. A riot in Pesth at this moment would shake the Austro-Hungarian empire to its foundations. With it the Triple Alliance would crumble into dust, and the peace of Europe would not be worth an hour's purchase. It is, therefore, imperative that before the dawn of next Monday the diamond should be restored to its wonted setting."

"My dearHoles," I said, "this is more terrible than I thought. Have they appealed to you, as usual, after exhausting all the native talent?"

"My dearPotson," replied my friend, "you ask too much. Let it suffice that I have been consulted, and that the determination of the question of peace or war lies in these hands." And with these words the arch-detective spread before my eyes those long, sinewy, and meditative fingers which had so often excited my admiration.

Our preparations for departure to Hungary were soon made. I hardly know why I accompaniedHoles. It seemed somehow to be the usual thing that I should be present at all his feats. I thought he looked for my company, and though his undemonstrative nature would never have suffered him to betray any annoyance had I remained absent, I judged it best not to disturb the even current of his investigations by departing from established precedent. I therefore departed from London—my only alternative. Just as we were setting out,Holesstopped me with a warning gesture.

"Have you brought the clue with you?" he asked.

"What clue?"

"Oh," he answered, rather testily, "any clue you like, so long as it's a clue. A torn scrap of paper with writing on it, a foot-print in the mud, a broken chair, a soiled overcoat—it really doesn't matter what it is, but a clue of some kind we must have."

"Of course, of course," I said, in soothing tones. "How stupid of me to forget it. Will this do?" I continued, picking up a piece of faded green ribbon which happened to be lying on the pavement.

"The very thing," saidHoles, pocketing it, and so we started. Our first visit on arriving at Pesth was to the Emperor-King, who was livingincognitoin a small back alley of the Hungarian capital. We cheered the monarch's heart, and proceeded to call on the leader of the Opposition in the Hungarian Diet. He was a stern man of some fifty summers, dressed in the national costume. We found him at supper.Holeswas the first to speak. "Sir," he said, "resistance is useless. Your schemes have been discovered. All that is left for you is to throw yourself upon the mercy of your King."

The rage of the Magyar was fearful to witness.Holescontinued, inexorably:—"This piece of green ribbon matches the colour of your Sunday tunic. Can you swear it has not been torn from the lining? You cannot. I thought so. Know then that wrapped in this ribbon was found the great Samovar diamond, and that you, you alone, were concerned in the robbery."

At this moment the police broke into the room.

"Remove his Excellency," saidHoles, "and let him forthwith expiate his crimes upon the scaffold."

"But," I ventured to interpose, "where is the diamond? Unless you restore that——"

"Potson," whisperedHoles, almost fiercely, "do not be a fool."

As he said this, the door once again opened, and the Emperor-King entered the room, bearing on his head the turquoise crown, in the centre of which sparkled the great Samovar, "the moon of brilliancy," as the Hungarian poets love to call it. The Emperor approached the marvellous detective. "Pardon me," he said, "for troubling you. I have just found the missing stone under my pillow."

"Where," saidHoles, "I was about to tell your Majesty that you would find it."

"Thank you," said his Majesty, "for restoring to me a valued possession and ridding me of a knave about whom I have long had my suspicions." The conclusion of this speech was greeted with loud "Eljens," the Hungarian national shout, in the midst of which we took our leave. That is the true story of how the peace of Europe was preserved by my wonderful friend.

Transcriber's Note:

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The correction listed below is also indicated in the text by a dashed line at the appropriate place:Move the mouse over the word, and the original textappears.

Page 165: 'then' corrected to 'than'.

"But better a miss, or a magpie or so,Than that bad, bad form which "Sassiety" shames."

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