In the admirably-compiled columns of "This Morning's News," given
in the _Daily News_, we read with interest a paragraph occasionally
appearing, furnishing information as to prices current in the
Provision Market. We have made arrangements to supply our readers with
something of the same character, which cannot fail to be valued in the
household.
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[Illustration: A Pair of 'Eels.]
From numerous sources of information, we learn that prime English beef
is underdone, which causes rather a run on mutton. _Revenons_, &c.,
is the watchword in many households. Poultry flies rather high for
the time of year, and grouse is also up. Grice--why not? plural of
mouse, mice--grice, we say, are growing more absent, and therefore
dearer. Black game is not so darkly hued as it is painted, and a few
transactions in wild duck are reported. Lard is hardening, as usual
in frosty weather. Hares are not so mad as in March, still, on the
approach of a passer-by, they go off rapidly. Rabbits, especially
Welsh ones, are now excellent. As Christmas recedes, geese have
stopped laying golden eggs. Turkey (in Europe, at least) is in high
feather. Brill is now in brilliant condition; soles are right down to
the ground, whilst eels begin to show themselves in pairs. Halibut
is cheap, but sackbut is scarce, and psaltery requires such prolonged
soaking before it is fit for the table, that purchasers fight shy of
anything but small parcels. As for plaice, a large dealer tells us he
has been driven to the conclusion that there is "no plaice like home."
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We hear of a curious incident in connection with the revival of _Henry
the Eighth_ at the Lyceum. On Saturday night, a gentleman who had
witnessed the play from the Stalls and carefully sat it out, demanded
his money back as he went out. He did so on the ground that he had
always understood that _Henry the Eighth_ was by SHAKSPEARE, and found
it credibly asserted that that gentleman had no part in the authorship
of the piece. Mr. BRAM STOKER, M.A., was called to the assistance
of the box-keeper, and ably discussed the point. Whilst declining to
commit himself to the admission that SHAKSPEARE had no hand in the
work, he quoted authority which assigned the authorship to FLETCHER
and MASSENGER; in which case, he ingeniously argued, the authorship
being dual, the price of the Stalls ought to be doubled. Conversation
taking this turn, the gentleman, whose name did not transpire,
withdrew.
* * * * *
Miss JANE COBDEN, ex-Alderman of the London County Council, who has
long pluckily championed Woman's Rights, has now, according to an
announcement in the papers, determined to assert her own, and get
married. _C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas_--Aldermanic.
* * * * *
A telegram from Berlin states that Dr. PFEIFFER, a son-in-law of
Professor KOCH, has succeeded in discovering the cause of influenza
and its infection in a bacillus, which, when seen under the
microscope, appears in the shape of a most minute rod. The best thing
that can be done with this rod is to put it in pickle, and keep it
there.
* * * * *
It is satisfactory to know that, at the approaching revival of
_Hubando, the Brigand_, the handkerchiefs used by the Brigands in
their famous scene of contrition at the end of the Third Act, are
entirely of British manufacture. We understand that they are from the
looms of Messrs. PUFF AND RECLAME.
* * * * *
In the First Act of the same piece, it will be remembered that the
bridal party is captured whole by _Hubando_, disguised as a mendicant,
in the recesses of one of the forests of the Abruzzi. The real
pine-trees, which are to figure in the foreground of this striking
scene, have been grown, with immense labour and expense, in the
well-known nurseries of Messrs. WEEDEM AND POTTER, at Ditchington.
The mendicant's rags, it should be added, are from one of our most
celebrated slop-shops in the Ratcliff Highway.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRIUMPH OF ART OVER NATURE.
_Serious Artist_. "I THINK YOU KNEW THE MODEL FOR THIS FIGURE--POOR
BEGGAR, DEAF AND DUMB."
_Light-hearted Friend_. "I KNOW,--USED TO SIT AT CORNER OF STREET.
DEAF AND DUMB! BY JOVE, YOU'VE MADE A _SPEAKING_ LIKENESS OF HIM!
WONDERFUL!!"]
* * * * *
"THERE'S THE RUB!"
(_AN OLD STORY WITH A NEW APPLICATION._)
_Champion Bill-Poster, loquitur_:--
"Bill-stickers beware!" Ah! that's all very well,
A wondrously wise, if conventional, warning.
But _I_'m the legitimate "Poster"--a swell
In the paste-pot profession, all "notices" scorning.
A brush surreptitious, and Bills unofficial,
No doubt, are a nuisance to people of taste,
To Order offensive, to Law prejudicial,
But who can object to _my_ pot and _my_ paste?
'Tis time that this Poster were up! _Slap-dap-slosh_!
I think it a telling one. Brave, Big, Blue letters!
Some rivals about, but _their_ programmes won't wash;
Those Newcastle noodles must own us their betters.
I'm Champion Bill-Poster! Even Brum JOEY,
Who flouted me once will acknowledge that fact.
My Bills are so goey, and fetching, and showy,
My paste so adhesive, my brush so exact!
_Slap-slop-slidder-slosh_! There's "stick-phast," if you like.
Bill-sticking like this is an Art, and no error.
Bold letters, brave colour! A poster to strike,--
Admiration with some, and with some, perhaps, terror.
I wish I quite knew that the former preponderate,--
That is, _sufficiently_. Mutterings I hear,--
But there, 'tis a Bill to admire, and to wonder at.
Why, after five seasons' success, should I fear?
Hist! What is that? Thought I heard a low grunt.
Hope not, I'm sure, for I'm sick of stye-voices
ARTHUR of those, has no doubt, borne the brunt;
Now in a semi-relief he rejoices
Pigs are fit only for styes and nose-ringing.
Never let Irish ones run loose and root,
Rather wish ARTHUR were less sweet on flinging
Pearls before pigs; as well feed 'em on fruit.
_Hrumph_! There. I thought so! _Hrumph_! _hrumph_! What a pest!
Sure that big brute has his eye on my ladder.
Has ARTHUR loosed him? He thinks he knows best,
But a nasty spill _now_!--nothing well could be sadder
Brutes always rub their broad backs and stiff bristles
Against--anything that comes handy. Oh lor!
How the brute shoulders, and snorts, grunts and whistles!
Off to the gutter, you big Irish boar!
Not he! He nears me! It _is_ ARTHUR's pet.
Light ladder this; would capsize in a jiffy.
His bristles he'd scrape and his tusks he would whet
Against it, I wish he were drowned in the Liffey!
_Whisht_! Get away! He's so heavy and big.
There! round the ladder he's playing the fooler.
Ah! there's the rub. PATRICK scumfish that Pig!
If he doesn't mean deviltry I'm a--Home Ruler!
[_Left fidgetting._
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