Fogs? Nonsense! Fogs are always mist. And the way to miss them is to go
to the Institute of Painters in Oil. That will oil the wheels of life in
this atrociously hibernal weather, and make existence in a fog
enjoyable. There, in the well-warmed, pleasantly-lighted rooms, will you
find countless pleasant pictures--delightful sea-subjects, charming
landscapes, and amusing scenes, by accomplished painters, which will
infuse a little Summer into the dull, depressing, brumous, filthy
atmosphere of a weary London Winter. If you cannot get away to Monte
Carlo, Mentone, Nice, or Rome, hasten at once and take one of Sir +John
Linton's+ excursion _coupons_, and personally conduct yourself--if you
don't conduct yourself as you ought, you'll probably be turned
out--round the well-filled galleries in Piccadilly.
* * * * *
Sir +Drummond+ is ordered off to Teheran. "Well, we're successful in
keeping one +Wolff+ from our door," as Sir +Gorst+, Q.C., observed to
+Grandolph+. "Poor +Wolffy+!" sighed +Grandolph+. "I shall write a fable
on 'The +Wolff+ and the Shah!'"
* * *
+Sardou and Sara.+--+Sara B.+ has made a hit in what is reported to be a
poor play called _La Tosca_, by +Sardou+. But in consequence of +Sara's+
acting, it is in for a run. _Che Sara sara_, _i.e_. (free translation),
"Who has seen +Sara+ once will see +Sara+ again."
* * * * *
[Illustration: LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON.]
* * * * *