Volume 99 — WIGS AND RADICALS.

["As a protest against the acceptance by the Corporation of Sunderland of robes, wigs, and cocked hats, for the Mayor and Town Clerk, Mr. STOREY, M.P., has sent in his resignation of the office of Alderman of that body."—Daily Paper.]

Brutus. Tell us what has chanced to-day, that STOREY looks so sad.

Casca. Why, there was a wig and a cocked hat offered him, and he put it away with the back of his hand, thus; and then the Sunderland Radicals fell a-shouting.

Brutus. What was the second noise for?

Casca. Why, for that too.

Brutus. They shouted thrice—what was the last cry for?

Casca. Why, for that too—not to mention a municipal robe.

Brutus. Was the wig, &c, offered him thrice?

Casca. Ay, marry, was it, and he put the things by thrice, every time more savagely than before.

Brutus. Who offered him the wig?

Casca. Why, the Sunderland Municipality, of course—stoopid!

Brutus. Tell us the manner of it, gentle CASCA.

Casca. I can as well be hanged, as tell you. It was mere foolery, I did not mark it. I saw the people offer a cocked hat to him—yet 'twas not to him neither, because he's only an Alderman, 'twas to the Mayor and Town Clerk—and, as I told you, he put the things by thrice; yet, to my thinking, had he been Mayor, he would fain have had them. And the rabblement, of course, cheered such an exhibition of stern Radical simplicity, and STOREY called the wig a bauble, though, to my thinking, there's not much bauble about it, and the cocked-hat he called a mediæval intrusion, though, to my thinking, there were precious few cocked-hats in the Middle Ages. Then he said he would no more serve as Alderman; and the Mayor and the Town Clerk cried—"Alas, good soul!"—and accepted his resignation with all their hearts.

Brutus. Then will not the Sunderland Town Hall miss him?

Casca. Not it, as I am a true man! There'll be a STOREY the less on it, that's all. Farewell!

"Not there, Not there, My Child!"

By some misadventure I was unable to attend the pianoforte recital of Paddy REWSKI, the player from Irish Poland at the St. James's Hall last Wednesday. Everybody much pleased, I'm told. Glad to hear it. I was "Not there, not there, my child!" But audience gratified—

"And Stalldom shrieked when Paddy REWSKI played,"

as the Poet says, or something like it. I hear he made a hit. The papers say he did, and if he didn't it's another thumper, that's all.

"SO NO MAYER AT PRESENT FROM YOURS TRULY THE ENTREPRENEUR OF THE FRENCH PLAYS, ST. JAMES'S THEATRE."—It is hard on the indefatigable M. MAYER, but when Englishmen can so easily cross the Channel, and so willingly brave the mal-de-mer for the sake of a week in Paris, it is not likely that they will patronise French theatricals in London, even for their own linguistic and artistic improvement, or solely for the benefit of the deserving and enterprising M. MAYER. Even if it be mal-de-mer against bien de Mayer, an English admirer of French acting would risk the former to get a week in Paris. We are sorry 'tis so, but so 'tis.

"THE MAGAZINE RIFLE."—Is this invention patented by the Editor of The Review of Reviews? Good title for the Staff of that Magazine, "The Magazine Rifle Corps."

UNNECESSARY CANDOUR.

Critic. "BY JOVE, HOW ONE CHANGES! I'VE QUITE CEASED TO ADMIRE THE KIND OF PAINTING I USED TO THINK SO CLEVER TEN YEARS AGO; AND VICE VERSÂ!"

Pictor. "THAT'S AS IT SHOULD BE! IT SHOWS PROGRESS, DEVELOPMENT! IT'S AN UNMISTAKABLE PROOF THAT YOU'VE REACHED A HIGHER INTELLECTUAL AND ARTISTIC LEVEL, A MORE ADVANCED STAGE OF CULTURE, A LOFTIER—"

Critic. "I'M GLAD YOU THINK SO, OLD MAN. BUT, CONFOUND IT, YOU KNOW!—THE KIND OF PAINTING I USED TO THINK SO CLEVER TEN YEARS AGO, HAPPENS TO BE YOURS!"