The little piece, judged from its title-page, is bright and pleasing, but I have arranged with two other gentlemen to write my operas for the next twenty-one years.
Faithfully yours, J.MOGGRIDGE, Sole Lessee and Manager Savoy Theatre.
[Illustration] _To James Ruskin, Esq., Railway Station Hotel, Willisden._ SIR:--I warn you that I will not accept any more copies of your books.
I do not know the individual named Tennyson to whom you refer; but if he is the scribbler who is perpetually sending me copies of his verses, please tell him that I read no poetry except my own.

Why can't you leave me alone?
J.MOGGRIDGE, Poet Laureate.
These letters of Jimmy's remind me of our famous competition, which took place on the night of the Jubilee celebrations.

When all the rest of London (including William John) was in the streets, the Arcadians met as usual, and Scrymgeour, at my request, put on the shutters to keep out the din.

It so happened that Jimmy and Gilray were that night in wicked moods, for Jimmy, who was so anxious to be a journalist, had just had his seventeenth article returned from the _St.John's Gazette_, and Gilray had been "slated" for his acting of a new part, in all the leading papers.

They were now disgracing the tobacco they smoked by quarrelling about whether critics or editors were the more disreputable class, when in walked Pettigrew, who had not visited us for months.
Pettigrew is as successful a journalist as Jimmy is unfortunate, and the pallor of his face showed how many Jubilee articles he had written during the past two months.