treme ill-humour, to complete a series of "Drawing-Room Comic Songs," which we were doing for a cheap music publisher at a guinea per song, we were interrupted by a single knock, which Maxwell rose, impatiently, to answer. He opened the door and found a flabby, shabby-genteel man in rusty black, waiting on the landing
"Mr. Bailey, sir?"
"No—Maxwell."
"That will do, sir. I have come"
"I know. It's steel pens; I don't want any."
"No, sir, it's not steel pens"
"Then it's ketchup. Be off!"
"No, and it isn't ketchup neither," said our visitor, with an impatient air of injury. "A letter, wait for answer."
And, so saying, he put a dirty, thumby envelope into Maxwell's hands. He opened it, and read as follows:—
"Parnassus, Oxford Street, April 4th, 1863.
"Dear Sir,—I am in want of a short dualog for two people—self and wife—with songs. Something short and smart, to play twenty minutes or thereabouts, with practical fun, such as suits my audience. My terms for such is a ten-pound note, and if either of you got anything to suit, shall be glad. Must have it by the 6th, as we open with it on the 7th. Please send answer by bearer, and beg to remain, yours, etc.,
"Abraham Levy."
Owing to the fact that the demands for light farce had
