After this, there was an attempt at a grand
piece of scenic illusion, but seemingly a hitch
occurred in the machinery, and the audience
began to hiss, and there were loud cries of
"Manager! Manager!" The manager,
however, did not appear, and the piece seemed to
be hurried over to a termination.

An old witch hobbled in, holding up a bag,
and crying, "Now for the catastrophe!" Then,
opening the bag, she exclaimed, "The cat's
out of the bag!" and out jumped a large
cat, which changed immediately into a lovely
young lady, dressed in white, and bearing a
wand. She called on Prince Khofferghutter,
in an appalling style, to "ap-p-e-a-r!!!" which
he did, throwing himself on his knees before
her. She then exclaimed, in a magnificent
manner,

        "Wretched youth!
        I am the Spirit of Truth."

She waved her wand, and several of her
attendants rushed in, some of whom carried
off Khofferghutter in chains, while others
pursued up and down the evil-doers of the
temple, and a desperate hurry-scurry ensued.
In the midst of all this shindy, the Spirit of
Truth shook her wand at the temple, over
whose portico, by the way, blazed forth in
letters of gold,

        "TEMPLE OF MAMMON,"

and at this condemnatory motion of the wand
down fell the "Fane of the Golden God" with
a loud crash, a cloud of dust arose from the
fallen rubbish, and all that remained of the
temple was the name, which still appeared on the
cloud; but even that underwent a change, for
the initial letter M was metamorphosed into
G, so Mammon became Gammon.

OUR UNCLES.

I HAVE vowed to take our uncles down a peg,
and now I will do it. I have said that they are
vain, purse-proud, pretentious, blusterous old
humbugs, and I hold by that. I repeat, aunt is the
friend, not uncle. Mind, I speak ex cathedrâ,
for I am an uncle myself, and you know the
proverb: which, being interpreted for the
present occasion, is—set an uncle to catch an
uncle.

No, no, my fine fellows, you can't deceive me.
/ know you, with your broad-brimmed hats, and
your flowered waistcoats, and your gaiters, and
your malacca canes, with the tassel, and all the rest
of your Brummagem avuncular paraphernalia.
What is the meaning of paraphernalia? Tell
me that. Goods in a wife's disposal. Just so.
All the good that is in you is derived from your
association with our aunts. You shine with a
borrowed light. You are the moons of our
family system, full and fair enough in the face
sometimes; but pale and cold. Our aunts are
the warm suns.

Come down from that pedestal. I am regarding
you as an image now, a senseless stock and
stone, which we have worshipped too long. So,
I say, come down from that pedestal. Let me
ask, who put you up there on that towering
pinnacle, where you have no right to be?
I will answer that question. The comedy writers
put you up there. You were put up there as a
Deus ex machinâ, a figure to be let down a wire,
a mere dummy with a sham purse, and sham
sovereigns in it—you being wound up to give
those sham sovereigns to a sham nephew, whose
distress is as much a sham as the "gold" which
relieves him. If those pieces chinking in your
purse were anything better than discs of tin,
you would see your nephew hanged before you
would give him one of them.

Holding the mirror up to nature, I can find
no one at all like you reflected in it. You exist
only in the imagination of the comedy writer.
He brings you out from his box of figures, as
occasion requires, just as he brings out the
wicked lord and the virtuous peasant. What is
the difference between you and the wicked
lord? The wicked lord dresses in sky-blue
velvet and you dress in snuff-brown. The wicked
lord wears a sword, and has elegant legs; you
carry a malacca cane, and make up your legs to
convey the respectable idea of rupees and gout.
As to the difference between you and the
virtuous peasant, it is simply this: you say
"Gadzooks" and he says "Dang it." Which is the
full extent of profanity to which he will go in
presence of the public, albeit out of his flowered
waistcoat he can swear like a trooper, just as
you, when you lay aside your broad-brimmed
hat, your gaiters, and your malacca cane with
the tassel, can be, in reality, as wicked, as
cruel, and as heartless, as the lord is supposed
to be. Yes; the lord is wicked because he is a
lord; the peasant is virtuous because he is a
peasant, and you are rich and generous because
you are an uncle. It would be just as reasonable
to regard a man as pious because he is a
pork-butcher.

I appeal to the public. Is not this your idea
of uncles? That they are all kind-hearted old
fogies, whose whole mission on earth is to give
their nephews and nieces sovereigns, and make
them happy; that they are short and fat and
choleric, gruff externally, but within, warm;
that, almost as a rule, they make a great deal
of money in India, and come home on purpose
to die of liver complaint, and leave it all to the
children of their brothers and sisters; that they
condemn themselves to celibacy for this very
purpose, and die happy in the consciousness
that they have fulfilled that purpose. Yes; you
admit it—this is your idea of uncles. Now,
whence have you derived that idea? Is it
warranted by your own experience? When you
have had sufficient time to review your uncles
and reckon up how many sovereigns they have
given you, and what amount of happiness they
have conferred upon you, I have no doubt you
will be very much surprised to find that it is
not warranted by your experience. You have
had faith in an uncle of this sort; but when
you come to turn him about and examine his
points, you discover that he is nothing but an