I see a concert advertised, and it is a key to
human nature— the same everywhere— to see
in what flaming red letters its sponsors are
proclaimed: Under the distinguished patronage of
H. Excellency the Lieutenant-Governor and
Mrs. Wilcox, the Lord Bishop of Sodor and
Man and Mrs. Pouters, his Honour the Deempster
and Mrs. Welshwater, and (this struck
us as delightful) HIS HONOUR THE
ARCHDEACON'S OFFICIAL AND MRS. QUICK.

So do we kotoo all over the world. At the
Theatre Royal, that same night, we find less
expansion in the patronage, and some mystery;
for the performance is by permission and under
the patronage of

HIS HONOUR THE H. B. OF DOUGLAS.

This mystified Aramis, Porthos, and Athos
for a long time. A native caricaturist, said
Aramis. A local lead-pencil (allusion to the
native mines), said Porthos. Athos said nothing,
but reflected. It was he who hit on the solution,
THE HIGH BAILIFF! But did not the
abbreviation sound familiar, not to say free
and easy? It was agreed to be in bad taste,
and I have no doubt the " H. B" was hurt
by it.

But the whole does remind one of a certain
other island, not so far away, and to which
steamers run. There is the agitation against
the brutal Saxon; and we have only to read the
newspapers to see how the unscrupulous
oppressor is struggling, not to absorb, but " to
destroy" our island. The Manx editors are
lashing themselves to fury at the notion of
"annexation." They call it " THE ANNEXATION
HOWL," in large capitals. They hold up to
ridicule " the stupid boobies of the House of
Keys," who squandered and cast to the dogs (sic)
twenty-seven thousand acres of Manx land."
They are "popinjay bipeds," "stupid Manx
Tories," and what not. These are literally to
be found in a single journal. In fact, the world
repeats itself, even in a teacup.

A debate in the " House of Keys" took place
when the writer was " on the island;" but the
writer missed being present at the exciting
scene. Every word, however, was faithfully
reported in the Manx Gazette, and in a dramatic
way; as, for instance: " THE SECRETARY: O yes,
the right of appeal is retained." The question
was about the constitution of a new Court of
Appeal. The jokes in this House were of the
mildest sort, and seemed to go a long way.
Mr. Tidwell alluded to conscience being a
check; on which Mr. Chatters, another " Key,"
neatly retorted: " Mr. Tidwell does not seem
to think that conscience is a very elastic sort of
thing"— an allusion, it is recorded, which
produced " roars of laughter." But Mr. Tidwell was
not to be so disposed of. " Our friend," he said,
"the honourable member in the corner, is judging
by his own case, when he talks of elasticity of
conscience;" which in its turn produced " roars
of laughter." Mr. Harkee, another " Key,"
indignantly protested against all change. This
was the best stroke of the day. " Such a
change," he said, " would be doing away with
our vitals."

AN EVIL THURSDAY.

ON RECORD IN VENICE.

CHAPTER I.

THE clock of the Frari at Venice was striking
three* on Thursday, the 23rd February, 1525.
It was carnival time. On the little bridge,
which leads from the square or piazza of Santa
Maria dei Frari to the gateway of the Palazzo
Zeno, a man stood with a matchlock in his
hand. He was shortly joined by another man
enveloped in a mantle. The new comer
exchanged a few words with the former. Almost
immediately a report was heard; the man in the
mantle fell heavily on the steps of the bridge;
the man of the matchlock fled rapidly through
the little Piazza Zeno, leaving his weapon with
the match still burning on the ground.

* According to our English calculation, this
would be eight o'clock in the evening.

The whole transaction was observed by two
of the guardians of safety, or police, who
hastened to the spot. One of them stopped to
give what assistance he could to the wounded
man; the other gave chase to the assassin.

The dying man thrust back the police agent,
who was endeavouring to loosen his cloak to
discover the wound, with his arm, and, with a
broken voice, exclaimed:

"Ziobà†— il viluppo— disegni!" that is to
say, "Thursday— the case— drawings."

† Ziobà, in the Venetian dialect, means Thursday.

"Signore," retorted the police agent, " we
know that this is Thursday; never mind the
papers and drawings; let me examine your
wound."

"Ziobà," I say, replied the dying man.

He made a prodigious effort to say something
else; but the blood gushed from his mouth, and
prevented utterance. Two slugs had passed
through his lungs. With a convulsive spasm,
his head fell heavily on the flag-stones. He
was dead.

Such was the official report of the police-
agent, Menego.

The other agent was meantime in hot pursuit
of the assassin. The latter was young and
active, and fear added speed to his natural
agility. The festivities of the carnival had
attracted nearly the whole of the population of
Venice to the Place of St. Mark, and the narrow-
streets were almost deserted. After many
windings, the assassin reached the Grand Canal,
near the Church of St. Sylvestre. He threw
himself into a gondola that was tied to one of
the posts, and made for the opposite side of the
canal, handling his oar in a manner which
denoted that he was no novice in the art. The
few seconds lost in unloosing the gondola
enabled the police-agent to get a closer view
of him. He saw that he was in the dress of a