one?

Fiancée (who doesn't mean to waste the whole afternoon over pictures). Why, it's only a lot of waves—come on!

The Surburban L. Lucy, this is rather nice. "Breakfasts for the Porth!" (Pondering.) I think there must be a mistake in the Catalogue—I don't see any breakfast things—they're cleaning fish, and what's a "Porth!" Would you mark that—or not?

Her Comp. Oh, I think so.

The S. L. I don't know. I've marked such a quantity already and the lead won't hold out much longer. Oh, it's by Hook, R. A. Then I suppose it's sure to be all right. I've marked it, dear.

Duet by Two Dreadfully Severe Young Ladies, who paint a little on China. Oh, my dear, look at that. Did you ever see such a thing? Isn't it too perfectly awful? And there's a thing! Do come and look at this horror over here. A "Study," indeed. I should just think it was! Oh, Maggie, don't be so satirical, or I shall die! No, but do just see this—isn't it killing? They get worse and worse every year, I declare!

[And so on.

In Gallery No. V.

(Two Prosaic Persons come upon a little picture, by Mr. Swan, of a boy lying on a rock, piping to fishes.)

First P. P. That's a rum thing!

Second P. P. Yes, I wasn't aware myself that fishes were so partial to music.

First P. P. They may be—out there—(perceiving that the boy is unclad)—but it's peculiar altogether—they look like herrings to me.

Second P. P. Yes—or mackerel. But (tolerantly) I suppose it's a fancy subject.

[They consider that this absolves them from taking any further interest in it, and pass on.

In Gallery No. XI.

An Old Lady (who judges Art from a purely Moral Standpoint, halts approvingly before a picture of a female orphan). Now, that really is a nice picture, my dear—a plain black dress and white cuffs—justwhat I like to see in a young person!

The S. L. (her enthusiasm greatly on the wane, and her temper slightly affected). Lucy, I wish you wouldn't worry so—it's quite impossible to stop and look at everything. If you wanted your tea as badly as I do! Mark that one? What, when they neither of them have a single thing on! Never, Lucy,—and I'm surprised at your suggesting it! Oh, you meant the next one? h'm—no, I can't say I care for it. Well, if I do mark it, I shall only put a tick—for it really is not worth a cross!

Coming Out.

The Man who always makes the Right Remark. H'm. Haven't seen anything I could carry away with me.

His Flippant Friend. Too many people about, eh? Never mind, old chap, you may manage to sneak an umbrella down-stairs—I won't say anything!

[Disgust of his companion, who descends stairs in offended silence, as scene closes.

"EMBARRASSING!"

IN THE KNOW.

(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)

I am told that many of the millions who have read with delight the brilliant sporting articles that have appeared from my pen week after week expect me to utter a few words of seasonable advice as to the chances of the various animals engaged in the Derby and the Oaks. If I were one of the chowder-headed numskulls who cackle for hire, the task would doubtless be an easy one. Mr. J. has performed it yearly with that magnificent want of success which attends all his addle-pated efforts. But, praise be to Heaven! I am not Mr. J., or one of his crew. I am only a humble writer, distinguished alike for his unerring sagacity, his undeviating accuracy, and his incisive force of expression. My task is, therefore, stupendous, but I will perform it.

The Derby.

There are many horses in for the Derby. Some people fancy Surefoot. Fancies are not, of course, facts, but the name is good. Keep your eye on the black and cerise of Liddiard. Sainfoin is not generally supposed to cover grass, but there are generally exceptions. I have not heard the angels calling Le Nord lately, but they may begin at any time. A man may get home, so may a horse, and I am bound to say that if I were The Beggar I should give the lie to the crack-brained puddling proverb, and be a chooser of first place. Bel Demonio should be all there when the first part of his name rings, so that he may go like the second, if he wants to be one, two, or three. Rathbeal rhymes to heel. Has he got a clean pair to show? Orwell should score well; and you must never, tie your Garter too tightly, unless you want to stop your circulation. Golden Gate is not always as open as might be wished; and The Imp is sometimes a hindrance. Good old Polonius! As for Kirkham, Alloway, Martagon, and Loup, all I can say is, Mum's the word. How about the Field? Monkeys are often made there. So much for the Derby.

The Oaks.

Who said Semolina? Passion, passion take advice, fill your pockets fall of Semolina. Ha, ha! Signorina ought certainly not to miss the mark by more than a mile. Mémoire might do pour servir, and Goldwing sounds well for a flyer. Those who cross the Ponza (sinorum) generally go further with ease, and Dearest is certainly superlative. The Field a monkey. Who said that? Whoever he was, let him beware! That is all I have to say in the meantime, but anyone desiring further information is requested to apply to me by letter at the office, enclosing twelve clean stamps for a reply. All who are not in a state of niddy-noddying, anserous, asinine, gruel-brained, pumpkin-faced, gooseberry-eyed imbecility, will, of course, do so.

A Shaftesbury Song.

(Air—"With a Doodah!" as sung years ago, with great applause, by Mr. W. E. Gl-dst-ne.)