you stayed behind—you'd never have got through those caves! You wouldn't believe I could ha' done it unless you'd seen me—clambering down iron ladders, and jumping on to rocks, and squeezing through tunnels, and then up a cliff like the side of a house. I do wish you could ha' seen me, TOM!

Tom (philosophically). Ah, well, I was very comfortable where I was, settin' in the hotel room there, smoking my pipe. GREEN the Guide gave us, "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep," in first-rate style—he is a singer, and no mistake!

His Wife. Lor, I wish I'd known he was going to sing—I'd ha' stayed too! But here he is, waiting by the road for us—I do hope he's going to sing again!

Green the G. (mounting the car). I fear I am an unwelcome visitor.

The Eld. G. (graciously). It would be the first time in your life then, GREEN!

G. the G. Well, the fact is, I come to levy a little contribution on behalf of myself and the Coachman. Times are hard, Gentlemen, and both of us have large families to support. If you don't believe me, ask the Coachman. (The Elderly G. explains that his wrappings prevent him from getting at his purse just then, while the others contribute with more or less readiness and liberality.) Many thanks. Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of myself and the Coachman, and to express my sense of your generosity, I will sing you the great Jersey National Song, composed by myself, before leaving. (He sings a ditty with the following spirited Chorus):—

[GREEN the Guide descends in a blaze of popularity, and the "Royal Blue" rolls on in excellent spirits.

POLITICAL TRAINING.

Monday.—Read Mr. CHAMBERLAIN's remarks on abstinence from bodily exercise. Sold my bicycle, and gave away all my rackets, bats, &c. Resolved to follow the latest system. Shall doubtless, by these means, reach Mr. C.'s high position as a statesman and orator. Went out in a Bath-chair. Five minutes after starting, man said he was not accustomed to drag so heavy an invalid, and must rest a little. Tried a speech—my maiden one—on the Disadvantages of Bodily Exercise. He listened respectfully, and, when at last I had finished, said he quite agreed with me, and that the fare was seven shillings.

Tuesday.—Have decided that exercise in a Bath-chair is quite superfluous. Resolved to take exercise, for the future, in a hammock, just outside the garden-door. Must practise speech-making to the gardener. Good idea—Orchids. Asked him what he thought about the new Orchid. Miserable fool answered, "Awkud, zur? Dunno waht thaht be." I said that was "awkud," and had to laugh at the highly original side-splitter myself, as he never saw it.

Wednesday.—Must really give up this long walk to the garden-door. Shall never become a great statesman unless I do. Resolved to take exercise in arm-chair in library. The children's governess came in to fetch a book. Addressed her at some length on Free Education. Afterwards, thought this subject was somewhat ill-chosen, as her salary is so small.

Thursday.—Really cannot stand this walking up and down stairs. Shall remain for the future in my bed-room and take exercise on sofa by fireside, as I feel chilly. Page came in with coals. Reminded me of Policy of Scuttle. Spoke of this at some length, and woke him up with difficulty when I had finished. Felt rather unwell.

Friday.—Dressing and undressing is certainly needless fatigue, and evidently causes this headache and general seediness. Shall take exercise in bed. Felt worse. Female relatives anxious, and insist on medical attendance. Assured them I was following the best system, and answered their persistent demands by a short address on Home Rule.

Saturday.—Felt so bad at five this morning, that Doctor was fetched. Tried feebly to address him on the Eight Hours' Question, when he said he never had any time to think how long he worked. Explained my new system to him. He said I should myself want a new system to stand such a course of treatment. Then he pulled me out of bed, and insisted on my walking ten miles as soon as I was dressed. Felt much better. Shall abandon politics and become a farmer, having just heard of an infallible system for growing wheat profitably.

THE "RESTORATION" PERIOD.—Will the Chairmen of the L.C. & D. and the S.E. Lines unite their forces? After the meeting on this subject last week, Sir EDWARD will have lots of reason to listen to. But apart from every consideration of mal de mer, and "From Calais to Dover," as the poet sings "'Tis soonest over," there is not anywhere a better, and we, who have suffered as greatly as the much-enduring Ulysses, venture to assert not anywhere as good a luncheon as at the "Restauration" (well it deserves the title!) of the Calais Station. Every patriotic travelling Englishman must be delighted to think that some few centuries ago we gave up Calais. Had it been nowadays in English hands, why it might even now be possessed of a "Refreshment Room" no better than—any on our side of the Channel, for there is no necessity to particularise. From Dover to Calais is the shortest and best restorative'd route for the traveller, whether ill or well, at sea.

MOTTOES for the new Lord MAYOR. "Nil obstet," "Nil fortius," and, from HORACE, "Nil amplius oro." This, in answer to thousands of correspondents, is our last word on the subject; so after this (except on the 9th of November), we say—nil.

SUCH A "LIGHT OPERA!"

"Pity a Poo' Bar-itone!"

"Christmas is comin'!"

The McClown of McClown dancing.

The Reel Hit of the Opera.

Had Sir ARTHUR written the music for The Mountebanks, and Sir BRIAN DE BOIS GILBERT the book of Haddon Hall, both might have been big successes So, however, it was not to be, and Sir ARTHUR chose this book by Mr. GRUNDY, which labours under the disadvantages of being original, and of not owing almost everything to a French source. It isn't every day of the week that Mr. GRUNDY tumbles upon A Pair of Spectacles in a volume of French plays. The period to which the very slight and uninteresting story of Haddon Hall belongs is just before the Restoration, but the dialogue of "the book" is spiced with modern slang, both "up to date" (the date being this present year of Grace, not sixteen hundred and sixty) and out of date. The "out-of-date" slang, which is, "I've got 'em on"—alluding to the Scotchman's trousers—has by far the best of it, as it comes at the