temptation to return to my customary diet. This morning my breakfast was spoiled by finding that the pièce de résistance was corked. And this when I pay 96s. a dozen, and the vintage is 1884! However, it could not be helped, and I managed to exist until lunch. Then came another disappointment. I had purposely ordered a light repast, as I had not much appetite. But I did intend to take it with soda-water—not neat. At dinner I managed to get through a biscuit, and as it was "devilled," it gave me renewed relish for the morning's champagne. This time the bottles were in excellent condition, and I quite forgot that earlier in the day one of them had been corked. All in the half-dozen were in perfect condition—especially the last magnum. I do not know how I got to bed.

Tuesday.—When I find that I have not removed my boots overnight, I know that I require a pick-me-up. A friend joined me at breakfast, and we both thought the champagne excellent. My friend Brown, or perhaps it was Jones, and now I come to think of it, it may have been Robinson. And yet, when I consider the matter, there may have been three of them. I tried to count them, and it took me half the morning. Well, Brown, or whoever he was, is a very good fellow. Most amusing, and an excellent audience. He laughs at everything. Whether you mean it to be funny or not, he laughs. I like him as a brother. A thoroughly good fellow. We had a most interesting discussion about the right pronunciation of Constitution. He said it was in two syllables. I said it was in one. I think I was right. We had a long chat about it after dinner. First we talked about it over the port, and then under the table. I don't know how I managed to get home, but I have a firm belief that it was all right—quite all right.

Wednesday.—Found my boots again on my feet when recovering consciousness. So this is the second time I must have slept in them. I feel excessively melancholy. I have wept very much, and were it not for the supporting-powers of whiskey, I am sure I should be much worse. However, there is only one thing to be done—to keep at it. One bottle down, another come on. I have floored no end of a lot of them. Strange to say that I am now happy after all my sorrow of this morning. Everything is right but the lamp-posts. They are all wrong. Getting in my way on my road home. I feel awfully tired. However, seems to be my duty to interfere in a street-row.

Thursday.—It appears I had an altercation with the police last night. I am free, but sorrowful. I really must put myself under restraint. I feel almost certain that I have given way to intemperance. On appealing to Brown (or whoever he is), he says I have been as drunk as a fly for ages. This hurts me very much. Only thing to do is to retire into a retreat. Have, with the assistance of Brown (or whoever he is), drawn up the application. It looks right enough. And, as this is my last chance for some time to come, I and Brown (or whoever he is) are going to make a night of it.

Friday.—Boots again! Brown (or whoever he is) called with two doctors. I said I couldn't be bothered with them. Brown (or whoever he is) said I must. So I saw them. They say that the Act requires that I must understand what I am doing. All right—going into retreat. Word "retreat" should be pronounced as one syllable. All right, they have made the statutory declaration.

Saturday.—Here I am. Charming place, away from drink, and ought to do well for the next fortnight. Can't remember how long I promised to stay, but know it was for some considerable time. I have just seen the Superintendent. He says he is very sorry, but I cannot stay any longer. This, in spite of it appearing that I have signed an application undertaking to remain for life. Can't make it out. Rather vague about what I have been doing during the week, but know I wanted to cure myself from habitual inebriety. Superintendent says he must turn me out under the statute. Appears that I signed the application for admission when I was not absolutely sober. Can't be helped. Out I go. Well, there are worse things in the world than whiskey and port. I have a notion that I am booked for another night in my boots!

NOTE AND QUERY.

Small Boy (to Companion). "I Say, Bill, which o' these Two's taken the Prize?"

THE RECENTLY-ELECTED R.A.'S.

A Debt of Honour.—Will the verse described as Ode by Mr. William Morris be paid with the Poet Laureateship?

WHAT WEDDING PRESENTS ARE COMING TO.

She. "I don't see my Cheque anywhere!"

He. "A—can I help you? What Name?"

She. "Oh—well—mine is hardly a Cheque. A—it's a Postal Order, you know, for Fifteen Shillings!"

OUR OWN AMBASSADOR.

Mr. Punch, meeting Columbia at the World's Fair, thus greeteth her:—