than a fair share of that exhilarating, recuperating air, of which the Isle of Thanet has the sole patent.

In one hour and forty minutes, the L. C. & D. takes the traveller from Town to Westgate, and in two hours to Ramsgate, by Granville Express from Victoria and Holborn Viaduct. On Sunday morning, starting at 10·30 A.M., the Jaded One can be down for lunch at Ramsgate by 12·30, and all the day before him.

À propos of the Granville Express, Mr. Punch had the pleasure of dining at the Granville Hotel the other evening, and a better dinner, better chosen, cooked, and served, could not be got anywhere in London, or out of it. The proprietor, Mr. Quatermain East, may not wish this to be generally known, but Mr. Punch, who specially compliments the chef on his clear turtle and whitebait, thinks that he shall be doing a service to everybody by not keeping secret the story of this Quatermain—not Mr. Rider Haggard's "Allan,"—who means to remain the "Q in the corner" of the Isle of Thanet. "Q. E. D." and "D" stands for "Dinner."

LATEST STREET IMPROVEMENT.

Regent Street Tradesman. "Look here, Mr. Policeman, as we want the Job of Clearing Up this Place well done, we'll do it Ourselves."

From "Norma."—Moonlight Serenade for Three Voices—a Magistrate, a Policeman, and a Home Secretary—in Regent Street:—"Cass-ta Diva, Incantatrice!"

"GESTA GRAYORUM."

Embodiment of an Arthurian legend. The Master of the Revels.

The Times of Thursday last in a learned article on the Gray's Inn Masque, records that "On the 28th February 1587, eight members of the Society were engaged in the production of The Misfortunes of Arthur" but on the occasion of The Maske of Flowers in 1887, the Honourable Society of Gray's Inn showed what could be done with the Success of Arthur; that is, of Master Arthur W. à Beckett, Master of the Revels. And indeed what could be done in Old Gray's Inn, was on that occasion quite a Revel-ation to most of us. Mr. Punch heartily congratulates the Honourable Society of Gray's Inn on possessing such a Revel-Master—he ought at once to be created Lord Revel-stoker—who is able to give life and form to so excellent an idea, who can design such exquisite costumes, compose such appropriate music, paint such perfect scenery, and instruct amateur pupils in the arts of elocution, action, singing and dancing.

Mr. Punch is perfectly aware that the costumes were due to Mr. Lewis Wingfield's designs and Mr. Alias's workmanship, that the scenery was painted by the old stager John O'Connor, that the music was composed and arranged by Messrs. Prendergast and Birch-Reynardson, and that the dances were invented "with the assistance of MSS." (old English for "Master of the SeremonieS") and taught by the experienced Mr. D'Auban. But the lawyers of Gray's well know that "Qui facit per alium facit per se,"—and in the case of the costumes, Qui facit per Alias facit per se—and so with the merit of what Master Arthur W. à Beckett executes by his chosen agents he himself is to be credited. It was a great success, from first to last. Just one word at parting. Mr. Punch hopes that the Maske, as it is, is not to be reproduced on the public stage. Such a proceeding, by depriving it of its venerable and appropriate surroundings, would vulgarise an entertainment which should have remained, within the precincts of Gray's Inn, archaic and unique.

In Gray's Inn Hall.—Notes by a Very Ordinary Person.—Crushed. Difficulty with hat. That's why I dislike a Matinée, because you can't come in a crush hat. But you're sure to go away in a crush hat. Opera-hat in daytime looks so disreputable: suggestive of having been out all night. While hiding my hat, lost my book. Probably under lady's dress. No use trying for it. Band outside plays National Anthem, and a voice from a dark recess shouts out some word of command to the Beefeaters—(poor chaps, in this hot weather "the Overdone-Beefeaters"—fine-looking fellows with prime joints)—and then enter Royalties. Can't see them. They're seated. Enter, in front, tall young men in coloured tunics, knicker-bockers, and turn-down collars. What are these? The Backward Pupils of Gray's Inn? No. The Orchestra. It commences. There are fiddles, and basses, and a second-hand cracked piano, suggestive of having been hired from itinerant Minstrels on Margate Sands. My neighbour asks me if the band is "Coote and Tinney?" My reply is evident—"More Tinny than Coot." Neighbour informs me that the cracked piano is really a very old instrument, in use about the time of Queen Elizabeth. Exactly: just what I should have thought. The Benchers ought to have been rich enough by now to have bought a new one. When a thing is to be done, do it well. No cracked pianos. Not worth fourpence an hour.

Curtain up. Low arch representing entrance to Old Gray's Inn. Enter a Giant with a long white beard. I