hundred and fifty yards off the fishery step the Boat Club quickened up to forty and got within two feet of their opponents. Then, amid the greatest excitement, Boat Club got in front and won by a canvas." A stroke oar who can row a race at nineteen to the minute all through is steadier but certainly less versatile than one who can spring suddenly from the rate of seventeen to the rate of forty. As admirable as either is the genius of the reporter who describes the event.

Mr. H. M. Hyndman is the Socialist candidate for Burnley. He advocates "the immediate nationalisation and socialisation of railways, mines, factories, and the land, with a view to establishing organised co-operation for production and distribution in every department under the control of the entire community. There should be a minimum wage of thirty shillings a week in all State and Municipal employment, as well as in State-created monopolies." There's a modest and practical programme for you! But this windy gentleman's opponents may reply that they prefer the system of each for himself, and d——l take the Hyndman, to all the verbiage of the Socialist froth-pot.

Many reasons have been given for the fall of the late Government. It has been left to a correspondent of the Birmingham Daily Post to discover the real and only one. "It is most unfair," he says, "to hold them entirely responsible for all the shortcomings, blunders, and failures which distorted their administration. How could they help these things? Has it never occurred to you that the Government of Lord Rosebery was the '13th' Parliament of Queen Victoria? Can anybody reasonably expect good government from a 13th Parliament? It is out of all question." What persiflage, what wit!

I sorrow over the new town clock of Dalkey. In my Freeman's Journal I read that, at the monthly meeting of the Dalkey Township Commissioners, a letter was read from Messrs. Chancellor and Sons, stating that the new town clock could not be made to strike, but they could make a new clock for £100. The letter was marked read—and no wonder. If it can't strike, it had better be wound up, and Dalkey is obviously the place to wind it. Otherwise there seems no reason in the Township's name.

Clevedon is, I believe, in Somerset. Anyone in search of a sensation ought to have gone there last week, for it is stated that "Mr. Victor Rosini's Spectral Opera Company commenced a week's engagement at the Public Hall on Monday evening." I cannot imagine a spectral basso or tenore robusto. And in any case, why should the unfortunate operatic spectres be harried into giving public performances?

Musical Honours!!—The friends of Sir Henry James, Q.C., M.P., will celebrate his being raised to the peerage by serenading with "The Aylestone Chorus."

"VIVA L'ITALIA!"

Admiral Punch (to Italia on the occasion of her Fleet visiting England). "Welcome, mia Bella, to you and your splendid Ships! I come of an old Italian Family myself!"

HER PREVIOUS SWEETHEART.

Wednesday.—Violet has accepted me, this very day, the happiest of my life. She is the sweetest and prettiest woman in the world. I have loved her long and passionately. She has not loved me long, and she could never love me passionately. She is rather unemotional. Even when I kissed her this afternoon for the first time she was quite calm. She tells me she has once loved, as though she could never love again. Her previous sweetheart was a Captain. I am a mere writer. His name was Percy Plantagenet Cholmondeley. Mine is Jones. I hope that in time she may forget him.

Thursday.—Meet her in the Row, and sit under the trees. She is fond of horses. So am I, but I do not ride often. She mentions that Captain Cholmondeley was a splendid rider. Listen patiently to what she tells me.

Friday.—To the Opera with Violet and her people. She does not care for Gounod's Faust. Prefers a burlesque with comic songs. Says the Captain sang comic songs admirably, with banjo accompaniment. When it's well done, I also like that. Tell her so. This encourages her to further reminiscences. Of course, she is right to conceal nothing from me now we are engaged, but frankness, even engaging frankness, may be carried too far. Manage to change the subject at last, and then unfortunately the Soldier's Chorus reminds her of a parody in an amateur burlesque which Captain Cholmondeley——and so on.

Saturday.—Meet her at Hurlingham. She is so fond of polo. She says the Captain was a splendid player. I expected that. A sort of Champion of the World. Of course. I never played in my life. Listen to an account of his exploits. Rather bored.

Sunday.—Up the river. Very hot day. Delightful to lounge in the shade and smoke. Violet more energetic. Compels me to exert myself. She says the Captain could do anything in a boat. No doubt. I am prepared to hear that he shot the Falls of Niagara in a punt. He was a wonderful genius. I am tired of hearing of him.

Monday.—To Mr. Montgomery-Mumby's dance. Violet there of course. We both like dancing. Get on charmingly together. Suddenly something reminds her of the ever-lamented Captain P. P. C. I suggest that he has said good-bye to her for ever, as his initials show. She does not see the little joke. Have to explain it to her. Then she says it is a very poor joke. No doubt it is, but she needn't tell me so. Annoying. A certain coolness between us.

Tuesday.—To the French play with Violet and her aunt. She understands French very well. Seems to think a lot of me because I know something of several languages. Ask her if Captain Cholmondeley was fond of learning languages. Am prepared to hear that he was a second Mezzofanti. On the contrary, it seems that he couldn't speak a word of anything but English, and that he didn't speak very much that was worth hearing even in that. The only French he could understand was in a menu. Apparently he never read anything else in any language, except the sporting papers in English. Have at last found something he could not do. Delighted. Unfortunately show this. Violet begins to defend him. I say he must have been rather a duffer. She retorts that I can't play polo. What has that to do with it? Again a coolness between us.

Wednesday.—It is all over! We have parted for ever. She could never forget that confounded Captain. Asked her this morning, when she was telling me of his shooting elephants, or alligators, or rabbits, or sparrows, or something wonderful, why she did not marry him. She says it was broken off. She shows me his last letter of farewell. I read it critically. It is very short. Point out to her nine mistakes in spelling, and four in grammar. She says I am brutal. Indignation. Argument. Scorn. Tears. Farewell.

GREAT WHEEL GOSSIP.