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SCBNR:- Farmer's Ordinary.
Waiter (with horror) :-" Hi ! BIR! You'RX A-BATIN' THE WELTED BUTTER !" 1 Farmer :-"Aw, I THOWT 'TWERX THE SOUP!"

At the age of only eight, you'll forgive me if I state

That there never was a child like me :
I was not a bit inclined to devote my little mind

To the study of my A, B, C.
I could linger with delight over marbles or a kite,

And I left it for the bumdrum boys
To be fagging all the day, for I fancied when at play

There was nothing in the world like Toys !
But my heart was in a flame, I remember, when I came

To the period of soft sixteen:
She was young and very fair, in a frock and curly hair,

And the colour of her eyes light groen.
When I met her (at a dance) how she thrilled me with a glance,

And a pressure of her white kid glove:
In a minuto I was caught, and in ecstacy I thought

There was nothing in the world like Love!
Then Ambition had a turn, and I felt my bosom burn

To be ranked among the earth's great men:
So I wrote a lot of rhyme-just a step from the sublime -

Tho' I reckoned it sublime just then.
Quite a year I throw away on a novel and a play

That were worthy of a first-rate name;
I was probably deceived, but I verily believed

There was nothing in the world like Fame!
I was doubtful and perplext how to fix upon the next,

'Midst the treasures that the earth might hold: Some were dearer than the rest, but the dearest and the best,

And the brightest of them all seemed Gold.
But it may be-after all—even toys begin to pall,

In the struggles of this long, long strifo :
All my gods are overthrown, save the last—for I will own

There is nothing in the world liko Life!

A LUNATIC ON LITERATURE. We are very fond of English literature, and as the volumos of Fun, dow series, will show, we havo oontributed not ignobly to the lighter branches of the literature of our country. We are grateful, also, to anyone who will give us a good book on the study of English authors. We were much obliged to MR. HANNAY, for instance, for his excellent course of lectures on the subject, a book which no student should be without. But we are not grateful to MR. WILLIAM GEORGE LARKINS for his Handbook of English Literature, for it is really so bad as to be quite comic. One specimen of it will be enough for the reader:—this is part of what MR. LARKIN8 days of LORD Byron:

“The production of Don Juan 'plased him immediately in the front rank of the poets. It is the description of a young and satiated libertine, who endeavours to rouse bimself from the listless and melancholy condition into which he has fallen by travel in foreign lands. . . . . It is written in the style of the Spenserian stanza, which suits the character of the poem, which is gloomy and contemplative. ::: The sentiment of the poetry ascends from what is low and lustful to the highest purity and sublimity."

This is really delicious! Well may Me. LARKINS say in his preface that his notes ar3 woven together by a thread of originality." Never before were such "original" views propounded for the edification of the student. P&OPENSOR HBNRY MORLBY is mentioned in the dedication to this funny book, but MR. LARKINS must be a wag, for he could nover seriously mean to associate the Professor's name with such stuff. We have, however, come to the conclusion that the extract given above is a joke. Very funny, MR. LARKINS! but don't do it again :-we see through your jokes, but little boys and girls who want to study English literature might be taken in.

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Coled Comfort. A DISTINGUISHED ARTIST of our acquaintance happened the other day to fall in with a scientific professor who was descanting or the probable failure of our coal. The painter was of opinion that the sooner the COLB-fields of South Kensington give out, the better for England.

Printed by JUDD & GLASB, Phænks Works, St. Andrew's Hill, Doctors' Commons, and Published (for the Proprietor) by THOMAS BAKER, at 80, Fleet-street, E.C.

London : M

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LOOKS INTO BOOKS. In the Paris Exhibition, by EUGENE RIMMEL, MESSRS CHAPMAN AND Hall have published a very elegant little souvenir, of what will probably be the last of the International Shows. It consists of a collection of the articles which were contributed by MR, RIMMEL to the Courrier de l'Europe and the Patrie, translated into English, and illustrated rather plentifully with representations of some of the principal objects of the exhibition, including a very good specimen of chromolithography, “The Broussa Mosque," and a bird's-eye view of the building and park.

MR. RIMMEL comments on the Exhibition with fairness, and with what is much rarer, frankness. He does not hesitate to condemn the mismanagement of the Imperial Commissioners, and the injustice of the awards of prizes. He very properly points out, too, why the selection of British jurors was so unsatisfactory-though, of course, it was an understood thing that our share in the Exhibition would be a disgrace, a job, and a failure, as soon as it was announced that MR. COLE was to be Chief Commissioner. The error of the much-vaunted elliptical arrangement of the building is pointed out briefly and clearly, and the criticism on the articles displayed in the various departments and countries is valuable because it is just, if not severe. Altogether, the book will be a welcome souvenir of the Exhibition to those who saw it, while to those who did not see it, it will be a compensation-if not a substitute, since after reading the volume carefully they might well pass themselves off as having visited the show.

The book is turned out excellently in the matter of paper, print, and binding—though as to this last, Messrs. Bons seem to have gilded the edges unsatisfactorily; it is almost impossible to avoid tearing the pages in some cases, in trying to separate them.

I hate that kind of thing, my dear;

Indeed, I'd rather walk
Ten miles the other way than hear

Old MRS. GRUNDY talk.
Whenever she begins to try

The scandalising line,
I says to her-I says, says I,

It's no affair of mine!

The maids at Number Two,
Are partial to the baker's man-

What's that, says I, to you?
Suppose the butcher-boy is fond

Of Number Twenty-Nine,
And she may happen to respond ;-

It's no affair of mine!
If Mr. Lot, the auctioneer,

Has got a shrewish wife-
It's not for us, I says, my dear,

To pry at married life.
If CAPTAIN C. comes back at night

A deal the worse for wine,
And kicks the children left and right-

It's no affair of mine !
I'm sick of Mrs. GRUNDY's ways,

And Mrs. GRUNDY too;
No doubt she goes about and says

Queer things of me and you.
She's always dropping in to tea,

Or looking in to dine ;-
And yet the brute—but then, you see,

It's no affair of mine!

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Smoke : The Times states that the consumption per head of tobacco in the United Kingdom has increased from 13 oz. in 1841, to llb. 5oz. in 1865, and adds “so greatly is the habit of smoking extending.” The Times might see from its own columns puffing is on the increase.

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Was the son of an elderly

labouring man,
You've guessed him

Scotchman, shrewd

reader, at sight, And p'raps altogether,

shrewd reader, you're

right. From the bonnie blue

Forth to the beastly

Round by Dingwall and

Wrath to the mouth of

the Clyde, There wasn't a child or a

woman or man Who could pipe with


No other could wake such detestable groans
With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones :
All day and all night he delighted the chiels
With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.
He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,
And the neighbouring maidens would gather around;
To list to his pipes and to gaze in his een,
All loved their McCLAN, save a Sassenach brute,
Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;
He dressed himself up in a Highlander way;
Tho' his name it was PatrisON CORBY TORBAY.
TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense,
To make him a Scotchman in every sense ;
But this is a matter you'll readily own,
That isn't a question of tailors alone.
A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,
He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;
Stick a skeän in his bose-wear an acre of stripes—
But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.

With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad.
If you really must play on that cursed affair,
My goodness, play something resembling an air !"
Boiled over, the blood of MACPHAIRSON MCCLAN-
The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;
For all were enraged at the insult, I ween-
“ Let's show," said McCLAN, “to this Sussenach loon
That the bagpipes can render a regular une.”
“Let's see," said McClan, as he thoughtfully sat,
'In my Cottage' is easy-I'll practise at that."
He blew at his “Cottage,” and blew with a will,
For a year seven months and a fortnight, until
(You'll hardly believe it) McClan, I declare,
Elicited something resembling an air !
It was wild-it was fitful - as wild as the breeze-
It wandered about into several keys.
It was jerky, spasmodic and harsh, I'm aware ;
But still it distinctly suggested an air.
The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced ;
He shrieked in his agony-bеllowed and pranced.
And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene,
“ Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;
And fill a' ye lugs wi' the exquisite sound.
An air fra' the bagpipes—beat that it ye can!
The fame of his piping spread over the land:
Respectable widows proposed for his hand,
And maidens came flocking to sit on the green-
One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore
He'd stand it no longer-he drew his claymore,
And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste),
Divided CONGLOCKETTY close to the waist.
Oh ! loud were the wailings for Angus McCLAN,
Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man-
The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene,
To find them “take on" in this serious way,
He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,
And solaced their souls with the following words :-
“Oh, maidens," said PATTISON, touching his hat,
"Don't blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that;
Observe, I'm a very superior man,
A much better fellow than Angus McCLAN!"





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They smiled when he winked and addressed them as "dears,"
And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,
A pleasanter gentleman never was seen-

OLONGLOCKETTY's pipings all night and all day Quite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY; The girls were amused at his singular spleen, Especially ELLEN MCJONES ABERDEEN.

Tempus Fugit. A PAINFUL illustration of this truism is now presented at the Eastend. We are assured that there are scores—we may say, hundreds,-of families who have not known what a “Saturday night” is for months!

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of sewing-machine competitions. Will they run up awful ticks at the

bonnet shops and the confectioners ? I'm afraid that unless the College (HILE Mr. Speke was missing, unless one had is empowered, as the Universities are, by statute, there will be terrible

a theory to account for his disappearance, difficulties. Idle bachelors will take lodgings in the place to flirt with there was no reason why one should add the undergraduates; and unless the "proctrices" have the power to to the voluminous literature of his case.

order them out of the neighbourhood, the ladies' studies will be sadly After his discovery, any allusion to his aber: interfered with. ration seemed to me to be unwarrantable. But a paragraph which states that he has been

THE WEATHER. placed in a private lunatic asylum, because

he entertained a belief that he is disliked by his family, becomes, to my mind, a public matter. Private lunatic

I've got a deal of common sense, asylums are not admirable places, and I should think the poor gentle

But no imagination : man's family must be labouring under a delusion which almost fits

I never made the least pretence them for similar supervision, if they suppose that by putting him in a

To shine in conversation. madhouse they are going the right way to disabuse his mind of the

I dare not stray in any way notion that they do not like him.

An inch beyond my tether; The Atlas has altered the form of its “ Notes,” but not to advantage.

And, when I've nothing else to say, They do not read half so well as they did, though there are some smart

I talk about the weather. lines about the “Cockney Literary Man.” Their aim, however, is not very obvious, and the merit of such squibs depends somewhat on that.

When Mary Ann and I go out Nevertheless, there are some very sharp hits in them. Altogether, the

I long to play the lover,

But what on earth to talk about paper in its new form keeps well up to its intent, and should establish itself firmly.

I never can d scover. I am sorry to see that "the canoe” is gaining more footing, if I may be

I blush to say I often show allowed the expression. The amusement is a dangerous one-a spill

The whitest kind of feather, from a canoe being more perilous, even to a swimmer, than an upset

And stammer out, “Look here, you know

Let's talk about the weather.” in an outrigger. Besides, I doubt whether anything which began its public career as a tract-distributing machine is worth much. I

I've run a bill at Mr. SNIP's hope the Boating Clubs of Oxford and Cambridge will discourage the

For articles of raiment; movement, which, as a mere "fad” and fashion, may injure the old,

He always has upon his lips honest, manly practice of rowing. In my time, it was a nice amuse

A hint about its payment. ment for raw freshmen and men who wouldn't handle an oar, for fear

Whenever MR. SNIP and I of being pressed into the hard work of the torpid. Captains of the

Are left alone together, 0.U.B.C. and C.U.B.C. will kindly accept this intimation. The PRINCE

You can't imagine how I try IMPERIAL of France has just joined the Canoe Club. Let the practice

To talk about the weather. be delegated to Frenchmen and boys! It is stated that the PRINCE OF WALES is Commodore of some English Canoe Club, but I trust the

I go to parties now and then, report is as unfounded as a recent advertisement which alleged that

But never find it answer: "the Jolly” somebody or other sang two miserable music-hall songs,

I'm forced to mix among the men called “Racketty Dick” and “The Horse Feed,” or some such names,

Because I'm not a dancer. "by command of H.R. H.”

I merely put on evening dressAt the time when a new Premier comes into power it is fair to

White kid and patent leathersuppose that the Editor of the Saturday Review would not be absent

On purpose that I may express from his post. But if he be at the helm how can he explain his passing two blunders in the number for March 7th, which are just such blunders

My thoughts about the weather. as the Review would, or should be, most severe upon. Blunder number one, minor :- Why was the reviewer who so ably criticised MR.

An A. Smith's Hammer. FITZGERALD's David Garrick, allowed to give us for COLERIDGE such a brace of lines as this P

It is to be feared that the blow aimed at the crying evil of intem“All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

perance by MR. ABBL SMITH's Sunday Closing Bill will not prove so Which stir this mortal frame."

effectual as its supporters anticipate. What says HUDIBRAs on the This is not COLERIDGE's metre, but Watts's. Blunder number two, subject ? major :- Why was the writer, so very unnecessarily severe on Wholesome

A man convinced against his (s) will
Fare, permitted to talk such nonsense as this ?-

Is of the same opinion still.
The little “Marchioness” in Dickens's Curiosity Shop found her dry bread the
better for rubbing it against the door of the room where the cheese was locked.
Now no man is compelled to read DICKENS, but if he quotes him he

A Wardian Case. should not only read but understand him. The character of the We cannot look upon the newly-appointed CHANCELLOR OF THE "Marchioness" may be an exaggeration, but it would be a caricature EXCHEQUER as the right man in the right place. The exposure lately if she were guilty of any such practical humour as this. She pries made of the disgraceful condition of many country workhouses points through keyholes to discover where the key of the safe is hidden, but clearly to the Poor Law Board as the fittest place for a WARD HUNT. her wildest flight of imagination is to consider infusion of orange-peel wine-with a good deal of "make-believe.” The first blunder is pardonable as a defect of memory (though it is difficult to believe a

TO MR. MATTHEW ARNOLD. Saturday Reviewer capable of that weakness), but the second is a

O, CHOSEN Apostle of Culture, complete misapprehension of character-it is worse than a blunder,

O, champion of reason 'gainst might, and a blander is, we are told, worse than a crime.

But for thee we should see the sepulture, I HEAR great things of the coming exhibition of the Society of

For ages, of sweetness and light. British Artists. MR. BARNES is to be well represented, the three posts

A Comtist millennium predicted of honour in the chief room being occupied by his chief work, and by

By CONGREVE, hangs o'er us now, the pictures of Mr. HURLSTONE and MR. HEAPHY.

MR. Hayes sup

When our bishops and priests are evicted, ports the credit of the Society in landscape, backed by Messrs. MOORE,

And mitered is HARRISON's brow. COLE, TENNANT, and others. MR. C. W. NICHOLLS sends a picture, entitled "A Charming Incident,” which has been engraved by Mr. C.

We may fall at Humanity's altar, MOTTRAM, and is a pretty subject that should be popular.

Gain all that its worship reveals ; We are to have a Ladies' College after all—the real article, and no

And our tongues with emotion may falter nonsense about it. It is to be somewhere between London and Cam

When speaking the name of Saint Beales. bridge, and the fair undergrads are to go into residence, with sets of

But our creed will want Comtist completeness, rooms, and she-scouts, dioners in hall, a gate-bill no doubt, and all the

We're not wholly gone to the bad, correct surroundings of University life. What fun! I suppose they

If we stick to our light and our sweetness, will give teas instead of wines, and get up athletic sports in the shape

To culture and chaffing the cad !


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