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LET the Conservatives and MR. LOWE be under no apprehensions as to the swamping of the Constitution. Let them frankly admit that the Chancellor of the Exchequer has not betrayed them. He no doubt has been reading the Glasgow Daily Herald, and has gleaned from its advertising columns a fact, which fully justifies his throwing open the door to the Working Man. Here is the announcement:

SLEEPING CUSTOMS.-Different nations have different habits, and, perhaps, the beds differ as notably as anything does. In France there are no feather beds. In Russia, on inquiring for the servants' bed-rooms and beds, you are politely informed they are in the habit of lying anywhere. In Eastern nations the bed is often nothing but a carpet. In Germany, the construction of the beds gives one the impression that the Germans do not know what it is to lie down. In Britain, and, perhaps, more so in Scotland a few years ago, as a rule, a working man or a servant "about to marry" considered a feather bed one of the grand articles to be provided; among the higher classes now, feather beds are disappearing fast-no doubt the working man will soon follow-pronounced as they are by medical authority to be unwholesome, and that a Good Hair Mattress is the best bed in use. There is a feeling that Glasgow is second to no city in the world in guiding the public, and supplying them well with this luxury for sleeping upon. Intending purchasers are respectfully invited to inspect our Stock of Bedding and Iron Bedsteads. Price Lists, Estimates, &c., on application, etc.

The heading "Sleeping Customs," is intended, of course, to indicate the "quieta non movere" principles of that somnolent party, the Tories, who will be delighted to hear that their bugbear, the working man, is disappearing fast, like feather beds. When we think of themthat is, the working men, not the feather beds-a fleabite, to use one of MR. DISRAELI's favourite terms, is the only word to express the theoretical admission of millions of them to the franchise. It is like giving the Dodo a vote. "Feather beds are disappearingthe working man will soon follow." You can, therefore, admit him wholesale to the franchise, for as he no longer exists to exercise it, it doesn't, in the least, mattress-we beg pardon, matter.

Ink-redible!

We see widely advertised a new compound called "Perry's Essence of Ink." This portable form of ink, we presume, is rendered essential by the desire of every traveller to write a book about his Perry-grinations and foreign ex-Perry-ences.

VOL. V.

MORAL :-Don't try experiments on dishes you are not acquainted with.

L

The Derby.

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Delight the happy meadows to bedew

With sparkling show'rs-and make the grass so damp,
Source of rheumatic agonies and cramp.
You bid the awakened fruit-trees to assume
Their garb of bloom-

And yours-at least, so my experience teaches-
Yours are the silvery frosts that deck the mead
With rimes-which rural poets seldom need-
To nip the little nectarines and peaches.

Say from what distant quarter do you bring
Your cutting winds, sweet Spring!

Is it from Catarrh-lonia's plains, or those
Of Mocha, where luxuriant Coughy grows,
Far o'er the ocean?

Or do you bring these pangs that make us dance
From that Neur-Algiers that is held by France,
Or regions Caper-docian?

Sweet Spring-excuse your poet for declaring
In simple if not laudatory rhyme,

That something ails the Horologe of Time-
Its Springs so want repairing.

Town Talk.

BY THE SAUNTERER IN SOCIETY. RIGHT was the promise of the dawn of the Derby. But when day really broke, like a great many other bankrupts, he let in a good many who had been silly enough to trust him. A few years since the Picturesque Reporter was sighing for a wet Derby, as ALEXANDER wept for new worlds. He must have been in his -element-or, rather, war of the elements-this year, for there were both snow and hail. Nearly thirty years ago the snow had to be swept from the course for the great race; but picturesque reporting was not born then, so for once our friend had an entirely new theme, and on the whole handled it well. The attendance was naturally a little thinned by the weather, and there was no great excitement among the public about any particular horse. The winner, indeed, was scarcely looked at, even at the very moment when he was snatching the prize from Marksman, for the cry had already risen that the latter was the winner. That pleasant animal, D'Estournel, did not care about the race, but seeing such a large concourse of people, thought it would be a fine opportunity for devouring one or two, and was with difficulty prevented from putting his design into execution. The Rake ran well for a time, but no one can be surprised that he fell off after a short spurt, for his accident was very recent. So the race went to a comparative outsider, though he had been high in the betting at

one time, before he met with a similar accident to that of The Rake. Of course, the joy of the bookmakers is great-with which I don't sympathize; but everyone will be glad to hear that MR. CHAPLIN, the owner of Hermit, had supported his horse gamely, and won considerably. If one report I have read be true, the jockey who steered Hermit to the post gets a bonus of eight thousand pounds for his two minutes and fifty-two seconds, in which time BENSON's chronograph registers the race as run. If he had been a sensation novelist, he could not have made the money more rapidly or easily. The result

of the race will give some of the prophets considerable trouble in slipping out of their false positions. I did not set up for a prophet; and all I said was that, from what I heard, D'Estournel would win, if he could only be got to start. So my tip is all right-but how about NICHOLAS?

THE Literary Fund Dinner came off the other day. What a pity it is that the reporters are admitted, for the speeches are not likely to do credit to literature. The old principle of "ca' me, ca' thee" is rigorously carried out, and every second-rate versifier is "a great poet," every ordinary novelist "a remarkable writer of fiction," every minor scribbler "an author" on such occasions. However, if this mutual admiration were the only thing the society did, it might pass. The most objectionable part of it is its ostentation of alms-giving, as if it were a board of guardians appointed for the relief of literary paupers. The only patronage literature requires is that of the public. It does not need a Royal Society for the Diffusion of Shillings. The Civil List ought to be the only fund of the sort-a national institution, not a congregation of charitable busy bodies. To be sure, the Civil List Pensions are administered in the most ridiculous and disgraceful way. Pensions are given to scribblers without proper inquiry, and when they are conferred on those who have fairly won them are doled out with a miserly hand. Here's an instance:-GEORGE CRUICKSHANK, who has delighted and taught us all since the beginning of the century, is tardily rewarded with-ninety-five pounds a year! The scandal has been duly criticised in the Sun in an article which everyone should read.

WHAT is to be the end of "The Hall of Science and Art ?"-I beg pardon, "The Royal Albert Hall," I should say, though it sounds like a transpontine music hall. I suppose it will go to swell the honour and glory of the South Kensington Settlement, or Cole-onia. Poor Science! Art has never quite recovered the "assistance" rendered by the Boilers, and Horticulture has only just weathered the "benefit of the Gardens, and now Science is to come in for this killing kindness. As MR. REDGRAVE fosters Art, and MR. COLE, with the kind assistance of friends, dandles Horticulture, it is not impossible that the promotion of Science may be handed over to PROFESSOR PEPPER, in which case we may at all events expect to be amused at the Royal Albert Hall.

UPON my word, it is time the House of Commons were reformed, socially as well as politically. There were one or two pretty little squabbles in the lobby during the earlier debates, but they pale their ineffectual fires before the latest disturbance. A couple of members fall out in the lobby, and bad language is used by one or both; and then they rush into the House, rip up the whole scandal with a happy dispatch worthy of Japanese civilization, and finally wind up the matter by giving one another the lie in the papers. Really, MR. SPEAKER, the lodger and the compound householder will hardly send you a more disorderly set of representatives to manage.

THE world, and not England alone, will suffer a loss in the death of CLARKSON STANFIELD, the greatest of marine painters. Had he lived and worked in France there would be a cross and ribbon to place on his coffin. In England he will carry to his grave nothing but the regrets of a whole nation. Knighthoods and Baronetcies are for Court Portrait-painters, or the secretaries of those advertising shows, known as International Exhibitions. One would like to see a national monument to such a man, only, as a rule, our monuments are so bad. STANFIELD's pictures, after all, are his best monument. Why not raise a subscription to purchase all that are procurable, and add a STANFIELD room to the new National Gallery-when we get it? His death makes another vacancy among the R. A.'s-it will be difficult to find worthy successors for STANFIELD and PHILLIP. The Academy will hardly succeed in finding them-I'm afraid it won't even try.

ON Thursday last I went to the Crystal Palace to see the first firework display of the season. The night was cold, but otherwise favourable for the show, as there was only just wind enough to drive away the smoke. I don't think any pyrotechnic display can beat the finalo, when the fountains are illuminated with coloured fires, and a bouquet of thousands of rockets forms the background. I believe there go and see the spectacle, for it is truly magnificent. are to be many firework nights, and I should advise all my readers to

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Botanical Notes.

We cannot state as a certainty, but we believe that the mountain ash was imported from Vesuvius.

A correspondent informs us that the chances of a good crop of black currants can be best ascertained by learning the time of the high tide at London-bridge.

The easiest way to train fruit trees is to dig them up, and send them to the nearest railway station. But if you require full erops from them after this, we fear you will have to fall back on your fowls.

A MOTTO FOR LORD GROSVENOR (LATE PROPRIETOR OF THE "DAY.") "Perdidi Diem."

A HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION.

OH, NOODELYWHANG, of Niddelywhing,

Was king of a naughty nation,

And if you'll listen, I'm going to sing

The tale of his civilization.

Both he and his people were black as sloes,

For the zone they lived in was torrid,

And their principal clothes were a ring through the nose
And a patch of red paint on the forehead.

Their food consisted of fruits and fish-
Their drink was the limpid rillet;
Their cookery knew but a single dish,
Which was barbecued enemy's fillet.

And each man might take to him wives a score-
He had nothing to do but to catch 'em;

And whenever he found they were getting a bore
He could just take his club and despatch 'em.
They worshipped mere stocks and misshapen blocks-
But their principal idol was copper,

And history states that like fighting-cocks

The priests all lived-which was proper.

But into the bay there sailed one day

To the people's consternation,

The very first ship that had come that way-
A herald of civilization.

'Twas the good ship William and Jane, of Hull,
And was bound for the far Canaries;
But the captain somehow had made a mull
On account of the wind's vagaries.
He stayed a fortnight at Niddely whing
And accepted the people's caressings,

Then sailed, but vowed to come back and bring
Them civilization's blessings.

He returned to Britain, and there you'll guess
His discovery he related,

And at once was elected F.R.G.S.,

And a mighty sensation created.

But he shipped him trousers and crinolines,

A piano, a patent dairy,

Twenty hogsheads of rum, some mustard from KEEN'S, And also a missionary.

And back he siled to Niddelywhing,

And reached it late in the autumn,

And he briefly explained to the chiefs and the king,
The various blessings he'd brought 'em.
And on shore he sent the Reverend gent,
The dairy, the rum, the piano,
And there on the coast he set up a post,
Which stated in Latin that thither he went
In (to make it plain) of KING GEORGE's reign
The vicesimo something anno.

Then the sailors made love to the monarch's wives,
Who in crinolines soon were adorning,
And all of the people drank rum for their lives,
And had headaches every morning.
They tried the mustard which proved too strong,
And then their amusements to vary,
They'd daily discourses some six hours long,
From that eloquent missionary.

For a month they went on with this sort of thing,
In that distant climate torrid,

Till NOODELYWHANG, of Niddelywhing,
Felt existence was growing horrid.

And finding his subjects had also become,
Quite tired of this new vagary,

He seized one day on six puncheons of rum
And the reverend missionary.
From what we can gather 'twas his intent
To empty those purloined puncheons,
And he clearly meant that reverend gent
For breakfasts and dinners and luncheons.
But before they began to cook their man,
They partook of their rum so freely,
That the national progress soon began
To be very unsteady and reely.

Then the captain landed his gallant crew,

And slaughtered the whole of the nation:

Which it seems was his view of what you should do
For the spread of civilization.

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

THE ORIENTAL REPOSITORY, HORSELAYDOWN (LIMITED).

"I will be Correspondent to command,

And do my spirit ng gently."-SHAKESPEARE. Ariel: Tempest. (DICK'S Shilling Edition is kept in stock at the Repository.)

IMMENSE SUCCESS OF NICHOLAS, AND BRILLIANT TRIUMPH OF THE OLD MAN!

N.B.-MR. NICHOLAS is not in the habit of resorting to this method of advertisement, but is compelled to do so on the present occasion by a regard for the interests and feelings of his brother directors of the Repository, where periodicals may be ordered a fortnight in advance, and the East Kent Advertiser, and Sheerness, Sittingbourne, and Faversham Guardian lent to read. MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND, FELLOW-SPORTSMAN, AND BROTHERWINNER,-The heart of the Old Man is full. Since that happy morning when you and me, Sir, talked it over in the back office, with nobody present but a large white cat and the fine old artist which have drawn my portrait-since we agreed that the tip should be Hermit, Marksman, and Vauban, the only gloomy feelings in the Prophet's bosom have been two-one that he had not the wealth of CREASES for to back his selection, the other that perhaps we did not make it altogether quite so plain to the public as might have been desired. For that fault, however, if fault it were-I decline to hold myself responsible. It's your business, my young Friend, for to edit the paper and put things in proper order; and if, through not being much of a sportive character nor do I believe as you really know a racer from a radish-you mix up the horses' names which are sent you in accordance with your own crotchetty whims, or the suggestions of the printers, which have been a deal too free of late with the Prophet's copy-if you then mislead the fine old artist likewise, after he have drawn for you for the last fifty years, and get him to put Hermit second when I distinctly wrote, having the memorandum by me, and excuse haste of spelling-"you put the ermit fust, symbolifixing him by a old cove rather down upon his luck, and with none too much clothes for to wear"-if thus you act, the blame is not justly due to NICHOLAS.

Happily, however, for the interests of truth and justice, literary scriptures manent (Latin quotations kept in stock at the Repository, and a reference kindly allowed to CHARLES SCHRIFBER, ESQ., M.P.), and my own poetic words will vindicate me with the public. I was fair, I was more than fair, to Vauban, and I take no shame for it. I said he was

"One of the boldest as has ever ran; "

and so he was, a good game horse. I then treated a few others with that happy mixture of good-humour and sarcasm which is now known throughout an empire on which the sun never sets as NICHOLASTIC ; and having done so, I bust, so to speak-not as I mean your Prophet really flew asunder, with his head flying wildly into the air, like the cork of the soda-water bottle as hit COLONEL TAYLOR in the hi-and he keeps it in stock at the Repository-but I bust into this distinct and powerful prophecy :

:

"Say, say, is Hermit always in the dark,

And will the Marksman never hit the mark?" THUS BRACKETING TOGETHER THE ABSOLUTE FIRST AND SECOND!!! Whilst I added

"Perpend these hints; their hidden meaning scan,

And it ye win, send stamps to the Old Man !"

And generously, Sir-nobly, lavishly-have M. CHAPLIN acted up to such-if it be, indeed, to that honoured hand that the Prophet is indebted for a cheque-for a cheque which, after all, is outside the regular way of regular business, and, perhaps, accordingly, it had better not be made the subject of acrimoniacal discussion between you and me. It was sent to me, and it was meant for me; that's rhyme and it's reason, in sense and in season. You have no right to a share, and you shan't have one! You never offered to divide your Editorial salary along of the poor Old Man. Very well, then, don't you expect him for to divide his Prophetical commissions along of you.

As for my Relative, I have no particular complaint for to make against him just at present. I dare say as he means well, and if he is far indeed from being a gentleman and a scholar, most of his friends going so far as to say he is a mean old hunks, why we cannot make a silk purse out of the ear of a female swine. He have recently been of great service to NICHOLAS, and so you see I stand up for him. Me and some other gentlemen are a-turning of the Repository into a Company, which I daresay more will be heard of it.

NICHOLAS.

P. S.-Do not forget the Oriental Repository (Limited), Horselaydown. The Old Man always at home, or may be found at the "Grapes," where the best of sherry wine. Lessons given in Knurr and Spell. Portraits of NICHOLAS, from a crown. Rats.

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THE SONG'S ECHO.

ОH sing to me that ditty, oh sing it once again,

The tears you see upon my cheek are not the tears of pain,
But those of glad emotion, for I cannot-cannot tell
How I love such simple melodies as those of Claribel!

And now repeat the ballad you sang the other night-
Believe me, I could listen for ever with delight.
Oh, be the day far distant this bosom shall refuse
To recognise the pathos and the power of Farnie's muse.
You ask me why I love them, these artless, touching lays?
They bring back hours of infancy-recall my childhood's days!
They remind me of the nonsense they used to sing to me
As I lay, a little baby, on my tender nurse's knee.

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BY A COMMONPLACE PHILOSOPHER.

SOME thoughts can never bear fruit in action. You cannot, for instance, raise cucumbers in a frame of mind.

In spite of the assertions of human pride, the operations of science are limited. The electric telegraph, that triumph of science, cannot communicate ordinary intelligence to a fool.

Use is indeed second nature. The rattle of a thousand trains fails to awaken the confirmed railway-sleeper.

With some minds logic is utterly powerless. The delicate point of an argument will fail to pick a periwinkle out of its shell.

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Bull (to Derby) :-“ CONGRATULATE YOU, MY LORD! NEVER EXPECTED ANYTHING OUT OF YOUR STABLE TO PULL OFF THE

66

REFORM STAKES," AND DIDN'T THINK THIS HORSE A SOUND ONE!"

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