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I Love the water of tho rippling rill,

Of white cascades that thunder in the mountains; Tho water of the lakelet, vexed or still;

The water, eyen, of the Drinking Fountains! I love the water of the brooks that rise

In grass}' glades, and " make a sudden sally;"
The water of the lonely mere, that lies

Half hidden by the haze that shrouds tho valley;
And, for my Song requires this plaintive coda,
I love the water that is charged with Soda.

I love the " cry of Dart" amid the waste,

AVhen tho wide moor is hushed in midnight slumber; And—such my catholicity of taste!—

I love the Tyne, the Thames, the Tweed, the Humber. I love the roaring of the flood in spate,

Boisterous and brown, that rushes from tho highlands; But equally I love, I beg to state,

The water)- whispers breathed round osier islands;
And, for my Song requires this plaintive coda,
I lovo tho popping of my bottled Soda!

"O Fons Bandusiie," glittering liko glass,

But brighter and with more resplendent crystal, If ever by thy waters I should pass,

How gladly would I fill my pocket-pistol! More gladly far than at the German wells

Of Baden and of Ems, which to my thinking
As beverages are confound sells—

Good for the gout, but horrible for drinking!
And, still my song requires its plaintive coda,
I love tho water that is charged with Soda!

The Bacchanal, of course, may take offence;

May doubt the nature of my loan standi; May hint that soda is a mere pretence,

And that I much prefer it mixed with brandy. "Soda and B." I own is very good;

Though I've "sworn on"" I don't deny its merits;
But exercise, good hours, and wholesome food,

Are better stimulants than ardent sperrits;
So let my Song have this triumphal coda,
I Btick to unadulterated Soda!


Ee-cast By A Brutal Saxon.
Act I.

Scene 1.—Glendalough by moonlight. TJie moon illuminated at the ex-
pense of the English tax-payers.
Entering Mc Coul.
The Mc Coul.—I am a rebel, and hope to be always received as such.

(Indulgent British audience applauds.)

Enter RArrAREES, Andy Reoan, Michael Driscoll, Paddy Byrne,


RArrAiiEEs.—Long life to the Mc Coul!

(They prostrate themselves before him.) Mc Coul.—Bless ye, brightest jewels in the crown of Erin. And what havo ye brought the chieftain who will never desert tho boys who thieve for him or the emerald flag of his own native isle P Music—" Garryowen."

(The Rapparces give him various articles which they hare stolen in the neighbourhood.)

Mc Coul.—Whisht! I smell the blood of an Englishman! Hide, boys, hide! (The Rapparces and the Mc Coul hide.)

Enter Mr. Michael Feeney,'« respectable and solvent man.

Feeney (incautiously).—I have about mo a sum of £30,000 in gold. I hope I shall not meet any of those vagabond rebels. Mc Coul.—Boys, is he armed? RArrAREES.—Wo think not. And he's not lookin'! Mc Coul.—Then upon him!

Music—"The Shan van Voght."

(Tliey fall upon Feeney and beat him until he is senseless, tale the money from his pocket, offer it to the Mc Coul, who stands upon the necks of Megan and Byrne. They then wave a green flag, and shout " hurroo!"

Scene 2.—A wretched cabin. Shaun The Post, Ariiah-na-pooue, and a wedding party of male and female peasants. The wedding party drunk. The Mc Coul hiding.

Music — "Paddy's Wedding."
Andy Regan.—Shaun, sing us a song.
Shaun (maudlin tender).—Hwhat song, boys?
Andy.—" The Wearin' o' tho Green."

Shaun.—Whisht! whisht! Wud I be singin' "Tho Wearin' o' the Green," within ear-shot of the barks (barracks)?

Andy, Michael, Paddy, And Corney.—We'll watch that none o' the sojers hears you.

(Andy, Michael, Faddy, and Corney go off to give information at the
barracks that Shaun is singing a seditious song^
Shaun sings:

I met with Napper Tandy, and I says, "What do you here?"
He answers, "These are jolly days, blood's spillin' everywhere;
Them Saxon dogs is killing every ono that can be seen,
Because their clothes are black, or hwhite, or blue, or grey, or green."
Enter The O'grady and soldiers.

The O'grady.—Arrest everybody for sedition; also Arrah-naPogue for harbouring the rebel Beamish Mc Coul!

Shaun (jealously).—Are ye aftherhidin' him on my weddin'-day?

Arrah (to Shaun).—Sure, darlin, it was only that I might give him up to tho Goweinment, and so get the rewar-rud (reward).

Shaun (melted to tears).—Alanna asthore! Core of my heart! Krincshigshivabathongrauagh! (Embraces her.)

The O'grady.—Where is tho Mc Coul?

Soldiers (who have been searching the house).—Gone!

The O'grady (knowing the habits of the peasantry).—Remember the reward offered for his apprehension is £500.

Shaun.—I'll give him up for half that sum.

Ahbah.—And I for half that.

Shaun.—Och, shame on yez to undersell your husband on his weddin'-day! (Tkeyfgkt.)

Andy Regan.—Sure, O'Grady, I'll give up the Me Coal too,
Mike.—And so will I.
Paddy.—And I.
Cornet.—And I.

The O'grady (conscious that he is the descendant of kingsthat is,
of Irish kings).—Arrest Shaun the Post!
Shaun.—Hwhat for f
The O'grady.—I don't know.
Shaun.—Who has bethrayed me?
The O'grady.—The Mc Coul.
Peasantry.—Blessings on the Mo Coul.

(Shaun is made prisoner. The peasantry fall on their faces and worship the (/Grady, the descendant of kingsthat is, of Irish kings.) LMusic—" St. Patrick was a gentleman."

• Aor II.

Scene 1.—Sathgar, Sathmines,or Eathdrum, indeed anywhere near Dublin.

10% gMusio—" We may roam through this world."

Enter Fanny Power, of Cabinteely.

Fanny.—Sure the O'Grady loves me, and I love the Mc Coul a little, so I pretend to love both. It is such a noble thing to be a rebel.

Enter The Mc Coul. Mc Coul.—My own one!

Fanny.—Mino for ever. (They embrace.)

Enter The O'grady. The O'grady.—What do I see!

Fanny (aside to O'G).—Whisht! I only brought him here to give him up to you. The O'grady.—Gostherafloosha'gra!

Me Coul (to Fanny, jealously).—I see you had an appointment with my rival.

Fanny (to Mc Coul).—Whisht! I only brought him here that you might meet him. Mc Cool. —Hurroo!

The O'grady—Hurroo! (They fight. Both are nearly killed.) Fanny (looking at them).—It is themselves that are tho dandies. Music—" When history's pages!"

Scene 2.—A court-martial. Captain Coffin, an English Officer, and Mr. Michael Feeney, the only respectable persons present. evidence of any sort is given.

The President.—We find Shaun guilty.
The Peasantry.—Hurroo!

Thb President.—And sentence him to be hanged.
The Peasantry.—Hurroo!

(Andy, Patrick, and Shaun's immediate friends apply for tlie office of
Music—" The sprig of Shillelagh!"
Act III.

Scene.Ballybetagh Castle. Shaun discovered in a dungeon. He breaks
open a window and climbs up by the ivy until he reaches the tower,
where he finds Fanny Power advising Akrah when she is a widow
to marry the O'grady. Arrah consents. The O'grady and
He Coul and peasantry enter from opposite sides and begin to fight.
When the battle is at its height, Mr. Michael Feeney-, who since the
last act has been promoted to the office of Secretary of State, enters
with one policeman, who takes the contending parties into custody.
The O'grady is offered his liberty, which he accepted gratefully.
The O'gradt then makes an offer of his hand, and theprospcet of an
Irish throne to Fanny Power, who rejects him and seeing that Mr.
Michael Feeney is the man most likely to get on in the world,
proposes to him and is accepted.
The Peasantry (falling on their faces to Michael Feeney).—Long

life to the 0'Feeney!

Music—"The Exile of Erin."


Any other Article To-day?

We have taken the trouble to lift from the columns of a contemporary the following advertisement, in which there seems to be a most laudable effort to reconcile the creed and the counter :—

TO DRAPERS* ASSISTANTS.—WANTED, in a Drapery Establishment, a YOUNG MAN to take principally the gentlemen's and hosiery departments.

Salary £20. A Dissenter preferred. Address A. B.t Mr. U 's, Essex House,

C— , Eesex.

pJFancy the intense horror of a Nonconformist counter-jumper at finding that some Church of England customer had run up a little bill including exactly thirty-nine articles!


Editor,—Brussels is a beautiful little city, crammed full of interesting associations. But as I don't think it right to take the bread out of poor Murray's mouth, I am not going to specify them particularly. Not that Murray has dealt well with me ; I am sulky with Murray. I don't believe in his hotel recommendations, and I don't think ho is a good judge of pictures. He has an arbitrary way of dealing with hotels and pictures which is very convincing as you read about them in the train on your journey to a place, but when you come to read over his dicta about them, after having had the advantage of a practical experience of them, you find that you and he are at loggerheads on many important points. For instance, why does he place tho Hotel Bollevue at the head of tho hotels in Brussels? Is it because it is dear? Is it because the tablc-d'hSte is offensively pretentious? Is it because the spirited proprietor avails himself of every chance of turning the nimble half-franc that tho inexperience of the traveller may offer him? Mem. If you should ever go to the BelleVue at Brussels, never tell the concierge to call a cab for you—go and call it for yourself. If you don't he will send for a vehicle about onethird the size of an ordinary/acre, but in every other respect exactly like one, and you will be charged fifty per cent, above the authorized tarif on the ground that it is not a public carriage, but the private property of the hotel-keeper. Also, if you propose to go to Waterloo to-morrow, don't be swindled into "booking" your placo at the BelleVue, to-day, for the "booking" does not ensure you any particular seat, or indeed, any seat at all, and it may rain, in which case you will probably not go at all.

Brussels is a charming little Paris with fine public buildings, statues, fountains, enfts chantants, theatres, music-halls, arcades, tasty shops full of charming littlo Parisian absurdities, and everything that can make a throo weeks' sojourn delightful to visitors from grimy London. Indeed, if it were not for its immediate proximity to the field of Waterloo, it would bo unexceptionable. But Waterloo! Isn't that a pull-back? When you go to Brussels, have the moral courage to resist the temptation of mounting those attractive four horse stage coaches with the guards who wind their horns. They are gay things to look at, but they will carry you through as desolate and dispiriting a day as you ever spent. They will rattle you over noisy stones and strait dusty roads to tho village of Waterloo, where you will be ordered to descend and inspect a monstrous building in which are erected tablets to the memory of the killed at Waterloo. You will pay halfa-franc for this privilege, and will then be taken on to the farm of the Haye-saintb on the field of battle. Here you will be. given in custody to a guido, who will give you a tramp of about five miles over ploughed and otherwise disfigured land, and who will give you in a peculiar dialect off his own, what you presume to bo an account of the great battle; but why, why he should take the trouble to invent a language of his own in ordor to describe it to you, when he could do it satisfactorily in his native French, is a problem which will, I suppose, never be solved. He will make you look at a museum of Waterloo curiosities; he will make you ascend a preposterous artificial mound hundreds of feet high, and surmounted (goodness only knows why) by tho Belgian Lion! Wo all know how tho braves Beiges distinguished themselves on that memorable day, but surely they were not the prominent feature of the action. Then you will tramp over more ploughed land to Hougouinont, and there you will have the option of paying half-a-franc to go into the chapel, or of being abused for a quarter of an hour by a foul-mouthed old virago, the apparent proprietress of the place. Then you will rejoin your coach which will break down on tho road to the village of W aterloo (at least it did with me, and I am not heavy) where it will be repaired, and, after three hours' jolting over the detestable road to Brussels you will bo doposited at your hotel, dusty, dispirited, and utterly disgusted. At least, I was.

I think that the interest of Brussels culminates in the Market Place, which is as curiously picturesque a spot as you will find within fourteen hours of London. Here the counts Egmont and Horn were beheaded in 1558, by tho detestable Alva, and here are two statues erected to their memory a few years ago. As a work of art they are admirable.

Stolen fruit is sweet; the cigar is never so fragrant as when smoked in a railway carriage in Mr. Dayman's district, and lace is never so prized as when it is smuggled at enormous personal inconvenience and considerable risk of a police-court cxposi. I suppose that it is to the inherent love of doing what we ought not to do that I must attribute a longing to visit a continental gambling place whenever I am on the Continent. So as I am within throe hours or so of Spa, to Spa I intend to go. The pleasure of doing wrong is enormous, even when it is tempered by tho possibility of a serious punishment, but when wrong-doing is legitimised, not to say encouraged, by an enlightened Christian government its attractions are positively irresistible. At a gambling watering place, tho best of us become gamblers, and if there existed such an institution as a placo at which murder passed unpunished, the best of us would become murderers. At least I should, but then I am a Snarler.

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Dear Aunt Hiooins,—Goodness knose what you must all of thort not to see me beforo this, and if it was not for fear of giving you a turn, I sliood of called direckly I come hack; for back I am, thow expected no doubts to be a mangling korse with railway wheels over mo somewheres on that beastyall line, wich you nover ketch me out for ono of them excurtions agin, even when I have my full Monday, as missis won't let be offen.

You littlo thort when I stopped beyind to get that pocket-bottle filled, that I shud go and be took to forrin parts; but such hat been, as well I know it; and threw all my sufferin's over tho ocean I was wonderin' what had becum of you all, as was most likely only at Brighton sicks ours by the sca-side, with Uncle Bill, and me lost and ony kep' off gterickg through the skreems of the indians.

0 that orful platform! If this is your excurtain railways give me a omlibus, or a boat with a srimp at Gravescn' or even Grinidge. What with tho boxes and bags of lugigo, an' tho fine misses with there nobs of 'air stickin' out behind like boxin'-gloves, as poor Joe that got locked up used to get his livin' by sparin' with tho sportin' gents, and tho lap-dogs and poll-parrots, and great monkeys of fellers with beards and murstarches, and the formers all jabbenn' like monkeys, and then tho bells a-ringin' and the men in velveteen soots a-runnin' over you with wheelbarrors, and larfin' at you for gettin' in the way, and callin' out "by yer leave" a purpose to flurry you, and so skrunsh your toes, I thort I shood a had a fit. But presently a bell rings like mad, an' somebody calls out, "This way for the scurshun train," an' away we all toar like mad, me carried right through in a mob o' people, an' not even arksed for my ticket, as I had somewhere in my redicule, but my things amost pulled off of my back, and that dreadful 'ot that I was thankful when I got pushed into a caridge, and the train off before I was conscienshus. Then I found I was along with a party of forin people: two women with only ono bonnet and the other a big cap with such gofferin as I never seo, and them an' the men talkin' such rubbish as I couldn't understand, and was proud of ray own langwige to hear sech. Not but what they was civil cnuf, for what shood they do but open a cupplo of baskets, and out with Gormin sassidgc, as was put into buttered rolls, and apples and pears and plums, and all set to a-eatin, as I've alwis heard them

forinors don't eat go much as us, but now I know that's gammin, though I must gay a snack was acceptable too after my flurry, and I hands out the case-bottle, and says to one of the women, "Peraps," I says, "you'd tako a littlo drop of caudle." Then she smiles and says, "Common." And I says, "Not at all common, it cost me two-andfourponce." Then she laughs and says, "0. d. v." And I gays, "Yes, drinkey somo, vooloy vu," becos I'd picked up a word or two of French from Miss Emly, and then they all laughs and passes the bottle round.

Well, when the train stops, and, oh! them tunnels and mo with formers, as nobody knows what they might be, the men calls out, "This way to the boat," and off we all aeta runnin', and I thinks, "Well, I shall see 'em on board at all evonta," meanin', of corse, all of you. My! how that there boat did go up and down. I tumbled down a ladder somowheres into a cabin, where them foriners was that bad as set mo off, and there I was till we stopt at somo great stone thing as they call a pier, and then I says to myself, "I'll go ashore and wait till they comes out." But, low and beyold you, the feller asks mo for my ticket, and I says, "I'vo no ticket but this," and gives it him. "Why," ho says, "this is for Brighton." "Well, this u Brighton," I says, "ain't it f" And ho says, " No, but it was Callis." And I says," Well, an' where is that t" And he says, " Why, France."

And then I sinks down on a stone as they wind the ropes round, and has a good cry, and a lot of foriners comes round arguin, and ono of 'em sayg, "I spit English," ho says; "you baggidge."

And I was that worked up that he had a long nose, an' I up, an' though he hadn't hair of no length to speak of, I clawed on to his nose ag made him 'owl I warrantg.

"Now," I gays, "you'll learn to call your names to a Britain, as," I sayg, "never will be slave*, though a survint of all work."

And two soldiers with drawed muscats como, and was takin' me away when who should I gee but Ann Pollick, as lives next door nussmaid, and had come with her master and missis for a tower in thi' same boat, which as it was to go back at night, they takes a birth for mo, and makes it all right with tho militairy. The stooward he was that attentive that he's comin' to call on mo for my next holiday, though it won't bo to Callis I can promise you. I am, dear aunt, Yore affectionate kneese,'

A. M. Sims.

P.S.—His name is Twivers, Cristian name Henert.


Printed by JUDD & GLASS, Phoenix Works, St. Andrew's Hill, Doctors' Commons, and Published [for the Proprietors) by

80, Fleet-street, E.C.—October 14, 1865.

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IE upon your Edward Guidons, tearing coolly into ribbons
Just the very reputation we of Christendom uphold!
What! Was Britain's benefactor but an army sub-contractor?
This decline and fall were greater than the Roman twentyfold.

Can wo see the saintly martyr, who is patron of the Garter,
Selling pork in Cappadocia near two thousand years ago f

Xo, this gammon of the bacon is a thing there's some mistako on
(We have read the Seven Champions, and we surely ought to know).

I have stood like Mu. Tennyson—at Coventry, not Venice—on
A bridge that was a railway bridge and not a bridge of sighs;

And a legend of that city I have shaped into a ditty
Smacking forcibly of Patmoro (as the " Coventry" implies).

For our champion was a native of that city, and was dative
Of a large amount of trouble to his excellent mamma;

But I cannot tell you her name, nor the Christian, nor the surname
Of the nobleman saluted by our hero as " papa!"

Then I hear he was confided to one Kalyb, who resided
In a cavern—an enchantress with an unenchanting face;

And six noble knights—how tragic!—having yielded to her magic,
Had been "taken in and dono for" at that melancholy place.

Good Saint George released the others, and they formed a band of brothers
And set out upon their travels, which were slightly undefined;

And they reached the Seven Dials, whore they all began their trials,
Seeking separate adventures of tho military kind.

But our hero's share of glory—if we listen to the story—
Was immeasurably greater than the shares of all tho rest;

And his havoc on the gizzards of a heap of wicked wizards
Can bo very much more easily imagined than expressed.

And the rescuing from slaughter of King Ptolemy's fair daughter
Was a thing to bo remembered by the young and by the old;

And I wish I had some guineas (what a curse this want of tin is !),
For they represent tho dragon and his vanquisher in gold.

Then that beautiful young lady, whoso complexion might be shady,
But whose conduct was as laudable as anything could be,

Ran away and left her father—who was vext about it rather—
And rewarded her preserver by becoming Lady G.

Off to Coventry he took her, but he very soon forsook her,
For the spirit of adventure camo upon him once again.

But ho left a wicked friend there (just the person J should send there),
Who made love with all his might to her, while George was on tho main.

Lady G. soon put a stopper on such goings-on improper,
For she killed the wicked Baron, which was plucky, you'll agroe;

And Saint George, who hurried over from his travels vid Dover,
Was delighted with her conduct—and went off again to sea!

But no Englishmen aro strangers to his doings and his dangers,
To the giants that he conquered and the hardships that he bore;

And those fights that were incessant of the Cross against tho Crescent
Aro as truo to any schoolboy as that two and two are four.

Shall we let our hero dwindle through this Cappadocian swindlo,
And regard our Serett Champions as a story one could forge?

No; if people in their folly swear by Jingo and by Golly,
There is quite enough to swear by in our great and good Saint Goorgo.


Colonel Fane, M.P., has been distinguishing himself. In a speech which he made at the anniversary of the Beneficent Society, at Portsmouth, the following delightful sentences occur, with reference to a recent military murder:—

"They had all heard of the plea of insanity. Now, he thought if a man were insane the sooner he was hung the better."

He subsequently modified the statement by saying,

"lie hoped they did not think he meant that all insane people should be hung, as there were few persons who 'aint 'insane upon some point or the other. Perhaps he was insane upon some point."

In tho report before us a "Hoar!" follows this last remark. But

those who thus assured the worthy Colonel that ho was right wore wrong. To be insane, a man must have had sense to lose, and it is hard to suppose that any one who could talk in this way on a subject so painful as insanity had ever possessed much of that.

"Yours as you Hughes Me!"

Mr. Thomas Hughes has been doing good service down at Sheffield by his pluck)- denunciation of Trade-outrages. Should he continue in this path, the honourable Member for Lambeth will soon be known in the House of Commons and elsewhere as Mu. Thomas Huqhesful!

The Child Of The Scn.—Why a grandson, of course!

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Br Tbti Saunterer In Society.

OME day or other we shall have to sorve the police as tho Sultan Mahmoud did the Janissaries—if somo popular outbreak does not clear them off before that period. I saw a bit of tyranny the other day that made my blood boil. A coster of about sixteen with his barrow of grapes was being taken to the station. Luckily tho popular sympathy was enlisted in his favour, and ho contrived to escapo by the aid of the crowd, but tho barrow and scales and the grapes on which the poor lad had expended his whole capital were confiscated to the grim satisfaction, no doubt, of A 325. And what, do you think, was the crimo he had committed? Ho had been " obstructing the thoroughfare"—that is to say, he had stopped Ids little barrow for a minute or two to sell some grapes, and had taken up half tho room which Lord Tomnoddy's cabriolet might have occupied undisturbed for hours, and from which even tho Hansom of a humble individual like the Saunterer would hardly have been ordered off. This poor fellow was striving to get an honest living, and must have worked hard to scrape together enough to set up with the stock he had, and he loses it all at one blow. A week hence he may be brought up for picking pockets, and the magistrate would bo shocked at such depravity in so young a man. But tliero is little choico for tho poor fellow beyond that. Even supposing, as I am told was the case, he, avoiding a night in the lock-up by his flight, appeared at tho Police Court next day, he would bo fined far more than he would have made in tho way of profit on his stock—a perishable stock, too—of which, however, he was deprived for twenty-four hours at least. Such a loss is to so small a trader something very like absolute ruin. Will some of the statistical gentlemen who prose at the Social Science Congresses tell us how many thieves are annually manufactured in this way by the police I Social Science, indeed! What good comes of all this cackle of pedants and these excursions of wiseacres? Here is a wrong which one can see is a wrong without any social scientific knowledge, and not a finger has been raised to remedy it, and it will go on for years ind years as it is. Until it is remedied what answer is thero to the ild complaint that tho law is framed for the rich and not for the poor?

Talking of law, what a charming muddle tho law of licenses is! A body of unpaid magistrates (we all know the amount of intelligence ind legal knowledge that represents) meet annually to make the British statute book as ludicrous as possible, by decisions of tho most ibsurdly opposite character. To take one instance out of the batch of stupid decisions:—The proprietor of the Oxford was refused a dancing icenso because one of the Bench believed he wanted to turn the hall nto a casino. They might as well have prohibited the uso of knives n tho supper room for fear he should cut his throat, or issuo an njunction forbidding a man to take his money out of a safe investnent that returns a good interest to fling it into a losing speculation. [ supposo tho Middlesex magistrate docs not go to music halls—/ do, as jehoves a Saunterer, who wishes to see how, when, and where the public foes to amuse itself, and t can bear testimony, not only to the manner n which the Oxford is conducted, but to the fact that its operatic elections are excellent, and what is more, thoroughly appreciated by ho audiences. To have taught people to appreciate music like OffenIach's operas is to have improved the public taste—but that apparently s a thing not to bo encouraged in the opinion of tho Middlesex nagistrates.

Bravo Mr. Thomas Hughes! Your speech to the Sheffield men is ust the Bort of thing tho British workman wants. A mutual undertanding will result from it, which would never come of the flattery ome other gentlemen (I won't mention names) thought it wise to talk. Jut I hope you won't rest content with the slurry way in which the Social Science folk, who like to keep all the talk to themselves, istened to the reply of tho workmen.

People arc beginning to look out for Christmas books about this time, and somo few announcements have been made. One of the best, to my thinking, will bo Dalziel's Mound of Days, illustrated by the first artists, and with such names as Robert Buchanan, George Mcdonald, Christina Rosbtti, and Jean Ixgelow among the contributors. Another capital hook will be The Hatclul-Throwers, by the author of The Little Jteyamuffin," with illustrations by M. Gribet, the French artist, whose caricatures and pictures of animals have drawn a good many " knowing ones" in art to Bear-street, Leicester-square.

A Most interesting collection of all Doke's illustrations has been on view to the privileged at Messrs. Cassell, Petter, And Galmn's for the last few days. Such a treat is not often to be had. The fertility and force of the genius of this one man—and he not thirty—are marvellous. We are to have English editions of all his works shortly, when the public will be able to judge for themselves.



Since men who must work, and men who must think,
Will always be wanting a something to drink,
Why, the best of all liquor their spirits to cheer
Is a four-penny bottle of Ginger-beer!

Sing Ginger-beer,

You never need fear
A headache per gallon from Ginger-beer'.

Sing Ginger-beer,

Foaming and clear,
It's capital tipple, is Ginger-beer!

With my favourite liquor some critics find fault,
Preferring the essence of hops and of malt:
But when morning arrives, and the head feels queer',
They wish they had stuck to my Ginger-beer!

Sing popidar Pop!
Come to the shop!
Of Ginger, this year, there's a capital crop!
Sing popular Pop!
Taste but a drop,
And you'll scarcely be able to tell when to stop!

When, fizzing and foaming, the drink comee out,
It'8 prettier far than your creamy stout;
With a delicate flavour for delicate tongues,
And warranted not to affect the lungs '.

Sing Ginger-beer!

Its appropriate sphere
Is the hut of tho peasant, the hall of the peer I

Sing Ginger-beer!

I greatly revere
The gifted inventor of Ginger-beer!

The Isle of Jamaica is dear to somo
For the sake of its filthy, fiery Rum;
But the Isle of Jamaica is dearer to me
As the favourite homo of the Ginger Tree!

Sing popular Pop!

Tea's but a slop!
Worthy, at best, of a Dame Mala-prop!

Sing popular Pop!

Come to my shop!
It's a drink for a King—or a British Bish-op!

giistows to Comspnknts.

J. P. Y., Glasgow.—You feel wronged because we don't write. As we have more letters than the alphabet every day of our life, we should never succeed if we tried to answer. If your contributions do not appear you may take it for granted they have not been accepted. If we attempted to write to all, whose contributions are declined, our reasons for declining them, we should cease to bo an editor and beoomo a Censor—or even a Nonsense-or.

F. R. G., Hastings.—" Can we do with some ' Seaside Sketches' in Fun?" If the seaside's catches be red mullet or fresh mackerel you may send them up. You have dropt us a line—you should have forwarded a sample.

A Lady wiio wishes to know what subject has been fixed on for the prizo illumination at Mortimer House, should apply to Messrs. Fuller for fuller information.

A. L., Notting Hill.—We accopt contributions—provided they arc original aud good—from all sources. If we can get an inch of fun from him, we should take A. L.

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