EASTER MONDAY ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH. EVEN in these days of cheap excursions there are large numbers of Londoners who cannot afford a more expensive run on Easter Monday than a jaunt to Hampstead Heath-or rather, as much of it as SIR THOMAS MARYON WILSON's excavations have left. That very public-spirited gentleman having, it is to be presumed, been fairly gravelled in his attempts to enclose the heath, has made up his mind to be completely sanded by opening it. Immense pits, big enough to bury St. Paul's and take in the Monument up to its shoulders, have been dug on the heath. In these the water accumulates, and as boys will go near water (for any purpose save that of ablution), and will also tumble in, and as these pits are deep and steep, serious accidents occur at times. We suppose the law forbids the cutting down of trees on the heath, but of course it cannot prevent the wind from blowing them down; and if a tree is left in these excavations standing on a sort of pillar of sand and gravel, the chances are the first cat's paw of wind uproots it. But, then, nobody cut it down, so it's all right.

Let the British public, therefore, enjoy what is left of the Heath while it can. The dispute with SIR T. M. WILSON is only too likely to end in one way. When private advantage is at conflict with public interest the latter generally goes to the wall. What is everybody's business is done by nobody, but the individual who has everything to gain for himself is sure to look after his own interests.

In the meantime, let us be gay, oh, our cockney brethren. Sound the loud trumpet and strike the light jackass until he caracoles on the dusty turf. The weather is still mild, and therefore let us be grateful that the ginger beer will not be tepid, nor will lemonade be hot in the mouth that is parched with a desire for coolness. Take a suck at the orange and at it again! Here be donkeys to ride, and ponies, with harder ribs and more of 'em than any full-grown clothes-horse can boast. As for pace, there's no end to the variety. But as you love us, do not permit the brute that drives the superior animal to belabour it with his cruel stick. The merciful man is merciful to his-or any other man's beast-besides, you might turn out to be an ass yourself some day.

Kiss in the Ring is an intellectual game. We pray you be not too rough at it, and remember a kiss is none the better for being audible a mile off-it smacks of vulgarity.

art-or rather the worm art. A stick, a bit of cotton, and a worm, will give you good sport with the sticklebacks. We have asked the Inspector of Fisheries, and he has asked MR. BUCKLAND, and he says it's the open season, so fish away! You don't require a crooked pinno cruel hook is necessary. Tie a bit of a match to your cotton for a float, and when you see it bob, strike smartly, and the chances are your fish will not have time to let go the worm, and so, if the fates are kind and he does not fall in the water, you may secure him for your pickle-bottle.

As for refreshments, are there not kettles in the Vale of Health, and Heath, but chopped birch broom will be found an excellent substitute, s'rimps at Jack Straw's Castle? Tea does not grow wild on the and you can either prepare it yourself or buy it in the form of "our will be found wholesome, and if dropt on the ground (in which case 3s. mixture" at the nearest grocer's. As for eatables, bread and butter the laws of specific gravity always turn it buttered side down) will be found to acquire small gravel, which is very digestive-if we may good too-especially if carried about all day in a tin box, when they trust the light of nature as exemplified in ducks. Sandwiches are acquire a rich metallic flavour.

A Journalistic Jotting.

THE Glowworm, which started as a sporting paper, has of late given its attention so much to racing that the lovers of other sports are hurt at the preference. We believe the disciples of IZAAK WALTON meditate starting a fishing organ to be entitled the Lobworm.

A Deer-sleigher's Dictum.

"Cela va sans dire," as the accomplished Laplander remarked on first seeing a railway train.

This curious little fish makes a nest-like a bird? If you find one, take it home and sit on the eggs. The experiment has not been tried, but we see no reason why it should not succeed-hens can hatch out ducks. A report of your success would, no doubt, be welcomed by Land and Water.

down to eat it. The result is that there are twenty hands tugging at one's pocket where five would be enough. However, the Gasometer is getting on with its internal arrangements, prices are coming down, and improvements going forward generally; so perhaps, by the time sensible people begin to go to Paris, we may find things en règle.

Faust, at Covent Garden, is more brilliant, if possible, than ever this season. COSTA's band is the best in Europe, say good judges of music. The orchestra at the Paris opera play the same music like great masters, but want the purity of tone and grandeur of style which make COSTA's band so remarkable. The new Mephistopheles, PETIT, sings well, though a little weak in his lower notes. He is a very jovial fiend. LUCCA succeeds better in the second and third acts than in the fourth, which requires unusual physical powers; but she is a most fascinating Marguerite. With MARIO, the prince of tenors, with PETIT and LUCGA, and, above all, with the grand orchestra, which does such honour to MR. GYE's taste and liberality, the performance of Faust at Covent Garden is something not to be forgotten.

THE Easter Monday Review went off admirably. The railway arrangements were admirable, although it was a first attempt, and a few blunders might have been excusable. It would seem that the only engagements the London, Chatham, and Dover line cannot keep are financial ones. In fact, only share and debenture holders have a right to growl at it. The public are admirably served by it. Its stations are palatial, its carriages luxurious, and its officials, from the superintendents to the porters, are the most civil in England.

THE Newsvendors' Benevolent and Provident Institution will give its annual dinner in June next. MR. W. H. SMITH will take the chair, and no fitter man could be found for the post. "SMITH AND SONS". a truly British name, by the way-seems to be like the British empire. I fancy the sun never sets upon it--as the evening shades close over the bookstall at the Land's End, the grey of dawn illumines the paperboy-at-the-Nore. (This may be astronomically and geographically impossible, but the figure is pretty, so let it stand.) Seriously speaking, I wish the Institute success and a good dinner.

A CORRESPONDENT, who is a member of the Honourable Artillery Company, complains of some remarks which the Star makes on his corps. That journal, intending to be complimentary, talks about "cavaliers, with a forest of plumes waving proudly above the company's hat," and explains how it is that certain members of the body "add feathers to their regulation hats." As the regulation "hat" of the H. A. C. is a bearskin, like that of the Foot Guards, I can quite understand my correspondent's feelings on being accused of surmounting it with a forest of plumes. The real facts are, that commissioned officers, on joining the veterans, wear the ordinary cocked hat of a staff officer of the Regulars, with the "mushroom plume." Privates in the Veterans wear a small red and white "ball-tuft" in the chako. My correspondent should take the compliment as it was intended, and remember that the Star is a peaceful organ, which cannot be expected to be up in military questions, or know that infantry drill in companies, not, as it says, in "squadrons."

Debrett's Illustrated Peerage, Baronetage, and Knightage has just reached me. I have only had time, as yet, to dip into its varied and interesting pages indeed, I must admit that I took an unfair advantage of the author, and peeped at the termination of the volume to see how it would all end. But I will not tell, for fear of spoiling the enjoyment of others. The illustrations are excellent some of them very comic. As for the edges, they are beautifully gilt. (If I go on like this, I shall soon be qualified to write criticisms for the fashionable papers.)

ESTHER. Your mamma, the Marchioness, does not know of our marriage!

CAPT. D'A.-No. I forgot to mention it to her-it escaped me.
ESTHER. Will she be pleased, do you think?

CAPT. D'A.-I should say she would be delighted. Oh, by the bye,
I forgot to tell you that I am going to India this afternoon.
ESTHER.-My Captain D'Alroy going to India? Ah, me!
Enter POLLY, CAPTAIN HAWTREE, and GERRIDGE.

CAPT. H.-Come, it's time to go to India.
CAPT. D'A.-Confusion, it is my mother!

[Carriage drives up.

[Bundles the girls into back room. Enter the MARCHIONESS.

MARCH.-Oh, I heard you were going to India to fight the niggers, so I thought I would drop in and say good-bye. CAPT. D'A.-Thanks. Good-bye, mamma. MARCH.-Spoken like a brave boy. It reminds me of NAPOLEON, at Fontainbleau, as described by FROISSART. As I am thinking of giving public readings from that work, I will, with your permission, recite a chapter of it, by way of rehearsal.

[Recites a chapter of Froissart. ESTHER, in the back room, can stand a good deal, but she can't stand a public recital-so she faints. MARCH.-Ha! What was that?

[Rushes to back room. Sees ESTHER fainting. MARCH. (sternly).-Is this all right; or is it Guilty Splendour? CAPT. D'A.-It is all right. She is my wife! CAPT. H. (anxious to put an end to a painful scene).-Come to India. MARCH.-What is she?

CAPT. D'A.-A Columbine.

MARCH.-Go. I do not recollect any passage in Froissart which refers to a Heavy Cavalry Captain marrying a Columbine; but I will recite his chapter on the Whigs of the Administration, which is somewhat to the point. [Recites another chapter. CAPT. D'A-Good-bye, mamma. I am going to India to fight the Paynim foe. We may never meet again.

MARCH.-Go. I spurn thee! (Aside.) It appears to be my painful lot to have invariably to quarrel with near relations just as they are starting for seats of war. I remember having just such a row with my first husband, Sir Alexander Shendryn, on his departure for the Crimea. That was before young McAlister changed his name to Hawtree on coming into money, and exchanged into a heavy cavalry regiment.

CAPT. D'A.-Farewell!

[All faint.

Esther is under the same impression.
ALL-We thought you were killed in action ever so long ago, and

CAPT. D'A.-Oh, no-not at all. Where is my wife? I should like-I really should like to see her.

Enter ESTHER.

POLLY.-No, you musn't. It would kill her. Go away, and I'll break the news to her. [Exit D'ALROY. POLLY.-Esther, you are sad. I will dance before you. There are few things so charming, when one is low, as to have one's sister to dance before one. Dar before her. ESTHER. Ha! I see from the nature of your dance that D'Alroy escaped from the Sepoys-that he is not dead-and that he is in the adjoining apartment.

MARCH.-My son not dead? I am really pleased. This reminds me of Froissart's description of Barnum's Museum.

CAPT. D'A.-Mamma, how could you be so unreasonable as to object to your son marrying a Columbine ?

MARCH. (melted.)-I quite see my error. But I have been a wrongheaded woman all my life. When your friend, Hawtree, before he changed his name, wanted to marry my daughter, I was fool enough to object because he had only five and threepence a day. By the way, I hear young Chalcote has gone on the stage, and got an engagement at the Adelphi. I'm sure I hope he'll get on.

CAPT. D'A.-Thus is our play completed. Oftentimes

The boldest hearts will quail at gruesome crimes.
ESTHER.-I am the noblest girl you ever saw
Upon or off the stage, my pippins.
CAPT. H.-
Haw!
GERRIDGE. We'll celebrate our union in a tea-cup-
A word I've introduced to rhyme with-
ECCLES.-
Hee-cup!
MARCH.-This lesson you may learn from all that's past,
There's nothing half so thingummy as "Caste!"
CURTAIN.

OURSELVES.-Well, it's a capital piece; extremely well written, though perhaps a little prosy in the third act. Beautifully placed upon the stage, and excellently acted by the best company in London. But we must have our joke, for all that.

The Art of Sinking in Crime.

"MANY a man," says DE QUINCEY, in one of his best-known essays, "has dated his ruin from some murder or other that perhaps he thought little of at the time." This humorous inversion of ethics would really seem to have suggested to the Jamaica Committee a most grotesque procedure. By way of piling up that agony, the foundation of which was laid in accusations of ruthless bloodshed, the negrophilists have actually contemplated the terrible course of prosecuting MR. EYRE for a misdemeanour! This bright idea is wonderfully consonant with the Opium Eater's reasoning; with the little difference that he was conscious of absurdity in the matter. "Once begin this downward path," says he, "and you never know where to stop. If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbery; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination." May we venture to give the Jamaica Committee a hint ? Let that respected body consider how far it may not be possible to extend the charge of misdemeanour to one of solecism and questionable taste.