ck" too;
how horrid!
Why, even poor GOSLING made _four_. Oh, dear me, 'tis tremendously
torrid!
And, how they _can_ run so----There, listen to ISABEL SMYTHE, _do_
just listen.
She's coached up in Cricketing slang; she has "crammed" for it.
How her eyes glisten!
"Oh! bowled, Sir, indeed! Caught, Sir, caught!"--And she rhymes
"bowled" to "howled." Most disgusting!
Last over? Hope Harrow will pull up to-morrow. Of course they
are trusting
In mighty M'LAREN again. But oh, if their colours they'd vary!
Unless you've a brother, you know, or a lover like MILDRED and MARY.
In one team or other, it's hard to get up an emotion that's "humming,"
For dark blue and light are so like, Sir, and neither is
_very_ becoming.

* * * * *

New Room Notes, National Gallery.

"_The Three Graces_," now well placed, had been previously "skied." But
didn't this show that Sir JOSHUA'S work ranked uncommonly high in the
opinion of the former hangers?

It is not surprising that among Sir ROBERT PEEL'S Collection there
should have been several charming Constables. These Pictures ought to be
called and known as "Peelers."

* * * * *

SONGS AT STAMBOUL.

(_Sung by Sir H-nry Dr-mm-nd W-lff._)

I.--L'ADIEU A LA PORTE.

AIR--"_The Good-bye at the Door._"

OF all the memories of the past
That long will haunt my dreams,
This scene upon my soul will cast
The brightest, gladdest beams.
I've really had the jolliest spree,
Though S-L-SB-RY cuts it short;
Memory will oft recall to me
The Good-bye to the Porte.

My stay out here may have estranged
The closest friends I knew;
R-ND-LPH, I think, seems rather changed;
Will B-LF-R prove more true?
No happy hours again for me
In this sweet clime to sport!
I cannot contemplate with glee
This Good-bye to the Porte.

II.-GOOD-BYE, SWEET PORTE, GOOD-BYE!

AIR--"_Good-bye, Sweetheart, good-bye!_"

MY bright hopes fade, my heart is breaking
(I feel inclined to cuss our Chief),
And I from thee my leave am taking,
After a stay too brief, too brief.
How sinks my heart with strange alarms!
An angry tear obscures my eye.
Stamboul, they drive me from thy charms;
Good-bye, sweet Porte, good-bye!

My innings end,--without much scoring,--
Loud swells the Rad's derisive jeer.
If France I long have failed in floor