WHAT LOCKSLEY HALL SAID BEFORE HE PASSED HIS OXFORD RESPONSIONS, (_Vulgo_ SMALLS). OH the misery of "Smalls!" the cark, the turmoil, and the grind! Oh the cruel, cruel fetters which are wreathing round my mind! There is grammar, there is _Euclid_, and far worse than all of these, Arithmetical refinements, with their stocks, and rules of threes, With their discount and their practice, and their very vulgar fractions, Smashing up the one ideal into many paltry factions. Square root makes the head to ache, the decimals the tear to start, For they're ever circulating round the fibres of my heart-- Learning grammar is like putting water in a leaky pot, And its memory is only like the days remembered not; Verbs in "M I" are aggravating, _Euclid_ makes the foot to stamp, Only lucid when enlightened by a moderator lamp, The old spider and his cobwebs! would that I could sweep them out From the dust and must of ages with a triumph and a shout; Shall I spurn him with my foot, or shall I scorn him with mine eye? Shall I tear him into pieces? SOUTHEY burnt him--so will I. C. C. B. N. C. _College Rhymes_, 1861. These lines also appeared in _Punch_. There was also an early parody of "Locksley Hall" in _Punch_, describing the Railway Mania of 1845. This parody was rather technical in its language, not very amusing, and is now quite out of date. * * * * * BATTUE SHOOTING. Gather round, my noble comrades; hardy sportsmen, gather where, Placed in yonder shaded corner, stands for each an easy chair; Close behind are well-packed hampers, and attendants duly wait To reload your deadly weapons while you sit and shoot in state. Amply fed and reared, my pheasants--tame they'll answer to your call, But, like whirling leaves in winter, soon you'll see them thickly fall. Hark, the beaters drive them forward. Now, prepare--the time is nigh, We shall soon reduce their numbers. Peste! they're far too fat to fly! See the startled hares and rabbits vainly shelter safe have sought, Headlong rushing, mad with terror--surely this is noble sport! Eh! what say you? Let go at them, now's the time to try your skill; Crawling wounded, lame and fluttering, down they go the bag to fill. Warmish work, and quite fatiguing--let's refresh ere we renew. Vulgar hinds may sneer and welcome. Vive, say I, the good battue! * * * * * Surely those who so love slaughter might, when close time comes for grouse, Find congenial occupation if they donned the butcher's blouse. D. EVANS. _The Weekly Dispatch_, August 31, 1884. * * * * * GODIVA. (_A Pose Plastique_, by Madame Warton, _before_ the forthcoming picture by Edwin Landseer, R.A.) OR, THE PEEPING GENT OF COVENTRY STREET.