FINE SUBJECT FOR HEROIC HISTORICAL CARTOON.--"'TOMMY' BOWLES challenging a division." Imagine it! Grand! but unfortunately the subject too late for pictorial treatment by one of _Mr. P.'s_ young men this week. Think how many would go to make up a "Division"!! Remember that TOMMY is but a Unit. "Unit is strength," says T. G. B. * * * * * THE UNEXPECTED.--_Youthful Hereditary Legislator (seen for the first time in the neighbourhood of Westminster last week, inquires of Policeman)._ "Aw--can you--ar--direct me to the--aw--House of Lords?" * * * * * [Illustration: SEA-SIDE STUDIES. _Wandering Minstrel._ "GURLS! I'M A DOOCID FINE CHA-APPIE!" &c., &c.] * * * * * "OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY!" [Mr. GLADSTONE has gone on a visit to Mr. GEORGE ARMITSTEAD, at Black Craig Castle, Perthshire. Mr. HENRY GLADSTONE stated that the Prime Minister would receive no deputations, and that the holiday would be purely recuperative.] _Pensive Premier museth_:-- Purely recuperative! Ah! precisely. Leave me alone, and I shall manage nicely. How the bees boom amidst the purple heather! Better than BOWLES and BARTLEY! (_Yawn._) Wonder whether _They_'re "booming" still about Sir WILLIAM'S head; Buz-wuz! Buz-wuz! And raspy Russell, red With Orange rage, shakes he a towzled crest? Creaks he continual challenge, spear in rest? Wags he a menacing fore-finger still At me through stout Sir WILLIAM? Poor Sir WILL! How he'd like _this_! How little he likes _that_! Purely recuperative! Here I've sat Since luncheon--ruminating, reading, napping, Thank heaven I cannot hear Lord KELVIN clapping CASTLETOWN'S callow clap-trap. All is still. There's nothing near I wish to stalk or kill. Like Melancholy _Jaques_, I can note The branchy antlers and the dappled coat Of "poor sequestered stag," and yet not yearn To--make him venison. Yon brabbling burn Makes mellower music in my Scottish ears. Then the MACALLUM'S slogan. How the cheers Of SALISBURY must have fired him as he smote; Hacked at my character, hewed at my throat Like "sullen spearsman" upon Flodden field. The claymore, like his sires, he loved to wield. They lost their heads he says, for England's weal, And he--well, has he not lost _his_?