Traffic? Why bless you! We have none worth calling so; 'Tisn't a thing expected in London City. This sluggish crawling varied with stoppage is all that We may attain to. What with the narrow labyrinths miscalled thoroughfares, What with the sewers and gas, the water and telegraphs, Traffic is simply a species of lingering agony, In the Metropolis! Something is always "up," Sir, pipe-layers, paviors, Stirrers of most malodorous witch-broth cauldrons, Makers of shindy and stench, with poor old Babylon, Play up old Gooseberry! Courts and Councils, Committees and Correspondents, Always reporting, writing, and railing concerning it; Nothing comes of it all save chaos more complicate, And higher ratings. Cheapside, Fleet Street, Strand, all semi-impassable, Scarcely a "right-away" road in all the Capital; As for the "affluents" of our so-called arteries, _They_ are chock-blockical! SALOMAN wisely says the traffic of London Isn't mere local matter--ought to be national. Hope we may get some good from wisdom of SALOMAN!-- Hardly expect it, though. Far too long a prey to the power of Bumbledom! Hope too long deferred has made me a Pessimist. Traffic? Merits the name as much as these stanzas do That of true Sapphics, Sir! _Lover of London._ _You_ back such bunglers? I would see them blowed first-- Duffers no civic spirit can rouse to competence, Paltry, preposterous, pettifogging, pottering, Paunchy Panjandrums! * * * * * A SONG FOR THE SLOGGER. (_By One who has seen him Smite._) [During the Scarborough Cricket Week, Mr. C. I. THORNTON, the champion slogger of England and enthusiastic supporter of the sport, was presented with a silver trophy, representing himself at the wicket, as a memento of the great part he has taken in the Scarborough Festival since its institution in 1869. Playing in the second innings of M. C. C. against Yorkshire, Mr. THORNTON batted as energetically as ever, and twice drove the ball out of the ground.] [Illustration]