_D. F._ I object to the size of its chest, and its manner of occupying the pavement. I have seen a guardsman in Whitehall against whom, in the heyday of my youth, I should indubitably have projected my person. _Int._ It would have been a rash and perhaps irreparable act. But tell me more. Kindly hold up once again the veracious mirror, that we may see ourselves as others see us. We are so apt to be blind to our own national defects, unless the impartial observer, like yourself, throws a flood of light upon our idiosyncrasies. _D. F._ I should like a few more days in which to complete my study, and verify my anticipations, of your interesting city. Meanwhile, let me refer you to M. GABRIEL MOUREY'S new work--_Passé le Détroit_. The Ulysses of our century, he has gained a wide knowledge of your race, having been a fearless traveller in _L'Underground_, and seen some of your most typical fogs. You may learn much from him. He is read eagerly at home, where the thirst for books of romantic travel and exploration grows hourly. I wish you the good day. _Yes._ * * * * * A TEETOTAL TIP.--How to Live Long--Never take "something short." * * * * * [Illustration: SCENE--_A Restaurant near Leicester Square._ _Jones._ "OH--ER--GARSONG, REGARDEZ EECEE--ER--APPORTEZ-VOO LE--LA----" _Waiter._ "BEG PARDON, SIR. I DON'T KNOW FRENCH!" _Jones._ "THEN, FOR GOODNESS' SAKE, SEND ME SOMEBODY WHO _DOES!_"] * * * * * 'ARRY ON DERBY DAY. DEAR CHARLIE,--Are _you_ going down? What a pooty blarmed world this 'as got, With its CHANTS, and its Anti-Sport Leagues, Local Hoption, and other dashed rot. Wot _is_ Libberty comin' to, CHARLIE? 'Ere's 'ARRY leg-lagged to his stool, Because his new Gaffer's a Hawkeite, as means a old-fossilised fool. The young 'un whose crib I succeeded to skinned the old bloke's petty cash In backing of wrong 'uns last year, as of course was most reckless and rash. But wy should _I_ suffer along of it? Wy must he drop upon _me_ Who wanted the Derby Day off--for cremating my poor uncle G.? Smelt a rat, the old Smelfungus did, and he lectured me, too, like old boots, Saying, Sport wos a Youpass tree, CHARLIE, and lying wos one of its fruits. He's a reglar front-row Anti-Gambler, a foe of Mirth, Music, and Malt, As would 'ave them lay Tattersall's level, and sow Hepsom race-course with salt. I'd arranged with a sporting greengrocer, and BOODLE a smart local Bung, To tool down by road with a trotter. Us three would 'ave gone a rare splung, And _I_ ain't missed a Derby this five year. And now all along of old hunks Instead of sweepstaking for winners, I'm making out bills for hair-trunks.