(_The Judge is not at home, and Brown, Q.C., asks permission to write him a Note._) _Mary Elizabeth Jane._ "WOULD YOU LIKE THIS BOOK, SIR? MASTER ALWAYS USES IT WHEN HE WRITES LETTERS!" [_Heavens! it's an English Dictionary!_ ] * * * * * TOWN AND GOWN. The _Standard_, giving its account of "Speeches," at Eton, on Fourth of June, said, "The speakers were attired in Court dress, the Oppidans wearing their black school gowns." Since when have Oppidans worn "gowns," black or otherwise? Those who used to wear gowns were the Collegers. Surely the custom, sanctioned by some centuries, has not been changed. The "Oppidans," or Town Boys, could not possibly be metamorphosed into Gown Boys--at least so writes to us THE TUG OF WARRE. * * * * * GOOD EVANS!--The _Daily Telegraph_ reported "The Heroism of a Lady." The act and deed was that of Miss EVANS, of Hythe, near Southampton, who, after rescuing a man and a woman from drowning, plunged in again, dived, and rescued a girl, who was sinking for the third and last time. The girl saved will ever gratefully remember Miss EVANS as the lady who "brought her up by hand," and in finishing her education she will not neglect the extra-accomplishment of swimming. Honour to Miss EVANS, who is a real female champion, not of the Salvation Army, but of a Nautical Salvage Corps! * * * * * A NOCTURNE IN NOODLEDOM. (_What the Heart of the Young Masher said to the Music-hall Singer._) (A LONG WAY AFTER LONGFELLOW.) AIR--"_The Day is Done._" The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the brow of night, Like a crape-mask drifting downward From a burglar in his flight. I see the lights of "the village" Gleam through the evening mist, And a feeling of dryness comes o'er me, And a tiddley I can't resist. A feeling of blueness, and longing For a spree, and another drain; It resembles sorrow only As gooseberry does champagne. Come, tip me some snappy poem, Some iky and rorty lay, That shall banish this chippy feeling, And drive dull care away. Not from the slow old stodges, Not from the smugs sublime, Who hadn't a notion of patter, And were slaves to tune and time: For, like chunks of WAGNER'S music, They worrying thoughts suggest, Dull duty, and dry endeavour, And to-night I long for rest. Tip a stave from some Lion Comique, Whose songs are snide and smart, And who makes you roar, like ROBERTS, Till tears from your optics start. Who, without thought or labour, And "on his own," with ease, Can whack out the ripping chorus Of music-hall melodies. Such songs have power to quicken The pulse that beats low with care; And come like the "Benedictine" That follows the bill-of-fare. So pick from the cad, or the coster, Some patter--slang for choice; And lend to the rhymes of the Comique The tones of a stentor voice.