As I watched the sad and yet impressive tableau old memories flocked upon me. Where was the private who caricatured his Colonel, and showed how a shako could be combined with a horse-hair wig, and yet look military and forensic? Where was the lance corporal who invariably confirmed his captain's commands with an "as your Lordship pleases?" Where was the rear-rank wag who, on being told to charge, said he "must leave that sort of thing to his clerk, who kept his fee-book?" Where was the vocalist who would sing the songs of J. L. MOLLOY, Barrister-at-Law, and knew the ins and outs of "The Maske of Flowers?" All of them gone, and their places scarcely filled by new comers! And, as I gazed upon an energetic private of the I. O. C. R. V. C., apparently preparing to meet the demands of an expected detachment of hungry lunchers, I wondered whether anything could be done to revive the fortunes of the Grand Old Battalion. Could the hours of leisure of the warriors be occupied by regimental trips down the river, regimental drags to the races, regimental dinners to one another, regimental visits to the play, regimental strolls in the Row, regimental bicycles in Battersea Park? I fancy something of this kind has already been suggested. Then, if Barristers do not flock in sufficient numbers to the banners of the Lamb, the Horse, and the Griffin, why not throw open the ranks to wealthy persons--so to speak--fond of the leaders of litigation? Again I imagine some such plan has already been under consideration. And, as I thought the matter over, I became gloomier and gloomier. So sad was I that I had to visit the adjacent cemetery, to revive, under the modified merriment of the place, into comparative cheerfulness. The mere recollection of the I. O. C. R. V. C. unmans me. It is better that I should pause, for I can write no more. _Pump Handle Court, July 12, 1895._ A. BRIEFLESS, JUN. * * * * * THE CRY OF THE COUNTER. (_By a Shopkeeper who had hoped better things of the Season._) Great Scott! Sold again! It's all up with the Season, Though Summer _is_ Summer, and Goodwood's not gone! We Shopkeepers hoped for good luck, and with reason, For things did look bright. But once more we are done; Done, clean as a whistle! A General Election! Sprung on us, through BRODRICK, and cordite, and stuff! A plague on both parties, a curse on each section! Your M.P.'s a mooncalf, a muddler, a muff! The weather was stunning; Death had not been busy With Royalties--bless 'em!--and London was full; And though of course ROSEBERY is not a DIZZY, He _did_ win the Derby, which gave him some pull. The Parties kept wrangling,--but nobody bothered; They didn't make progress,--but none of us cared; Though LABBY played tricks, or SILOM o pothered, We stuck to our counters, unshocked and unscared.