Your obedient servant, HAPPY BROWN BESS. _Earlswood, September 14, 1895._ [Space forbids further insertions of letters on this subject.--ED.] * * * * * THE CONQUEROR. [Mr. H. N. PILLSBURY, a young American master of twenty-two years, won the first prize in the Chess Tournament at Hastings.] Two Battles of Hastings--when young scholars rattle Their "dates" off--henceforth may be reckoned: If WILLIAM the Norman did win the first battle, 'Twas PILLSBURY pulled off the second. A very young player old STEINITZ to tackle, Or enter the lists against LASKER! When History's Muse is henceforth on the cackle, One question a scholar may ask her,-- "Oh, which was the greater, chess-champion or war-man?" In chess there is no hanky-panky; Less _fair_ was the win of the tricky old Norman, Than that of the quiet young Yankee! * * * * * The "alliterative" epidemic, in connection with the names of marine resorts, is spreading to an alarming extent. A Welsh newspaper heads a quotation from the _Western Daily Press_ by the taking title of "Improving Ilfracombe." This, however, has nought to do with the excellent mental and physical benefits derived by visitors to the North Devonian pleasure port, but refers to District Council resolutions for the improvement of the place itself--a Quixotic idea, which seems identical with that of "painting a lily." To the scribe of the "Seaside Series," whose penchant is for "apt alliteration's artful aid," we beg to offer--without any extra charge--a few suggestions to go on with:--Soothing Southend, Winsome Whitby, Congressional Cardiff, Sweltering Swansea, Peaceful Penzance, or "piratical" ditto, and so on _ad nau-sea-am_. * * * * * [Illustration: THE JUDGE'S DREAM.] * * * * * BALL _VERSUS_ BALL. AN AUTUMN ECLOGUE. _The rivals, Cricket Ball and Football, like Menalcas and Damoetas, defend their favourite Sports, and make their friend Punch (like Palemon) judge of their performances._ _Football._ Ho! Hurry up and put yourself away! September's here, and Cricket's had its day. You and your Bat have had a wondrous boom, Now for a manlier sport, and Me, make room! _Cricket Ball._ A _manlier_ sport? Tell that to sordid Tykes! The "brass," and not the game, is what he likes Who kicks your swollen and unshapely form Through snow and mud, in fog and frozen storm; And in pursuit of silver pots and pelf, Makes a dishevelled mudlark of himself; Then calls it--Sport! O, there! don't talk to me. _I_'m not a slave to sludge and L. S. D.