The Foreign Office, whether represented by Lord SALISBURY or Lord ROSEBERY,--two "berries," so that we are to judge of the worth of our Foreign Office by its berries, not by its fruits,--ought to be hauled over the coals--the victim's name being suggestive of this process--by the British Public. Mr. COLES was innocent of the charge brought against him, was convicted in the face of evidence; and as there was no one to screen COLES, poor COLES--COLES down again!--was shovelled into a black hole, which was, _pro. tem._, a COLES cellar. After sixteen months of Haytian bonds, and being kept in durance by Haytian Black Guards, the energy of the British F. O. obtained for the unfortunate prisoner a free pardon! But no further redress, except the offer of £500, which COLES couldn't be "cokes'd" into accepting. Now this matter of Hayti and COLES is a very black affair. What is going to be done? Do we leave COLES and scuttle? Surely so gross a wrong perpetrated in Hayti ought to have been put right in Hayti-seven. * * * * * THE MOST LITIGIOUS PERSON ON RECORD.--The man who had all his invitations properly stamped at Somerset House, and then brought an action against his hosts for breach of agreement if a dinner happened to be put off. * * * * * [Illustration: "MUMPSIMUS!"] Reminiscence of a celebrated and highly popular picture, adapted to the painful circumstance announced last week by _Truth_; namely, that the Chorister Boys at a certain Cathedral have all got the Mumps. * * * * * HIS FIRST APPEARANCE AT THE CAFÉ DES AMBASSADEURS. [Illustration: OWEN MEREDITH, _ALIAS_ LORD LYTTON, TRANSLATED INTO FRENCH. _Lord L-tt-n sings_:--] _Love's Metamorphoses_ I sang of late, "My Unglenaverilled Glenaveril" Puzzled the Public's unpoetic pate. Wit, like my sire's imaginary _Vril_, Is thaumaturgic. I have served the State In various ways with elegance and skill; But _my_ "last Metamorphosis," I opine, Out of Glenaveril's wholly takes the shine. From "OWEN MEREDITH," of Servian song, Translator (who said through the French?) to this! The course, like my Serb falcon's flight, is long. The proletariat possibly may hiss. I scorn the anserine Gladstonian throng, Whose mouthpiece is the _Gaily Dews_. I wis That nickname shows a polish and a fire Of wit well worthy my prodigious Sire. When I wrote _Aux Italiens_ long ago (And _Trovatore_ rhymed with purgatory) I little thought Paris one day should know The bard in an Ambassador's full glory. Ah! I shall miss the Oriental show Of Ind--but that is scarce a pleasant story, And, after all, I fancy that my _Charis_ Had always, more or less, a touch of Paris.