As you pass out, skirting the piece of old ordnance dragged from the sea in 1775, near the Goodwin Sands, by some fishermen who were sweeping for anchors in the Gull-stream, you reach the conclusion, that politeness may sometimes be carried too far. "Deale," notes LELAND, in his interesting _Itinerary_, "is half a myle fro the shore of the sea, a Finssheher village iii myles or more above Sandwich." That is all very well for Deal; but a gentleman of healthy habits, who left London at ten o'clock this morning would, as the afternoon advances, certainly not be so much as three miles above a sandwich if it were offered. Pleased with this quaint conceit, in which there is peradventure some little humour, you drop in at a confectioner's, and fortify yourself with a nineteenth-century bun, with which you trifle whilst the train tarries. * * * * * A SPORTING CORRESPONDENT, who says "he isn't in the know," asks "what we think of _Garter_ for the Derby?" A word to the wise is sufficient. "Garter" rhymes to "Starter." The Motto of the Garter is, _Honi soit qui mal y pense_. We have spoken. * * * * * Illustration: THE POOR CHILDREN'S PANTOMIME; OR SAVED BY A MAGISTRATE'S ORDER. * * * * * THE MYSTIC LETTERS. Through the vast hall he stepped alone. Books, books were everywhere, In all the world he had not known A library so fair. Through pictured windows sunshine fell On carven cedar old, On velvet hangings, shading well Fair bindings manifold. Right joyfully he wandered on, Yet marvelled much to see-- Gold letters on each volume shone, D. W. and T. "Some happy publisher," he mused, "Is designated thus-- Perchance, who yet has not perused _My_ homeless genius." That publisher if I could view, I'd fall down at his feet. "Rise," he would cry. "For need of you The whole is incomplete!" His heart stood still. What wondrous sight Struck him with joyful awe? Inscribed in letters large and bright, 'Twas his own name he saw. His own great works! All, all were there, Each title that he knew, In vellum, in morocco rare Of deep aesthetic blue. The Sonnets that his youth engrossed, The Novel of his prime, The Epic that he loved the most, The Tragedy sublime. He took the Epic from the shelf, Engravings rare surveyed-- The Artist seemed a higher self, Who knew and who portrayed. "Notices of the Press"--His eyes Grew dim as he descried "True Genius we recognise"-- Ah, who was at his side? He turned; but could it be, in truth, The Publisher he scanned? No austere presence, but a youth With poppies in his hand, Who smiled. Whereat the Author's mien Grew slowly blank, as on The mystic letters he had seen A fatal meaning shone.