MELBOURNE. _Latest_.--Through the instrumentality of an Official connected with the prison, I am enabled to send you some important information concerning our prisoner which you may take as absolutely authentic. His breakfast this morning consisted of buttered toast, coffee, and poached eggs. He complained that the latter were not new-laid, and became very excited. It has also transpired that he is strangely in favour of Imperial Federation, and he has declared to his gaolers that "The friendship between England and her Colonies ought to be cemented." This expression of opinion has created a profound sensation. * * * * * THE POINT OF VIEW. (_AS PRIVATE TOMMY ATKINS PUTS IT TO HIS COMRADE BILL._) [In the Report of Lord WANTAGE's Committee, it appears that our Home Army costs seventeen and a-half millions per annum. The Duke of CAMBRIDGE doubts if we could rapidly mobilise one Army Corps. Sir EVELYN WOOD holds half the men under him at Aldershot are not equal to doing a day's service, even in England. The Duke of CONNAUGHT says half the battalions under his command are no good for service, cannot even carry their kits, and are not fit to march. Lord WOLSELEY, it is stated, compares the British Army to a "squeezed lemon."] "Squeezed lemon!" _That's_ encouraging! Wish Wolseley knew 'ow much it's pleased us. I'd like to arsk _one_ little thing: I wonder who it is who's squeezed us? The whole Report's a thing to cheer; Makes us feel proud and pleased, oh! very! And won't the bloomin' furrineer Over our horacles make merry? Costs seventeen millions and a arf, And carn't go nowhere, nor do nothink! That tots it up! They wouldn't charf, Eh, BILL, these Big Wigs! What do _you_ think? Therefore, we're just a useless lot. After pipe-claying and stiff-starching, We _might_ be good for stopping shot, Only that we're not fit for marching! We cannot carry our own kits! I say, Bill, _ain't_ we awful duffers? Not furrin foes, or Frenchy wits, Could more completely give us snuffers. CAMBRIDGE, CONNAUGHT, Sir EVELYN WOOD, All of a mind, for once, about us! What wonder Bungs dub us no good, And lackeys, snobs, and street-boys flout us? I see myself as others see; A weedy, narrer-chested stripling, Can't fight, can't march, can't 'ardly see! And yet young Mister RUDYARD KIPLING Don't picture hus as kiddies slack, Wot can't go out without our nurses, But ups and pats us on the back In very pooty potry-verses.[1] We're much obliged to 'im, I'm sure, (Though potry ain't my fav'rit reading,) He's civil, kind and not cock-sure; Good sense goes sometimes with good-breeding. So Tommy's best respects to _'im_, At Aldershot we'd like to treat 'im. Though if he bobs in Evelyn's swim, He _might_ not know us _when_ we meet 'im!