_Later._--After six weeks' hard fighting, have at last got to the summit. Cleared the place of the natives according to the recognised scientific formula. The Infantry had to use their bayonets freely. The Professor again well to the front with his Gatling. He is a wonderful man, and seems to have been accustomed to it all his life. It is almost a pity that he should be so devoted to science. He would have made a first-rate soldier. _Nearly the Latest._--Sorry that our expedition has not been entirely successful. I am very much afraid that it will be impossible to grow watercresses at this altitude, even with the genial aid of orchid-forcing houses. I do not see how we could get up the necessary materials to the summit, although assisted by proposed railway. Still, when the line is constructed, we might make the attempt. But from a commercial point of view, I do not believe that the experiment would repay the cost. _Sequel._--Delighted to find that our scientific expedition has one result. I have consulted the Professor, and we are both of the opinion, that from the summit of the Ironice Mountains it is possible to get a splendid bird's-eye view of India. * * * * * [Illustration: GOING ON BOARD.] * * * * * FORTE SCUTUM SALUS DUCUM. In St. SWITHIN's forty days Comes the end of voting-frays; Forty extra then arrays Mr. G. He had hoped for many more, But he cannot even score Forty-four, that fought he for-- Mr. G. Fortified with fortitude. Rule your motley multitude, And so earn our gratitude Mr. G.! Oh majority, you know "Gently does it;" therefore go Quite _piano_, Forty--show Mr. G. Though his forty is not fat, It is fair at least; so that JOHN shall not be taxed for PAT, Mr. G. Spare him income tax that grieves, Lest he think that he perceives ALI BABA's Forty ---- Mr. G.! * * * * * WALKER!--Mr. TOOLE is going into the country, and Mr. GARDEN is to take his place. This sounds like a seasonable change, as Londoners who cannot get away to a Garden, will now have a GARDEN coming to them. * * * * * "NO FEES." (_IN RE PAYNE_ V. _'ENRY HAUTHOR JONES._) Alas, poor JONES, how sad your fate! The Law's stern coldness comes to freeze Your burning wish to captivate With words you know will always please-- "No fees!" When "bang goes saxpence" for a page Of poorest paper, where one sees More puffs than programme, then your rage Seems right. One cries, "At least for these No fees!" If Dr. BRAMWELL,[1] who they say Cures psychological disease, Had known he would have willed away Your PAYNE, like tooth-ache--he would seize "No fees!"