The House-Porter is of equal size, and equal uselessness. He sits in the hall, and always rises and salutes when you pass. If you want anything, he waits till you have got it, and then offers to procure it for you. If you ask to be called early, he chalks something on a slate, and you are safe not to be disturbed until you rise in your wrath and ring violently. Should you be in a town, and wish to secure theatre-tickets, he becomes more active; he implores you not to resort to "De Boxing Office, vare you pay premiums, you see;" but he has one or two left for sale. Should you be weak enough to yield, you will find that the worst seats at the highest prices are yours; and, if you remonstrate next day, he will sigh wearily, and remark,--"Is acheslant places, Sar; but was Gala Night, you see,"--an enigma, which those who run may read. He is always offering to do something, and doing _you_ instead. He is absolutely unnecessary, for there is seldom anyone in a Grand Hotel to "chuck out," and this would be his only justification. * * * * * THE "BLOWER" BURST UP! The "Blower" came down, like the braggart he was, And of winning the fight was peculiarly "poz;" And the voice of his backers was loud in their glee;-- "We shall lick him in two rounds--or certainly three!" Like the "Champion Slugger," in trunks of bright green, The "Big Fellow" at Eight fifty-two might be seen: Like a truculent Titan, blind, baffled, and blown, At Ten thirty-seven the brute was o'erthrown. For CORBETT smote fiercely, and CORBETT fought fast, And the bullying bounder was beaten at last; And the cheeks of the coarse woman-puncher were chill, He rolled over, and struggled to rise, and lay still. And there stood his foe with his nostrils all wide, And the shouts of his backers rolled on in their pride. The swells of the Ring and the stars of the Turf Surged round like the waves of the storm-beaten surf. And there lay the "Blower," distorted and pale, With the blood on his brow where the blows fell like hail. _His_ backers were silent, he lay there alone, His mawleys unlifted, his trumpet unblown. And the "Sports" of the South are all loud in their wail. But _Punch_, who hates bullying brutes, can but hail That smart Californian's pluck, skill, and strength, Who has pricked the big SULLIVAN bladder--at length! * * * * * "FONS ET ORIGO."--As to London Water "seek Wells," that is if you wish to avoid unpleasant seq-uels. "_Don't_ leave Wells alone" is our motto, meaning "Sir SPENCER" of that ilk, who has a deal worth hearing to say on this subject. * * * * * [Illustration: TWO SIDES TO A QUESTION. _Major Podmore_. "CONGRATULATE YOU, DEAR BOY!" _Disappointed Cricketer_. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN? BOWLED FIRST BALL--NEVER GOT A RUN!"