Now I do not say that the advertisement and the illustrated pamphlet had exactly called the vest a stylish addition to ordinary attire, but there was reticence as to any unsightly effect upon the figure. So little emphasis was laid on this that one quite naturally expected something rather like a vest. Not of course such an article as that historic waistcoat which DICKENS borrowed from MACREADY, but a vest not devoid of vestiness--something that a gentleman could negligently pace the deck in, without being too ostentatiously engaged in the task or pastime of saving his life; or sleep in with comfort, all ready for the water when the Hun arrived. Imagine then my surprise on finding in my cabin a parcel that might by its size have contained an assortment of pumpkins, from which I extracted an article no doubt many times more buoyant than cork, but adapted far less to walking a deck in or wooing reluctant slumbers in than for (obviously its real purpose) assisting Sir HERBERT TREE to make up as _Falstaff_. Carefully locking the door, I put it on and tied its tapes and fastened its buckles. The result was more than comic--it was grotesque; and with an overcoat to cover it I looked like one of the two MACS of blessed memory. Could life be saved thus? Only by sitting up in my cabin all night, for as to going on deck in it--not for a ransom! And as for sleeping in it--that was beyond all question. I therefore took it off, and sadly I climbed the companion to see how the rest of the passengers looked in their various vests; but either they had found a trimmer build than mine, which I doubt, or they too had shirked the ordeal. The result was that all our lives--even my fifteen-shilling one--were at the disposal of the Hun. So is it to be English. Anyhow, the saving of my own life is not, I am convinced, my forte. My forte is fatalism and trust in a star that hitherto has not been too capricious. Perhaps that is England's forte too. * * * * * DACTYLOMANIA. 'NEATH skies of inveterate azure, Where bitterns incessantly boom, And, thridding each elfin embrasure, Sleek satyrs enamel the gloom, The gaunt and impassive gorilla Emits a melodious moan As he treads a sedate seguidilla Aloof and alone. The sun, with an amber emotion, Darts down his importunate rays, Distilling a petulant potion Of pale and impalpable haze; And scents of ineffable sweetness Float up from the misty lagoon, Fulfilling in utter completeness Life's ultimate boon. I know not what demons abysmal Will out of the welter emerge; What dews of delight cataclysmal My desolate brow will asperge; I only am sure that this stanza, When handled by slingers of slosh, Will always remain a bonanza For building up bosh. * * * * * THE APPEAL DEPRECATORY.