OUR OWN "NOTES AND QUERIES." PIKES AND ASSES. Mr. Samuel Flopp presents his compliments to the Editor, and begs to propound the following question:— Mr. Flopp, passing the other day through the Camden Town Turnpike, observed written upon the gate— "For every horse, mule, or other animal, not being an ass, the sum of 1½_d._" Mr. Flopp wishes to know whether it was owing to the last reservation, that he was allowed to pass toll free. Perhaps some of our correspondents will answer the question. BLACK'S THE WHITE OF MY EYE. "There is a proverbial expression, 'You can't say black is the white of my eye.' How ought a person to vary the phrase to suit his own case, supposing his eyes to be blue? An answer will oblige. J. P." * * * * * "SIR, Digging in my garden, I found a flat stone with the following inscription— JONBUMPSISGROUND Can you inform me what language this is? I have submitted the question to both Universities, and a fortune-teller in the New Cut, but I can get no satisfactory reply. I am myself inclined to think it either Phœnician, Chaldee, or ancient Cornish." * * * * * "The following very curious fragment of an epitaph is to be found in a churchyard not a hundred miles from Biggleswade:— 'Afflictions sore, long time I bore, Physicians was in vain—' _Cætera desunt._ Can any of your readers inform me of the name and profession of the deceased, what he died of, and whether the undertaker was paid for his funeral?" [Illustration] THE OPERA HABITUÉ. You've heard of an Habitué—an Opera-going man— Perhaps you sometimes try to look as like one as you can, But, if you want a faithful sketch—correct as sketch can be, I'll daguerreotype myself—an old Habitué. And first, I don't know music—for I haven't got an ear; And I fear I couldn't tell Jim Crow from strains by Meyerbeer; And once I made a blunder when the band began to tune, And asked what Costa was about, to start them off so soon. The fact is—music bores one, but what is one to do? It's very clear that one must try to get one's evenings through; And so I somehow find myself professing vast delight, And shouting "brava Grisi!"—yes—every Opera night. I'm got up to perfection. In all that dandy place, There's no cravat so faultless—no shirt so gay with lace; My gibus hat—my shiny boots, there's none who see forget. While words can't tell how tight my gloves, or huge my white lorgnette. And, every Opera evening, I lounge into my stall, And nod, and smile to scores—of course—Habitués, one and all; And then adjust that huge lorgnette; and, grave as grave can be, From box to box, and tier to tier, commence my scrutiny.