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From the Canton of Koblinsky a report reaches us that the Deputy Grand Master of the Koblinsky Einspaenner has met with a somewhat alarming accident.  As he was going his rounds last week, accompanied by his faithful Pudelhund, he observed a mark lying on the pavement.  On stooping to pick it up, he was unfortunately mistaken for a Bath bun by his canine companion, and before help could be secured he had been partly devoured.  However, all that was left of him has been packed in ice, and forwarded, with the compliments of the Municipality, to the EMPEROR.

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The Great-Western Railway Company intend, it is said, to make unparalleled efforts to secure the comfort of those who may visit Henley Regatta during the present week.  All the ordinary trains have been taken off, and special trains, timed to take at least half-an-hour longer, have been substituted for them.  As a special concession, holders of first-class return tickets will be allowed to travel part of the distance by omnibus.  At Twyford Junction the amusing game of follow-my-leader will be played by four locomotives and a guard’s van.  The winning locomotive will then steam on to Henley, and upon its return passengers will proceed as usual.

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Yesterday being the opening day of the Regatta, was observed as a holiday by the natives of Henley.  The ancient ceremonial of “Prices up and money down,” was, as usual, observed with proper solemnity by all the burgesses of the little Oxfordshire town.  There was some boat-racing during the day; but it is beginning to be felt that a stop should be put to this barbarous survival of the dark ages.

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MODERN TYPES.

(BY MR. PUNCH’S OWN TYPE WRITER.)

NO.  XV.—­THE JACK OF ALL JOURNALISMS.

In order to become a successful Journalist of a certain sort, it is only necessary that a man should in early life provide himself with a front as brazen as the trumpet which he blows to announce to the world his merits and his triumphs.  It is, of course, essential that he should rid himself of any trace of sensitiveness that may remain to him after a youth about which the only thing certain is its complete obscurity, in order that no hint may be sufficiently broad to fit in with the tolerant breadth of his impudence, and no affront sufficiently pointed to pierce the skin with which Nature and his own industry have furnished him.  Literary culture must be eschewed, for with literary culture come taste and discrimination—­qualities which might fatally obstruct the path of this journalistic aspirant.  For it must be assumed that in some of its later developments journalism has entirely cast off the reticence and the modesty which successive generations of censors have constantly held to have been characteristic of an age that is past.  Indeed,