He would rather shoot broken-down cab-horses,—­so the mug tells
us—­than birds. 
Well, they’re more in his line very likely; that means, in his own
chosen words,
He’s more fit for a hammytoor knacker than for that great boast of
our land,
A true British Sportsman!  Great Scott!  It’s a taste as I carnt
understand.

Fact is this here FRED is a Demmycrat, Positivist, and all that. 
There’s the nick o’ the matter, the reason of all this un-English
wild chat. 
He is down on the Aristos, CHARLIE, this ’ARRISON is.  It’s the Court
And the pick o’ the Peerage Sport nobbles, and that’s wy he sputters
at Sport.

All a part of the game, dear old pal, the dead-set at the noble and
rich. 
“Smart people” are “Sports,” mostly always, and ’ARRISON slates
them as sich. 
’Ates killing of “beautiful creatures,” and spiling “the Tummel
in spate”
With “drives,” champagne luncheons, and gillies? That’s not wot
sich slab-dabbers ’ate.

It’s “Privileged Classes,” my pippin, they loathes.  Yer can’t own a
big Moor,
Or even rent one like my dry-salter friend, if yer ’umble and poor. 
Don’t ’ARRISON never eat grouse?  Ah, you bet, much as ever he’ll
carry. 
There’s “poz” for a Posit’vist, mate, there’s ’ARRISON kiboshed
by ’ARRY.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  OUR YOTTING YORICK.

YOTTING JOTTINGS.]

Oh dear! oh dear!  What perils I have been through!  You’ll see me again shortly; but there have been momentums in my career when I said to myself, “Shall I ever aller out of this alive!” I escaped the Petersburg police; they punched out your Cartoon, and all the lines about the Czar and the Jews; that’s why I was so persecuted, and why I was watched.  I wish to Heaven you wouldn’t have Cartoons about Czars and Jews just when I’m at Peterborough, I mean Petersburg; same name, different place.  But there, that’s all over now, and jamais will I go and put myself within the clutches of the Russian Bear again.  The midnight sun must do without me in future.  I send you a sketch I made of a gargle—­I think that’s the name—­on a church-door in Lapland.  Isn’t it really droll?  You’re always bothering me for something droll, and now you’ve got it.  Then, Mr. Punch, riding a reindeer at half-a-crown an hour.  Then here are the little Lapps offering our sailors a lap of liquor; and I said to myself, “One touch of Nature,” which struck me as just the very motto for the picture.  I roared with laughter at it.  “This’ll do for ’em at home,” I said, and so here it is.  And look at the “Lapps of Luxury”!  You know that “Lap of Luxury” is a proverbial phrase; and, as you told me to make some comic sketches of the manners and customs of the country, why, I’ve done so; and, if they ain’t funny, I don’t know what humour is. Voila!