S.F. And all through that rascally ravaging SMUGGINS?

S.C. (furiously).  The scoundrel!—­the sleek, insinuating, slaughtering scoundrel!  He tore up my paths, he altered my beds, he mutilated my lawns, he stripped my trailers, he hacked my trees into bare hideousness, all to make work and money for himself and his partner in iniquity, that nefarious “florist” friend of his.  I was a greenhorn, MUMPSON, a juggins, and I let them fool me to the top of my bent.  He cut up the shrubbery into those horrible flat beds, in order that I might “grow my hown wegerbles,” as he phrased it.  He got money from me for the best and most expensive “ashleaf kidneys” and “Prooshian Blues,” then planted cheap refuse from a small greengrocer’s.  My “ashleaf kidneys” turned out waxy marbles; my Prooshian Blues refused to pod; I spent—­or rather he received—­pounds upon my vinery and cucumber frames.  My grape-bunches went mouldy, and I never got a cucumber more than six inches long.  His “friend, the florist,” did, no doubt.  He stole my shrubs overnight, and sold ’em back to me next morning.  He bled my maidservants for “beer and ’baccy.”  In fact, it was the same all round; he had, in every way, ruined my garden, run me up exorbitant bills, and then, when the day of detection was imminent—­disappeared.  If ever I catch sight of that mulberry nose of his, I shall be tempted to—­

S.F. (soothingly).  Ah, yes, just so.  But let’s hope that you’ll never come across this particular Grand Old Gardener—­or his like—­again. (Waggishly.) By Jove, APPLEYARD, no wonder the world went wrong, seeing that “the first man” was—­a Gardener!!!

* * * * *

LEARNED BY ART.—­“Beasts in Bond Street!” “Sheep in the Salon!” Messrs. DOWDESWELLS have taken the wind out of the sails of the Agricultural Hall, and Mr. DENOVAN ADAM has given us the opportunity of seeing a superb collection of Scottish Highland Cattle.  Mountain, meadow, moss and moor have all been laid under contribution.  The result is we can have the chance of studying these hornymental animals without being tossed, and staring at them without being gored.  In the same gallery may be seen a series of pastels of Hampstead Heath, by Mr. HENRY MUHRMAN—­a merman ought to be a sea-painter by rights, but no matter!  The poet has told us that, “’Amsted am the place to ruralise on a summer’s day!” The artist convinces us it is the place to “pastelise,” and he seems to have pastelised to the tune of forty pictures very successfully.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW OF THE FUTURE.

[In consequence of AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS becoming Sheriff, it is expected that additional lustre will be given to a future Mayoralty by the leading Members of “THE Profession” taking to Civic Life.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  ’ARRY IN ST. PETERSBURGH.