Well, you know what it was once upon a time.  There was A BALFOUR—­beg pardon, should say, THE BALFOUR—­and DRUMMY WOLFFY, and De GORSTIBUS non disputandum ("no arguing with GORST"), and self.  As good a quartette, though I say it who shouldn’t, as ever sat down to a concerted piece, with myself as First Fiddle.  But now—­“Where am dat barty now?”—­I don’t know if I quote correctly; quoting correctly is not my forte.  “Dat barty,” suggests WOLFF; he was the “barty” of our party, in the merry days of old.  Now—­none of ’em here, and I with my ink-stand before me, a pencil, a pen, note-books galore, and any amount of foolscap, represent “the composition” of our party.  I must get on with my “compo.”  Is reminds me of doing a “Theme” at Eton.  This is a holiday task.  One, two, three, off!—­and away!

ALL ABROAD.

Before I know where we are, so to speak, we have left London, and are at Lisbon.  On the voyage Captain G. WILLIAMS suggests these lines, to which I append my own translation.  BALFOUR rather behind me in Latin at Eton (I hear by private wire that he admitted as much in his recent speech at the fourth centenary celebration), and so, perhaps, couldn’t give the translation as easily as I do.  Here is the Captain’s reminiscence, and my translation when he isn’t looking:—­

“Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnes
Angulus ridet, ubi non Hymetto
Melle decedunt, viridique certat

                                  Bacca Venafro.

“Vir ubi longum tepidusque praebet
Jupiter brumas, et amicus Aulon,
Fertili Baccho nimium Falernis

                                  Invidet uvis.”

Which translated means:—­

He, the Englishman (Angulus), beside me (that is, “sitting on deck by my side”) laughs at all people on shore when he is quite certain (certat) that he can’t get good tobacco from VENAFER’S (a local tobacconist). (This) man prefers the long clay pipe, which gets so soon hot, for, by Jove, you’ll burn yourself (brumas), and being a friend of AULON’S ("all on,” local joke), he envies those who can smoke the green tobacco, and doesn’t wonder that they go in for Falernian (classic metaphor for Cape wine).

I think that’s pretty good for an old Etonian who could give BALFOUR (the “Four” of the Fourth Party, a four-oar without a steerer) a mile over any course of VIRGIL or OVID, and beat him easily.

WHERE ARE WE NOW?

[Illustration:  The Fifth of November anticipated in Quite Mad-eira.]

En route, called on the Bey of Biscay.  Found him in amiable temper—­not a bit rough.  Lisbon delightful.  Chatsworth not in it with the smallest flower-and-kitchen garden here.  Dined at the “Brag”—­short for Braganza.  Suddenly inspired—­wrote drinking song:—­

  Sancho Panza
  At Braganza,
    Quaffed no end of cup,
  But Don Quixit
  Said “Don’t mix it—­
    Let us go and sup.”