* * * * *

A Vain Vaunt.

  La belle France boasts of being Art’s true henchman! 
    That cosmopolitan claim she should be mute on. 
  “Art for Art’s sake!” shouts the thrasonic Frenchman,
    “Save when that Art is Teuton,”
  Though Art’s not marred for him by subtle sin
  A German twang poisons e’en Lohengrin.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  INDISCRIMINATE CHARITY.

Benevolent Old Lady. “NO, MR. SMITH; I SHALL NOT CONTINUE MY SUBSCRIPTION TO YOUR CRICKET-GROUND ANY LONGER—­FOR I FIND YOU ALLOW IT TO BE USED IN THE WINTER FOR PIGEON-SHOOTING!”

Secretary to the Local Cricket Club. “BUT, MADAM, YOU CAN’T BE AWARE THAT WE SHOOT AT NOTHING BUT CLAY PIGEONS!”

B.  O. L. “I DON’T CARE WHAT THE BREED MAY BE—­IT’S EQUALLY CRUEL!”]

* * * * *

THE ARMADA FROM THE SPANISH.

(Commenced by Mr. J.A.  Froude and concluded by the Duke of Medina Sidonia.)

It may be remembered that the English writer in Longman’s Magazine, had got to the point when after trying to get out of the expedition by pleading poverty, incompetency, and anything else I could think of, I was forced to go on my way to England with apparent satisfaction.  We had putrid pork and mouldy biscuit, but still I informed the King that we were “content and cheerful.”  Had I given him any other intelligence, the chances are that he would have had my head—­not a good one, but sufficient to meet my modest requirements.

Well, we sailed towards England, and as Mr. J.A.  FROUDE has already explained (quoting from my own letter to King PHILIP), “knowing nothing of navigation,” I soon made a bad shot.  Instead of going to Tilbury, I drifted towards Cronstadt, even then a fortress of some consideration.  I could tell you a great deal more, were it not that I succumbed to sea-sickness and gave up my command.  The expedition was now, of course, commanded by the steward, but the duties of his unpleasant office left him but little time for directing an invasion.  Well, we got within reach of England when the wind began to blow, and before I could hitch myself up with a marling-spike, every man Jack of us was ready for Davy Jones’s locker!

But why should I dwell upon the events of the next few days?  We were out-manoeuvred and beaten.  I myself took refuge in a wood of mahogany trees, and it was my delight and my privilege to supply the requirements of the British colony in all that they desired.  The result of this was that I and a few personal friends took refuge in a forest in which mahogany trees flourished.  It was in this leafy prison that I supplied the genuine old Armada mahogany “as advertised.”  I would be afraid to say how many places I supplied with wood from the Armada.  I may hint that I know something of the