They said that I had clearly not fought out the economic aspect of the question.  I said that was how my hair was blanched, with trying to fight it out, but that, somehow, it always baffled me.  I added remarks about squaring the circle, but they said it was a good deal easier to square Mr. GLADSTONE.  The friends of Total Prohibition of Vaccination and of Beer were waiting, also a deputation, who wanted subscriptions for a SHELLEY Memorial, Russian Jews, Maxim guns for Missionaries, and other benevolent objects.  I declined to see them, however, and was left to solitude, and to the reflection that I am unfitted for the sphere of active politics.  In this belief the neighbours are now pretty generally agreed, which, as I have no keen ambition to shine in Parliament, is a very fortunate circumstance.

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[Illustration:  A VICTORY OF THE POLLS.

MENTAL COLLAPSE OF AN ELECTION EDITOR AFTER COMPILING STATISTICS DAY
AND NIGHT FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS!]

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LADY GAY’S SELECTIONS.

Mount Street, Grosvenor Square.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

The Race for the Eclipse Stakes at Sandown was productive of tremendous excitement, and everybody turned pale as the two gallant horses came up the straight, locked together, but the key to the situation—­Parliamentary phrase, due to the prevalence of Elections—­was held by the champion Orme, who managed to get home, “all out” by a neck!—­at least, Lord ARTHUR said he was “all out,” though how he could be “home” at the same time I don’t quite understand—­but he may have been alluding to the backers of Orvieto.  I was told that St. Damien “made up a lot of ground at the finish;” but I can’t say I noticed it myself, as the course looked to me exactly as it did before the race!  Dear me! how pleased my friends the Duke and Duchess of WESTMINSTER did look! and with good reason, too—­it was a wonderful task for Orme to accomplish, with only six weeks’ training!—­it must have been a special train all the time; in fact, the one he was brought to Sandown in, I suppose.

Being unable to go to Leicester, I took advantage of a military escort, offered me by—­(no—­let the gallant officer’s name remain a secret—­he little thought he was escorting a Press-lady)—­to pay a visit to the New Wimbledon—­and being nothing if not loyal, I chose the day when the shooting for the “Queen’s” commenced.  My escort informed me with an inane smile, that the Camp had experienced “Bisley weather;” the feebleness of which joke so annoyed me, that I am half inclined to put his name in the pillory of public print—­(what a glorious expression for our own Midlothian Mouther)—­but I refrain, for reasons connected with Lord ARTHUR.