Epigram on the above.
This name’s the best that could
be given,
As will by proof be quickly
seen;
For, “dropping from the clouds of
Heaven,”
She was, of course, the raining
Queen.
* * * * *
CAUTION TO SPORTSMEN.
Our gallant friend Sibthorp backed himself on the 1st of September to bag a hundred leverets in the course of the day. He lost, of course; and upon being questioned as to his reason for making so preposterous a bet, he confessed that he had been induced to do so by the specious promise of an advertisement, in which somebody professed to have discovered “a powder for the removal of superfluous hairs.”
* * * * *
OUT OF SEASON.
A LYRIC, BY THE LAST MAN—IN TOWN.
Chaos returns! no soul’s in town!
And darkness reigns where
lamps once brightened;
Shutters are closed, and blinds drawn
down—
Untrodden door-steps go unwhitened!
The echoes of some straggler’s boots
Alone are on the pavement
ringing
While ’prentice boys, who smoke
cheroots,
Stand critics to some broom-girl’s
singing.
I went to call on Madame Sims,
In a dark street, not far
from Drury;
An Irish crone half-oped the door.
Whose head might represent
a fury.
“At home, sir?” “No!
(whisper)—but I’ll presume
To tell the truth, or know
the raison.
She dines—tays—lives—in
the back room,
Bekase ’tis not the
London saison.”
From thence I went to Lady Bloom’s,
Where, after sundry rings
and knocking,
A yawning, liveried lad appear’d,
His squalid face his gay clothes
mocking
I asked him, in a faltering tone—
The house was closed—I
guess’d the reason—
“Is Lady B.’s grand-aunt,
then, gone?”—
“To Ramsgate, sir!—until
next season!”
I sauntered on to Harry Gray’s,
The ennui of my heart
to lighten;
His landlady, with, smirk and smile,
Said, “he had just run
down to Brighton.”
When home I turned my steps, at last,
A tailor—whom to
kick were treason—
Pressed for his bill;—I hurried
past,
Politely saying—CALL
NEXT SEASON!
* * * * *
THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK.
We concluded our last article with a brief dissertation on the cut of the trousers; we will now proceed to the consideration of coats.
“The hour must come when such things must be made.”
For this quotation we are indebted to
[Illustration: THE POET’S PAGE.]
There are three kinds of coats—the body, the surtout, and the great.