The subtle Chief thus aided in the press
  By an ally so stalwart, turned and rent
  The flag he fought for, and the valour spent
  In its defence by thee, was wasted all. 
  Yet ’twas a sight when, back against the wall,
  White-headed BOB would wield that flashing blade,
  That BRIGHT scarce parried, and that GLADSTONE stayed
  Only with utmost effort. 
            Yes, ’twill live
  In record, that fierce fight, and radiance give
  Through Time’s dense mist, when lesser stars grow dim,
  And though the untimely ermine silenced him,
  The clear and caustic critic, though no more,
  That rhetoric, like the Greek’s, now “fulmined o’er”
  Democracy’s low flats, but silent sank
  In those dull precincts dedicate to Rank;
  Still its remembered echoes shall resound,
  For he with honour, if not love, was crowned,
  Whom those he served, and “slated,” like to know,
  Less as Lord SHERBROOKE than as “BOBBY LOWE.”

* * * * *

LADY GAY’S SELECTIONS.

"The Yacht” Jersey.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

You will see par mon adresse that I am encore une fois on my travels!  At present, in fact, the Channel Islands “claim me for their own,” as Lord Marmion says in BULWER LYTTON. Pardonnez-moi, if I occasionally lapse into French, for vraiment il y a such a mixture of tongues that we might almost rename them the Babel Islands—­even my noted Parisian accent is scarcely understood. C’est etonnant! and were it not for EULALIE, I should quelquefois be in a fix agacant.

I told you in my last letter that I should be unable to brighten Goodwood with the sunshine of my smile.  But what is Goodwood compared to racing at Jersey?  Indeed, it was unfortunate for Goodwood that the meetings clashed, and it should be avoided in future.

It has been blowing hard for some few days, and we had rather a rough passage, and though the yacht was not a wreck, I was I am afraid, in spite of the compliment paid me by Mr. SPOOPENDYKE K. SIDNEY, the well-known American Four Millionnaire, who said he thought me “a real smart sailor!”—­and he was very near the truth, too, for the salt water got in my eyes and they did smart; but I resolutely declined to go “below,” and hung on to “the shrouds,” I think they called them—­a most unpleasantly suggestive name, when you are dreading a watery grave every moment.  However, we got to our “moorings” at last (as Othello would call them), and having chartered the inevitable “sharry-bang” started for the course.

By the way, en passant (I have not dropped into French for a long time), what a strange thing it is, that the moment you land at one of these islands you are immediately advised to proceed to another.