Our Mr. GRIFFITHES (CHESTER, MAYHEW, BROOME, AND GRIFFITHES) has been all the way From Bedford Row to Swazieland, and has written a lively narrative of his perilous journey.  He went on a professional retainer.  You don’t catch Bedford Row in Swazieland on other terms.  Being there, he kept his eyes open, saw a good deal, and describes his impressions in racy fashion.  He did not like the coffee served en route, and was disappointed with the Southern Cross; but on the whole enjoyed the trip.  One would naturally expect that the price of his book would be six-and-eight-pence, or, regarding it in the form of a letter, three-and-fourpence, but BRADBURY, AGNEW, & Co. issue it at a shilling.

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.

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[Illustration:  WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

Our Artist.  “WELL, HOW DO YOU LIKE THE PORTRAITS, MISS BUNNY?  THE SITTERS ARE ALL OLD FRIENDS OF YOURS, I BELIEVE?”

Miss Bunny (triumphantly).  “YES; AND, ONLY THINK, I’VE ACTUALLY MANAGED TO GUESS THEM ALL!”]

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ARBITRATION.

    Seal, suddenly emerging, loquitur:—­

  Belay, you two lubbers, avast there! avast there! 
    What signifies squalling and squabbling? 
  You’re both argufying a good bit too fast there,
    Whilst that which you stand on seems wobbling. 
  You’ll be in a mess, Messmates, shortly, the pair of you. 
    Give me a thought in the matter!
  My interest’s at stake, and it isn’t quite fair of you
    Me to ignore ’midst your clatter.

  If ’twere not for me, Mates, this cold Behring’s Sea, Mates,
    Would hardly strike you as so tempting. 
  Do grant your poor prey, if I may make so free, Mates,
    From slaughter some annual exempting! 
  I’m worried and walloped without intermission
    Until even family duties
  Quite fail, whilst your countrymen cudgel and fish on. 
    By Jingo, some of ’em are beauties!

  My poor wife and children have not half a chance, Mates. 
    That’s not to your interest, I reckon. 
  Cease shindy, and on a new course make advance, Mates,
    Where sense and humanity beckon. 
  There’s not much of either in cruelly clubbing
    My progeny all out of season;
  And if you are bent upon mutual drubbing,
    You must quite have parted with reason.

  Mare clausum, be blowed!  That’s all BLAINE’s big bow-wow, Mates. 
    Men can’t thus monopolise oceans. 
  Diplomacy must find a compromise now, Mates,
    And, well—­I have told you my notions. 
  Give me a close-time,—­I shall be very grateful—­
    And leave the Sea open!  What more, Mates? 
  For brothers like you to be huffing, is hateful. 
    Be friends, think of me, and—­bong swor, Mates!