May 23.—­Started canvassing yesterday and continued to-day under the charge of Mr. DIKES, one of the Town Councillors.  “Old DICKY DIKES,” the people here always call him.  He’s supposed to be one of the most knowing cards in the whole county.  A man of about sixty-four, with light brown hair, rather curly, a wig, say his detractors, but I can’t make my mind up about it yet, as I haven’t been able to study him closely with his hat off.  His head is large, face a cross between J.L.  TOOLE’s and DIZZY’s without the goatee.  Always wears a frock-coat of best broadcloth, and an immense top-hat.  Has one curiously protruding tooth which fascinates me, and makes my attention wander when he’s telling me his anecdotes.  I keep wondering how it ever got into that strange position—­a sort of dental rocking-stone, weird, solitary, inexplicable.  Everybody knows him, as he represents the St. Mark’s Ward (which we are canvassing) in the Council.  The flourish with which he always introduces me is wonderful.  I might be an Emperor honouring the place with a visit.  But the people take it all as a matter of course, and seem pleased to see us.  They don’t care twopence about real political questions in the back-streets.  They mostly say, “My father was a Blue and his father afore ’im, and I’ve bin a Blue all my life, and I ain’t a goin’ to change my colour now.  You’re all right, Sir; you’ve no call to bother about me.  I wish you success.”  They don’t mind being asked any amount of questions as to where they lived before, how long they’ve been in their present houses, and so on.  It’s all a kind of entertainment to them.  Here and there, of course, you come on a keen politician, who really understands.  I hear CHORKLE’s dinner to-morrow is to be a grand affair.

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[Illustration:  ANCIENT EXAMPLE OF FEMALE MASHER.

A TYRE AND SIDON GIRL.

(Attire and Side on Girl.)]

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ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA!

(FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT AT THE AGRICULTURAL HALL.)

Need I say that I felt greatly gratified at finding myself attached to the Victorian Volunteers.  I had been present with them in spirit at the banquets which had greeted their arrival to the Mother Country, and now I was to have the advantage of actually appearing bodily in their campaign at Islington.  I knew the battle-field well.  In years gone by I had seen many a Balaclava melee, many a slicing of the lemon, many a securing of the tent-peg.  Nay, further, I had assisted many a time at “the combined display,” when, before a huge audience, a presentment of war was produced, as unlike the real thing as anything well could be.  But, to return to the Victorians.  As they appeared in their neat uniforms, which included slouch hats, the hearts of a noble people (represented by occupants of places from ten shillings downwards) went out to them, and they were greeted with a mighty shout.  The English race recognised the service that was being done.  The Mother thanked her Child.  Over the stormy sea had come the soldiers of the Southern Cross to tell any Britons still remaining in played-out Europe how war should be waged; how battles should be won.