On that particular Saint Monday I took, not as I had intended, a Railway Excursion to Rural Parts, but, telling MARY—­to her manifest concern—­that I Had Altered my Mind as regarded our Holiday, I betook myself to the “Blue Boar” at the corner, and passed the day in Safety—­and Solitary Smoking!  Next morning, however, I read something in the papers which led me to believe that Railwaydom Aroused meant exorcising and evicting that Sinister Spectre, “regardless of Cost;” and I shall look forward to my next Holiday Outing with a mind Relieved and Reassured.

* * * * *

BLACKFRIARS TO SLOANE SQUARE.

[Illustration]

  The man who got in at Blackfriars
  Was smoking the foulest of briars,
    But it went out all right—­
    Could I give him a light?—­
  Hadn’t got one—­well, all men are liars.

  I’ve frequently noticed the Temple
  Is a place there are not enough rhymes to;
    And that’s why I’ve made
    This verse somewhat blank,
  And rather disregarded the metre.

  How do you pronounce Charing Cross? 
  It’s a point where I’m quite at a loss. 
    Some people, of course,
    Would rhyme it with “horse,”
  But I always rhyme it with “hoss.”

  A woman at Westminster Bridge
  Had got just a speck on the ridge
    Of her Romanesque nose. 
    “It’s a black, I suppose,”
  She observed.  Then it flew—­’twas a midge.

  One man from the Park of St. James,
  Had really the loftiest aims;
    In the hat-rack he sat,
    Used my hair as a mat,
  And when I demurred called me names.

  I bought from the stall at Victoria
  A horrible sixpenny story, a
    Book of a kind
    It pained me to find
  For sale at our English emporia.

  I found when I got to Sloane Square
  That my ticket was gone; my despair
    Was awful to see,
    Till at last to my glee
  I looked in my hat—­it was there!

* * * * *

’ILL-LUMINANTS!

    ["Sir E. WATKIN is about to introduce the Electric Light on
    the summit of Snowdon.”—­Daily Paper.]

Just started up Snowdon by Sir E. WATKIN’s combined Galvano-Electric and Pneumatic Despatch Line, from Llanberis.  Goes nearly to top.  What a blessing!  Saved all the bother of the mount.  Go in tennis-shoes, as I’m told there’s next to no climbing to be done.

Splendid day for view.  Comfortable carriages.  Hullo! what’s this?  Find myself suddenly shot into a mountain tarn.  A Yankee would call it “tarnation cold.”  Get out dripping.  Guard of train explains that “battery must be rather too strong this morning.”  Train put on line again.  Up we go!  Shivery.  If I’d known this sort of thing went on, I’d have brought towels.

At Terminus, three-quarters way up, in a bleak and exposed crag, plastered with advertisements.  Day not quite so glorious.  Fog coming on.  Or is it “Scotch mist?” But what has a Scotch mist to do in Wales?  Ask engine-driver’s opinion.  He has none.  “Then which is the way up?” Doesn’t know. “His way is down.”  Must speak to Sir E.W. about engine-driver.