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AMENDE HONORABLE.—­In making up the list of outside contributors, Mr. Punch’s Private Secretary regrets having omitted the name of JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD, the friend of the Bloomsburians, and the determined foe of Mud Salad Market and Monopolisers.  “J.H.,” or, to reverse the initials, “HONEST JOHN,” will now be satisfied.

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[Illustration:  “A LONG DISTANCE SWIM.”

W.H.  SM-TH.  “HOORAY!—­ANOTHER STROKE OR TWO, AND WE’VE DONE IT!!”]

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VOCES POPULI.

BANK HOLIDAY.

SCENE—­The Crystal Palace.  The Nave is filled with a dense throng of Pleasure-seekers.  Every free seat commanding the most distant view of a Variety Performance on the Great Stage, has been occupied an hour in advance.  The less punctual stand and enjoy the spectacle of other persons’ hats or bonnets.  Gangs of Male and Female Promenaders jostle and hustle to their hearts’ content, or perform the war-song and dance of the Lower-class ’ARRY, which consists in chanting “Oi tiddly-oi-toi; hoi-toi-oi!” to a double shuffle.  Tired women sit on chairs and look at nothing.  In the Grounds, the fancy of young men and maidens is lightly turning to thoughts of love; the first dawn of the tender passion being intimated, on the part of the youth, by chasing his charmer into a corner and partially throttling her, whereupon the maiden coyly conveys that his sentiments are not unreciprocated by thumping him between the shoulders.  From time to time, two champions contend with fists for the smiles of beauty, who may usually be heard bellowing inconsolably in the background.  A small but increasing per-centage have already had as much liquid refreshment as is good for them, and intend to have more.  Altogether, the scene, if festive, might puzzle an Intelligent Foreigner who is more familiar with Continental ideas of enjoyment.

A Damsel (in a ruby plush hat with a mauve feather).  Why, if they yn’t got that bloomin’ ole statute down from Charin’ Cross!  What’s ’e doin’ of down ’ere, I wonder?

Her Swain (whose feather is only pink and white paper).  Doin’ of?  Tykin’ ‘s d’y orf—­like the rest of us are tykin’ it.

The Damsel (giggling).  You go on—­you don’t green me that w’y—­a statute!

Swain.  Well, ’yn’t this what they call a “Statutory” ’Oliday, eh?

Damsel (in high appreciation of his humour).  I’ll fetch you sech a slap in a minnit!  ’Ere, let’s gow on the Swissback.

Another Damsel (in a peacock-blue hat with orange pompons).  See that nekked young man on the big ’orse, ALF?  It says “Castor” on the stand.  ’Oo was ’e?.

Alf.  Oh, I’d ’now.  I dessay it’ll be ’im as invented the Castor Ile.