* * * * *

Mr. GLADSTONE has backed himself to walk a mile, talk a mile, write a mile, review a mile, disestablish a mile, chop a mile and hop a mile in one hour.  Sporting circles are much interested in the veteran statesman’s undertaking, and little else is talked about at the chief West End resorts.  The general opinion of those who ought to know seems to be in favour of the scythe-bearer, but not a few have invested a pound or two on the Mid-Lothian Marvel.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  TRUE LITERARY EXCLUSIVENESS.

“WHAT, MY DEAR REGINALD!  YOU DON’T MEAN TO SAY YOU DON’T ADMIRE BYRON AS A POET?”

“CERTAINLY NOT.  INDEED I HAVE A QUITE SPECIAL LOATHING AND CONTEMPT FOR HIM IN THAT PARTICULAR CHARACTAH!”

“DEAR ME!  WHY, WHAT PARTICULAR POEMS OF HIS DO YOU OBJECT TO SO STRONGLY?”

“MY DEAH GRANDMOTHAH, I NEVAH READ A LINE OF BYRON IN MY LIFE,—­AND I CERTAINLY NEVAH MEAN TO!”]

* * * * *

TRYING IT ON.

["The natural result of a rapprochement between Russia and Italy, even if avowedly platonic in its character, would be to weaken the prestige and moral force of the Triple Alliance.”—­The Times.]

Mr. Bruin loquitur:—­

  Pst! Hang it, quite au mieux! Now what am I to do? 
    I must draw her attention, if I’m going to have a chance. 
  She seems so satisfied with those gallants at her side
    That just now in my direction she will hardly deign a glance.
      Pst! Darling, just a word! 
  No!  Deaf as any post!  It is perfectly absurd!

  Pst! Heeds me not the least, just as though I were the Beast,
    And she the sovereign Beauty that she deems she is, no doubt. 
  Since she won those burly beaux, it appears to be no go,
    But Bruin’s an old Masher, and he knows what he’s about.
      Pst! Darling, look this way! 
  In your pretty little ear I’ve a word or two to say!

  The coy Gallic girl I’ve won.  It is really awful fun,
    For her prejudice was strong as was that of Lady ANNE
  To the ugly crookback, DICK.  But my wooing there was quick. 
    Platonic?  Oh! of course.  That is always Bruin’s plan. 
      A flirtation means no harm,
  When you wish not to corrupt or betray, but simply charm.

  Fancy Italian girl won by the swagger twirl
    Of an Austrian moustache!  It is monstrous, nothing less. 
  What would GARIBALDI say?  Well, he doesn’t live to-day,
    Or he’d tear her from the arm of her ancient foe, I guess. 
      And that stalwart Teuton too! 
  Do you really think, my girl, he can really care for you?

  Ah! you always were a flirt, Miss ITALIA.  You have hurt
    France’s feelings very much.  Why, she stood your faithful friend
  When the hated Austrian yoke bowed your neck.  Did you invoke
    The pompous Prussian then your captivity to end?
      Pst! Just a moment, dear. 
  I’ve a word or two to say it were worth your while to hear.