E somehow turn the dinner conversation upon some peculiar way of cultivating mangel. PENDELL looks at Old RUDDOCK, and, alluding to the last speaker's remark, whatever it was, says, "Aha! that isn't the way we grow mangel in the South, is it, MR. RUDDOCK?" and therewith gives Old RUDDOCK such a humorous look, as if they had, between them, several good jokes about mangel, which, when told by Old RUDDOCK, would set the table in a roar.

I turn towards him with a propitiatory smile, as much as to say, "You see I'm ready for any of your funny stories." Old RUDDOCK glances up at me from his plate (he hasn't looked up much since the beginning of dinner), and replies, gravely and simply, "No." Whereat PENDELL almost roars with laughter, and nods at me knowingly, as if asking if RUDDOCK isn't a character. He may be. Perhaps it requires the wine to draw him out, but he hasn't, as yet, said anything funny or witty; in fact, he hasn't said anything at all. The conversation, otherwise, is general and well distributed. Topics principally local.

As far as I am concerned, it is not unlike being suddenly given a bass part in a quintette, where the other four know their music off by heart. I speak from experience, remembering how, in the instance alluded to, I came in wherever I could, with very remarkable effect, and generally at least an octave too low, leaving off with the feeling that if we had been encored (of which there wasn't, under the circumstances, the slightest possible chance), I should have come out very strong, and quite in tune. As it was, I had first to find my voice, which seemed to have gone down like the mercury in a barometer on a cold day, and having succeeded in producing it, I had then to issue it in notes.

During dinner I am frequently brought into the conversation, apologetically, and appealed to out of politeness, as "probably not taking much interest in these matters."

The matters in question are usually something vexatious with regard to paupers, a political question deeply mixed up with the existence of the Yeomanry, the state of the roads in the next district, the queer temper of a neighbouring clergyman, the difficulty of dealing with Old SOMEBODY at a yestry meeting, the right of some parish authorities to bury somebody who oughtn't, or ought, to have been buried without somebody else's consent; the best mode of making a preserve, a difference of opinion as to varieties of cider, the probabilities of a marriage between TRE-SOMEONE of Tre-somewhere with POL-SOMEBODY of Pol-something else, and so forth. On consideration, I am interested. For, to a reflective mind, is not all this the interior mechanism of the Great British Constitution? Of course. The only thing that Old RUDDOCK says the whole time, is that he wouldn't keep Cochin China fowls even if they were given him. "Wouldn't you?" exclaims PENDELL, looking slily at me and beginning to laugh, evidently in anticipation of some capital story, or a witticism from RUDDOCK. No, not another word. He is, it strikes me, reserving himself. I turn to my partner, and try to interest her in Ramsgate, Torquay, the Turkish bath, London and

Paris news. She doesn't like Torquay, has never been to Ramsgate, and from what she has heard of it thinks it must be vulgar (to which I return, "O, dear no," but haven't got any proof that it isn't. I find out that she goes every season to London, and knows more about operas than I do, and finally was brought up in Paris, and generally stops there for a month yearly with her Aunt, so that I am unable to give her any information on my special subjects, and as she clearly wants to listen to some story which TREGONY of Tregivel, on the other side of her, is telling, I feel that I'd better continue my dinner silently, or draw RUDDOCK out. I try it, but RUDDOCK Won't come out.

Dessert.-TREGONY of Tregivel does come out genially, without the process of drawing. He has some capital Cornish stories, with an inimitable imitation of Cornish dialect.

Flash.-While he is telling a rather long anecdote to think of something good and new to cap it. Why not something with (also) an imitation of dialect, or brogue. I've got a very good thing about a Scotchman, but can't remember it in time.

Odd how stories slip away from you just at the moment you especially want to remember them. During a pause in the conversation I remember my story, and secure attention for it by suddenly asking PENDELL (which startles him) if "he's ever heard, &c., and of course he, politely, hasn't. Odd. Somehow, this evening I can't recall the Scotch accent. I try a long speech (not usually belonging to the story) in Scotch, so as to work myself up to it, but, somehow or other, it will run into Irish. My story, therefore, takes somewhat this form. I say, "Then the Scotchman called out, Och, bedad 'I mean, Ye dinna ken""-and so forth. Result, failure. But might tell it later, when I'm really in the humour, which I evidently am not now, and yet I thought I was.

Old RUDDOCK begins to come out, not as a raconteur, but as an interrupter, which is a new phase of character.

For example, TREGONY commences one of his best Cornish stories, to which we are all listening attentively, something about an uncle and a nephew, and a cart.

"They went," says TREGONY, "to buy a cart"

"Getting what?" asks Old RUDDOCK. Everybody annoyed, and two persons besides myself repeat the word "dark" to him.

With these interruptions, and the consequent necessity of making it all quite clear, specially when it comes to TREGONY imitating the conversation between Uncle and Nephew, in two voices, when Old RUDDOCK perpetually wants to know "Who said that," and so puzzles TREGONY that sometimes he makes the Uncle take the Nephew's voice, and vice versa, and the story is getting into difficulties, when the servant enters with a message to our Host from MRS. PENDELL, which brings us to our feet, and into the drawingroom, TREGONY promising me the story quietly in a corner.

The other ladies have come. We all try to enter the drawingroom carelessly, as if the ladies weren't there, or as if we'd been engaged in some fearful conspiracy in the next room, and were hiding our consciousness of guilt under a mask of frivolity. MISS BODD, of Popthlanack, is alone at a table, turning over the pages of a photographic album. I join her.

Careful Flash.-Take care never to offer an opinion on photographic or any other sort of portraits, unless you're quite sure of your ground.

I remark generally that I don't care about photographic portraits. Before MISS BODD can answer, I hear a rustle behind me, and a voice asks simply, "Why?"

Good gracious! It is-MISS STRAITHMERE! She is staying with the CLETHERS ["MR. CLETHER is here," PENDELL tells me. He's written a work on the Moon. Quite a character"], and as the REV. MR. CLETHER is the Rector of Penwiffle, she is not a mile from the house, and will be here every day.

Singing and playing. MISS STRAITHMERE asks me, "Why I'm so serious? Will I tell her? Do. Why?"

I expect RUDDOCK to sing. He doesn't. MR. CLETHER is talking

to him. I join them. I am anxious to hear what MR. CLETHER's view of the Moon is. He replies, "O, nothing particular."

"But," I urge, RUDDOCK listening, "You have made a study of astronomy, and in these days"-I slip at this moment, because I don't know exactly what I was going to say; but I rather fancy it was that these days the moon isn't what it was."

In

MR. CLETHER modestly repudiates knowing more about the moon than other people, and says that PENDELL is right about his having written a book, but he has never published it.

"Why?" asks MISS STRAITHMERE, joining us.

Carriages. Thank goodness!

I accompany RUDDOCK to the door. He has a gig, and a lantern, like a Guy Fawkes out for an airing.

I am still expecting a witticism, or rather a feu de joie of humour and fun, like the last grand bouquet of fireworks that terminates the show at the Crystal Palace.

PENDELL (who I believe is still drawing. him out) says to him, "You'll have a fine night for your drive," then looks at me and laughs, as much as to say, "Now you'll hear him, now it's coming. He's shy before a party, but now

RUDDOCK replies, from above, in his gig, "Yes, so it seems. Good-bye."

And away goes the vehicle, turns the corner, and disappears from view in the

avenue.

PENDELL chuckles to himself. "Quite a character," I hear him murmuring. Then, after a short laugh, he exclaims almost fondly, "Old RUDDOCK! ha! ha! Rum old fellow."

And so we go in. And this has been the long-expected "Nicht wi' RUDDOCK." He hasn't said twenty words. Certainly not one worth hearing. Yet PENDELL seems perfectly satisfied with him, and years hence, I dare say, this occasion will be recounted as a night when Old RUDDOCK Was at his best. After this, how about SHERIDAN?

Next morning.-My friend, MISS STRAITHMERE, is coming at two o'clock. I find that I can leave, via Launceston, at eleven. I am not well. I can't help it. I begin to consider, is it my nature to be ill ? No, I must go up to town, and consult my Doctor.

Adieu, Penwiffle. If I stopped, I feel that in the wilds of Cornwall, out at Tintagel or at Land's End, or in a slate quarry, or down a mine, I should..... .. Well, I don't know but I should have to answer the question, "Why?"

My present idea is to live in London, about two miles from the British Museum. Then I can walk there every morning, and work in the library at my Analytical History of Motion.

If the Doctor agrees with me, and if this plan agrees with me, I shall continue it; if not, I must take to boxing, gymnastics, or other violent exercise.

The Doctor does agree with me. He advises me to try my own prescription. In a week's time to call on him again, and go on calling on him regularly every Monday. I have taken lodgings three doors from my Doctor's house. I shall make no further notes, unless, at some future time, I commence a history of a British Constitution (my own). And so, for the present, I conclude, with a quotation from SHAKSPEARE, who was, among other things, evidently a valetudínarian, and finish these papers by saying, "The tenor of them doth but signify" "My Health." Two Gent. of Verona. Act iii. sc. 1.

FOR

"ON THE TOP OF THE HILL, TOO!"

"MY TIRESOME HAT! So KIND OF YOU, MR. MUGGLES! YOU DON'T MIND WAITING ME, DO YOU?"

[Don't he, though! He minds very much. Feels very foolish, and dreads being chaffedparticularly by some of those fellows below!

IN THE TEMPLE.

LORD DERBY has made a political speech of a very sensible character-"that goes without to say " in his case. He tells the Conservatives that they are to be neither apathetic nor precipitate, that they are to play a waiting game-the World to him who can Wait -and, meantime, they are to support MR. GLADSTONE against the extreme men on his own side. And, said the Earl, "political life is not to be looked at as if it were a soaped pole, with £5,000 a year, and lots of patronage at the top." The sentiment is lofty and honourable. But," said to Mr. Punch a rising lawyer, who intends to rise a good deal higher, "the deuce of it is that LORD DERBY talks from the top of a golden Pyramid about soaped poles. Hang it! I'm like Becky Sharp-I should find it precious easy to be patriotic with fifty thousand a year. If I didn't feel I could manage the nation for the best (though of course I could), confound it! I'd myself engage the best Premier that money could secure, and serve the country that way. But blow it, as it is, and HENRIETTA's governor refusing to hear of me until I'm in Parliament, you see, old cuss-" "Virtue alone is happiness below," replied Mr. Punch severely, as he went away to get some oysters at PROSSER'S.

NOTE BY A FOREIGNER.-On England's possessions the sun never sets. True; and on one of them, London, the sun never rises.

SAT UPON.

Hospitable Host. "DOES ANY GENTLEMAN SAY PUDDEN ?" Precise Guest. "No, SIR. No GENTLEMAN SAYS PUDDEN."

"IF!"

(A Channel Sketch.)

'TOTHER day I steamed from Dover

To Boulogne-sur-Mer :

We'd bad weather crossing over :

Very sick we were.

Busy, Steward's-Mate and Steward"Basins!" was the cry:

Ocean heaved, because it blew hard; Heaved, and so did I.

In the intervals of basin

Blessed dreams were mine:
FOWLER was from Ocean 'rasin'
Every ill-ruled line.

Over Neptune's worst commotion
Holding despot's state,
He not only ruled the Ocean,
But he ruled it straight!
Steady, sea ne'er so ugly,
Did his craft behave;
Passengers, carriaged snugly,
Sweeping o'er the wave!

Not a soul from out his cushions
Moved, the passage through;
Padded soft against concussions,
And spring-seated, too!
O, it was a blessed vision!
Blessed all the more
For that awful exhibition
Betwixt shore and shore.

A BURIED ARMY.

THE Leeds Mercury is such an excellent paper, that Punch takes from it anything as unhesitatingly as (to use LORD LYTTON's illustration) one takes change from an honest tradesman, without looking at or counting the coins. That journal said, the other day

"There was a demonstration at Lausanne yesterday, in memory of the soldiers belonging to GENERAL BOURBAKI's army who died in Switzerland, after being interred there last year."

We cannot see why there should have been a demonstration; at least, if it was a demonstration of wonder, the wonder would have been if the soldiers had survived their interment. It was Antaeus, if we recollect aright, whose strength was renewed when he came in contact with the Earth, but he never went under it, at least not until Alcides had done with and for him. But is France aware that this is the way in which one of her armies was got rid of? Is this the boasted hospitality of Switzerland ?

THE RAINBOW may be accurately described as the real NOAH'S Arc.