Horribly stuffed with epithets of war;
And, in conclusion,
Nonsuits my meditators; for, "Certes," says he,
"I have already chose my officer." And who was he?
Forsooth, a great Arithmetician.
* * * * *
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows
More than a spinster; unless the bookish theorick,
Wherein the toged Consul can propose
As masterly as he; mere prattle, without practice,
Is all his soldiership.
_But, Sir, he had the Election!_

* * * * *

A RESULT OF BEING HOSPITABLE.

SCENE--_Small, but Fashionable Club in West-End._

_Algy._ Waiter! bring me a brandy-and-soda. Don't feel up to the
average to-day.

_Hughie._ Late last night?

_Algy._ Yes. Went to Mrs. CRAMMERLY's Dance, Prince's Gate. Goodness
knows _why_ I went! I don't think they'll get me there again in a
hurry.

_Charlie_ (_waking up from arm-chair_). Were _you_ a victim too? I