turning them to account. Hence his alacrity in suggesting a lecture.

As for the Town Band, it was started last autumn with a view to
rendering our little town more attractive than ever to summer
visitors. The bandsmen have practised sedulously through the winter,
and are making great strides; but--if fault must be found--I am sorry
that our bandmaster, Mr. Patrick Sullivan (an Irishman), left the
purchase and selection of the music to his brother, who lives in
London and plays the piccolo at one of the music-halls. The result--
but you shall hear.

Punctually at 3.30 p.m. last Wednesday, Sir Felix drove down to the
Town Hall in his brougham. The body of the Hall was already packed,
and the missionary busy on the platform with his lanterns and white
sheet. Mr. Rabling and an assistant stood ready to close the
shutters and turn up the gas at the proper moment. The band waited
outside; and as Sir Felix alighted, mounted the steps and entered the
hall, bowing to right and left with the air of a real patriarch, the
musicians crashed out the tune of--

They all take after me,
Take whisky in their tea. . . .

Fortunately no one associated the tune with its words. Sir Felix
mounted the platform; and after sipping a little water (such was our
thoroughness that a glassful stood ready for each speaker), began to
introduce the lecturer, whose name he mispronounced. The missionary
was called Stubbs; and by what mnemonic process Sir Felix converted
this into Westmacott I have never been able to guess. However, for
purposes of introduction that afternoon Westmacott he was and