scepticism we felt, for the Colonel proceeded to a corner of the
room, and produced the identical Umbrella. Of course, such a proof
was irresistible, and we were compelled to do penance for our
unbelief by lending the gallant Colonel a sovereign, for "the Bank
was closed." We thought the anecdote cheap at the price.

There is a story told of one of our City bankers, that he owed an
excellent wife to the interposition of an Umbrella. It appears that
on returning home one day in a heavy shower of rain, he found a young
lady standing in his doorway. Politeness induced him to invite her to
take shelter under his roof, and eventually to offer her the loan of
an Umbrella. Of course, the gallant banker called for it the next
day, and the acquaintance thus accidentally made, soon ripened into
mutual affection. This species of Umbrella courtship has been
immortalised in more than one song, none of which, however, are quite
worth quoting.

A worthy little Frenchman of our acquaintance was ordered by his
medical man to take a course of shower-baths. Such things being
unknown to him in his fatherland, he of course found the first essay
remarkably unpleasant, but with native ingenuity he soon discovered a
remedy. On our asking him how he liked the hydropathic system, he
replied, "Oh, mais c'est charmant, mon ami; I always take my
parapluie wid me into de bath."

Douglas Jerrold, in his well-known "Punch's Letters to his Son,"
gives an anecdote of which we can only say, si non _è vero, è ben
trovato_. It at all events illustrates the frightful morality that
exists with regard to borrowing Umbrellas.