beat all my xperience in that line.

I didn't see much of the race, I didn't, for as it pored in torrents
all the time, I had to seek for a shelter, and under a omnibus is not
a werry favrabel place to get a good view of a horse-race, but ewery
body seemed to speak of it as a werry common one, whatever that may
mean. However we was hamply reckompensed by the most wunderful site as
praps was hever seen in the shape of humberellers. Heverybody had one,
and heverybody put it hup, so, as my better harf poetically expressed
it, it was xacly like a most butiful field of henormous mushrooms a
hopening out theirselves to the morning hair!

We was remarkably fortnate in cumming back, as it didn't rain near so
much as it did in the morning, and quite left off jest as we got home.
My sweet darling didn't grumbel a bit at me for giving her such a
reglar damper for her birthday, but the werry larst thing as she did
say that night was, "Thank you, ROBERT dear, for your little holliday,
but I think that we won't spend my next buthday at the Darby!"

ROBERT.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE SERGEANT-AT-ARMS' DREAM OF THE BAR OF THE HOUSE OF
COMMONS.

(_If Delegates from everywhere are allowed to appear there, and air
their grievances._)]

* * * * *

THE COLISEUM--AT CHICAGO!

(_IMITATED--AT A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE--FROM_ E.A. POE.)

["It is stated that a Syndicate of American Capitalists has
been formed with the object of purchasing the remains of the
Coliseum at Rome, and transporting them to Chicago."]

"_BARTERED_ TO MAKE A _YANKEE_ HOLIDAY."

I.

Type of wolf-nurtured Rome! Rich reliquary
Of splendour (and of slaughter) left to Time,
By centuries of ante-Yankee pomp!
At length--at length--after so many days,
Of ruined majesty, and rotting pride
(Pride which Chicago will transmute to dollars),
There is a chance for you, a right smart chance,
Of turning to some profitable end
Thy size, thine age, thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

II.

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
Where are ye now? POE said _he_ felt your strength,
But POE was but a poet. Better far
Be turned to "bizness" in a dime Museum,
Or trotted out, for cents, at the World's Fair
Than rot away beneath Rome's ruddy stars!

III.

Here a smart Syndicate shall set you up,
Here, where we slaught