Punch, or the London Charivari

Much may be said too for a seat in a first-class railway carriage, when you have the compartment all to yourself and the train is going at sixty miles an hour or more. But England is hardly spacious enough for a really sustained inspiration; and the result of being turned out suddenly at Thurso, N.B., or Penzance is that some opening flower of the human intellect fails to achieve its perfect bloom, and as likely as not your golf clubs are left in the rack.

There is also, of course, an influential school which believes strongly in the early morning tea hour, and people who ought to know tell me that Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL plans new uniforms for the Guards as well as the campaign in Mesopotamia with pink pyjamas on, and that the PRIME MINISTER can never be persuaded to get up for breakfast until he has hit on a few of those striking repartees which are subsequently translated by his posse of interpreters into Russian, Italian, Bohemian and Erse.

For my par