Mr. Arthur Toller has been appointed to the Recordership of Leicester. He is an able man. "Argal," as the Shakspearian Clown would say, "the appointment is just Toller-able."
MAGNIFYING HIS CALLING.
Peter. "Na, Laddie, this is ane o' thae things a Body can never Learn. There's no nae use in a Man takin' tae this job unless he has a naiteral born Aptitude for 'd!"
THREE MODES OF SPENDING A BANK HOLIDAY.
(By a Confirmed Pessimist.)
Plan the First.—Take to Volunteering. Be up at daybreak. Leave your home after snatching a hasty breakfast of lukewarm tea and stale bread-and-butter. Crowd into a railway-carriage, and travel a hundred miles or so in the greatest discomfort. Fall in with your company. March, counter-march, and stand at ease for ten hours or so in sunshine, rain, fog, or snow. Stave off starvation with a packet of sandwiches and a bottle of ginger ale. Dead beat, enter crowded train a second time, and again travel a hundred miles or so in the greatest discomfort. More dead than alive, stagger home, and wearily roll into bed.
Plan the Second.—Try a trip to the sea-side. Share a first-class compartment with a dozen third-class passengers. Travel to Shrimpington with the accompaniment of rank tobacco-smoke, comic songs, and solos on the concertina. Get to your destination with a splitting headache. Find that all the shops are shut, and all the taverns open. Learn that Shrimpington, as represented by its respectable inhabitants, goes away en masse on a bank holiday. Discover that there is but one hotel in the place. Ascertain that at the solitary hostelry the rooms are filled with noisy excursionists, greedily devouring "the shilling tea." Search for nourishment, and fail in your search. Fall back upon stale buns at a third-rate sweet-stuff shop. Catch your train back, and endure the torture of the morning. Travel amongst the same company, under the like conditions. Reach home hours later than you proposed on starting, and consider whether the holiday has been a triumphant success or a dismal failure.