May make thee Cup-less, pretty Yankee!
But let the ships have "elbow" space
Or else we'll have to say, "No, thank'ee."
Gil Blas-é.—Charles Lamb declared the human species to be divided into two distinct races, the men who borrow and the men who lend, of which he considered the former to be infinitely superior to the latter, and consequently designated them the "Great Race." Now, undoubtedly the great race in Paris at present is the female race, the race of lady bicyclists who, not content with borrowing men's hearts, have appropriated the masculine garment as well. The enterprising Gil Blas newspaper recently "brought off" a novelty in the way of Courses à bicyclettes for opera dancers, which took place with great éclat in the Bois de Boulogne. The fair terpsichoreans, from "prima ballerina assoluta, who is famous from St. Petersburg to Utah," to the humblest rat, or ballet-girl, assembled in force, and, with "light fantastic toe" and "twinkling foot" pressing the treadles of their willing machines, keenly contested the various events, to the huge delight of a concourse of frivolous boulevardiers. After the morning's sport the chic Bicycli-ennes were entertained at an elegant déjeuner, the menu of which, compiled by an Anglo-Parisian gourmet, comprised among its appetising items a new dish, to wit, Œufs Cocottes à "l' Wheel."
ROUNDABOUT READINGS.
Relieved for a space by my own decree from the mere labour of searching for topics in the newspaper press of the United Kingdom, I have been seeking recreation in the pursuit, how often unavailing, of the partridge. "Come down on Thursday next," wrote my friend, Hartey, "for four or five days. We are going to shoot our outsides." This was sufficiently alarming, but it was obviously better than shooting our insides, and accordingly on the appointed day the county of Norfolk received me.
Would that it were sufficient on these occasions merely to arouse the primitive sporting instinct of man, to revert to the fringe of barbarism and to sally out, scantily clothed, with sling or bow or snare, in quest of game. But alas, the curse of civilisation cannot be got rid of; one has to think of cartridges, cartridge-bags, caps, boots, gaiters, stockings, and heaven knows what besides. And in the end the odds are quite ten to one that you forget your cartridge-magazine, or that your beautiful new pair of patent hammerless ejector guns get left under the seat of the railway-carriage and become for a day or two the sport of station-masters and porters on the Great Eastern Railway.