Scene—The Crystal Palace. The Nave is filled with a dense throng of Pleasure-seekers. Every free seat commanding the most distant view of a Variety Performance on the Great Stage has been occupied an hour in advance. The less punctual stand and enjoy the spectacle of other persons' hats or bonnets. Gangs of Male and Female Promenaders jostle and hustle to their hearts' content, or perform the war-song and dance of the Lower-class 'Arry, which consists in chanting "Oi tiddly-oi-toi; hoi-toi-oi!" to a double shuffle. Tired women sit on chairs and look at nothing. In the Grounds, the fancy of young men and maidens is lightly turning to thoughts of love; the first dawn of the tender passion being intimated, on the part of the youth, by chasing his charmer into a corner and partially throttling her, whereupon the maiden coyly conveys that his sentiments are not unreciprocated by thumping him between the shoulders. From time to time, two champions contend with fists for the smiles of beauty, who may usually be heard bellowing with perfect impartiality in the background. A small but increasing percentage have already had as much liquid refreshment as is good for them, and intend to have more. Altogether, the scene, if festive, might puzzle an Intelligent Foreigner who is more familiar with Continental ideas of enjoyment.

A Damsel (in a ruby plush hat with a mauve feather). Why, if they yn't got that bloomin' ole statute down from Charin' Cross! What's 'e doin' of down 'ere, I wonder?

Her Swain (whose feather is only pink and white paper). Doin' of? Tykin' 'is d'y orf—like the rest of us are tykin' it.

The Damsel (giggling). You go on—you don't green me that w'y—a statute!

Swain. Well, 'yn't this what they call a "Statutory" 'Oliday, eh?

Damsel (in high appreciation of his humour). I'll fetch you sech a slap in a minnit! 'Ere, let's gow on the Swissback.

Another Damsel (in a peacock-blue hat with orange pompons). See that nekked young man on the big 'orse, Alf? It says "Castor" on the stand. 'Oo was 'e?

Alf. Oh, I d' know. I dessay it'll be 'im as invented the Castor Ile.

The Damsel (disgusted). Fancy their puttin' up a monument to 'im!

Superior 'Arry (talking Musichalls to his Adored One). 'Ave you 'eard her sing "Come where the Booze is Cheapest?"

The Adored. Lots o' toimes. I do like 'er singing. She mykes sech comical soigns—and then the things she sez! But I've 'eard she's very common in her tork, and that—orf the styge.

The S. A. I shouldn't wonder. Some on 'em are that way. You can't 'ave everythink!

His Adored. No, it is a pity, though. 'Spose we go out, and pl'y Kiss in the Ring? [They do.

AMONG THE ETHNOLOGICAL MODELS.

Wife of British Workman (spelling out placard under Hottentot Group). "It is extremely probable that this interesting race will be completely exterminated at no very distant period." Pore things!

British Workman (with philosophy). Well, I sha'n't go inter mournin' for 'em, Sairer!

Lambeth Larrikin (in a pasteboard "pickelhaube," and a false nose, thoughtfully, to Battersea Bill, who is wearing an old grey chimney-pot hat, with the brim uppermost, and a tow wig, as they contemplate a party of Botocudo natives). Rum the sights these 'ere savidges make o' theirselves, ain't it, Bill?

Batt. Bill (more thoughtfully). Yer right—but I dessay if you and me 'ad been born among that lot, we shouldn't care 'ow we looked!

Vauxhall Voilet (who has exchanged headgear with Chelsea Chorley—with dismal results). They are cures, those blackies! Why, yer carn't 'ardly tell the men from the wimmin! I expect this lot'll be 'aving a beanfeast. See, they're plyin' their myusic.

Chelsea Chorley. Good job we can't 'ear 'em. They say as niggers' music is somethink downright horful. Give us "Hi-tiddly-hi" on that mouth-orgin o' yours, will yer?

[Vauxhall Voilet obliges on that instrument; every one in the neighbourhood begins to jig mechanically; exeunt party, dancing.

A Pimply Youth. "Hopium-eater from Java." That's the stuff they gits as stoopid as biled howls on—it's about time we went and did another beer. [They retire for that purpose.

DURING THE FIREWORKS.

Chorus of Spectators. There's another lot o' bloomin' rockets gowin orf! Oo-oo, 'ynt that lur-uvly? What a lark if the sticks come down on somebody's 'ed! There, didyer see 'em bust? Puts me in mind of a shower o' foiry smuts. Lor, so they do—what a fancy you do 'ave. &c., &c.

COMING HOME.

An Old Gentleman (who has come out with the object of observing Bank Holiday manners—which he has done from a respectful distance—to his friend, as they settle down in an empty first-class compartment). There, now we shall just get comfortably off before the crush begins. Now, to me, y'know, this has been a most interesting and gratifying experience—wonderful spectacle, all that immense crowd, enjoying itself in its own way—boisterously, perhaps, but, on the whole, with marvellous decorum! Really, very exhilarating to see—but you don't agree with me?

His Friend (reluctantly). Well, I must say it struck me as rather pathetic than——

The O. G. (testily). Pathetic, Sir—nonsense! I like to see people putting their heart into it, whether it's play or work. Give me a crowd——

[As if in answer to this prayer, there is a sudden irruption of typical Bank Holiday-makers into the compartment.

Man by the Window. Third-class as good as fust, these days! Why, if there ain't ole Fred! Wayo, Fred, tumble in, ole son—room for one more standin'!

["Ole Fred" plays himself in with a triumphal blast on a tin trumpet, after which he playfully hammers the roof with his stick, as he leans against the door.

Ole Fred. Where's my blanky friend? I 'it 'im one on the jaw, and I ain't seen 'im since! (Sings, sentimentally, at the top of a naturally powerful voice.) "Comrides, Comrides! Hever since we was boys! Sharin' each other's sorrers. Sharin' each hother's—beer!"

[A "paraprosdokian," which delights him to the point of repetition.

The O. G. Might I ask you to make a little less disturbance there, Sir? [Whimpers from over-tired children.

Ole Fred (roaring). "I'm jolly as a Sandboy, I'm 'appy as a king! No matter what I see or 'ear, I larf at heverything! I'm the morril of my moth-ar, (to O. G.) the himage of your Par! And heverythink I see or 'ear, it makes me larf 'Ar-har!'"

[He laughs "Ar-har," after which he gives a piercing blast upon the trumpet, with stick obbligato on the roof.

The O. G. (roused). I really must beg you not to be such an infernal nuisance! There are women and children here who——

Ole Fred. Shet up, old umbereller whiskers! (Screams of laughter from women and children, which encourage him to sing again.) "An' the roof is copper-bottomed, but the chimlies are of gold. In my double-breasted mansion in the Strand!" (To people on platform, as train stops.) Come in, oh, lor, do! "Oi-tiddly-oi-toi! hoi-toi-oy!"

[The rest take up the refrain—"'Ave a drink an' wet your eye," &c. and beat time with their boots.

The O. G. If this abominable noise goes on, I shall call the guard—disgraceful, coming in drunk like this!

The Man by the Window. 'Ere, dry up, Guv'nor—'e ain't 'ad enough to urt 'im, 'e ain't!

Chorus of Females (to O. G.). An' Bank 'Oliday, too—you orter to be ashimed o' yerself, you ought! 'E's as right as right, if you on'y let him alone!

Ole Fred (to O. G.). Ga-arn, yer pore-'arted ole choiner boy! (sings dismally), "Ow! for the vanished Spring-toime! Ow! for the dyes gorn boy! Ow! for the"—(changing the melody)—"'omeless, I wander in lonely distress. No one ter pity me—none ter caress!" (Here he sheds tears, overcome by his own pathos, but presently cheers up.) "I dornce all noight! An' I rowl 'ome toight! I'm a rare-un at a rollick, or I'm ready fur a foight." Any man 'ere wanter foight me? Don't say no, ole Frecklefoot! (To the O. G., who perspires freely.) "Oh, I am enj'yin' myself!"

[He keeps up this agreeable rattle, without intermission, for the remainder of the journey, which—as the train stops everywhere, and takes quite three-quarters of an hour in getting from Queen's Road, Battersea, to Victoria—affords a signal proof of his social resources, if it somewhat modifies the O. G.'S enthusiasm for the artless gaiety of a Bank Holiday.