DUE NORTH.

THERE is a Positive Man on board, with a quiet wife and a "pocket telescope." The Positive Man is full of information as to every object of interest on the banks, and is invariably wrong. "That's Rosherville, 'the place to spend a happy day,'" he tells his wife, in a waggish vein, pointing out a pier, some trees and houses. "No, Sir," says a trim-looking fellow-passenger, with an insinuating manner, that's Greenwich. Rosherville is farther down." "Oh-ah-yes," says the Positive Man, as he takes a good look at

Mist again! By an Impressionist.

Greenwich, and then exclaims, as if he now recognised it perfectly, "Of course it is. I meant Greenwich when I said Rosherville." Then, turning to his wife,-"That's Greenwich, where the Chelsea Pensioners are." "" And again he is corrected by the Trim Man, who has in his hand DICKENS'S Dictionary of the Thames, which he invariably consults before volunteering any information. HOBSON, in his kindliest humour, confides to me that he is deeply interested in an elderly Gentleman, evidently travelling alone, who has not spoken to anyone, and is always taking a few hurried steps from one side of the vessel to the other, and nervously examining the banks on both sides through his field-glasses, as though he were expecting a friend from shore to come out in a boat and join him. The friend doesn't come, and the lonely traveller-(there used to be a piece called The Lonely Man of the Ocean. Can this be its hero?)-becomes more and more restless every minute. "It is not easy to distinguish objects along the shore," observes HOBSON, approaching the subject delicately.

The Restless Passenger, still looking anxiously through the fieldglasses, replies slowly,

'No, it isn't. But," he continues, in a plaintive tone, "I can't -see-where-the Royal Albert Docks are ?"

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No?" returns HOBSON, with an air of cheerful surprise, and then, out of sheer good-nature, he begins looking about everywhere for the Royal Albert Docks, with the evident purpose, should he find them, of at once presenting them to the Restless Passenger.

Ah, surely!" exclaims the Restless Man, "those are the Royal Albert Docks"-and he focuses a block of buildings, and the tops of a crowd of masts, which he can just see in the distance. That's Erith," says the Positive Man.

Is it?" says HOBSON, ready to agree with him, for the sake of making things pleasant all round. 'No-that's not Erith," says the Trim Passenger, fresh from a surreptitious dip into his Guide-book, "that's Tilbury Fort."

There's the Arsenal," says the Positive Man, after a short pause. "What Arsenal, dear?" asks his wife.

'Why, Woolwich Arsenal, of course," he answers, with an air of superior knowledge.

No, that's not Woolwich Arsenal," says the Trim Passenger, with a short apologetic cough just to break the intelligence gently to the Positive Man, "that 's Gravesend."

"Gravesend! repeats the Positive Man, scornfully.

"I don't think it can be Woolwich Arsenal, dear," objects his wife, timidly, "or why should 'Rosherville' be written up in large letters?" This is a facer for the Positive Man, who growls out" Umph! Very odd!" and seems by his manner to imply that some one has been tampering with the names of the localities just to spite him personally. Subsequently regaining confidence, from the fact that, in the absence of the man with the Guide-book, on two occasions his statements have passed unchallenged, he points out Limestone Works as the Royal Albert Docks, and is immediately contradicted by a chorus of bystanders, who, unfortunately for him, see "Limestone Works" as clearly written up as his wife had previously seen "Rosher

With the laudable desire of diverting the Restless Man from his monomania about the Albert Docks, HOBSON remarks, with an air of lively interest, "Where are the great Sewage Works? I don't see them."

'Your nose will be of more use to you than your eyes when you come within two miles of them," drily observes a little withered-up, wiry man, like an elderly Scotch terrier. The ladies eye the last speaker with a look of intense disgust, and the little wiry man's observation would be passed over in pitying silence by the company generally, as if they forgave him this once, and wouldn't say anything about it if he didn't do it again, but for the youthful leader of the 'Arries, in grey flannel shirt with sham collars and cuffs, who comes out with a loud laugh, which is immediately echoed by his admiring companions, and exclaims,— larly, Yes, that was rather thick."

Yes, that was rather thick."

It is the first time I've come across the word "thick." It bothers me. I don't see its immediate application.

The little old wiry Scotch-terrier man evidently understands what "thick" means, as he takes it in a complimentary sense, and forthwith fraternises with 'ARRY and his band.

"Come and 'ave some lotion, old man," says 'ARRY the First, patronisingly, to his new acquaintance, who must be forty years his senior. The sun-dried old chip of a very old block, with wiry iron-grey hair, replies that "he doesn't mind if he does take a lotion." Whereupon, all the 'Arry band shout with laughter, and their leader declares openly that in his opinion the little withered-up old man is " a thick 'un-a regular thick 'un"; and "this is the verdict of them all," as following their foreman, the jury of 'Arries descend the companion, and disappear with their new acquaintance. "Dinner at two," says the Steward, "when we're off Southend. You can have anything now, if you like, Sir?" Ominous question. Now-or never? No; I'll wait till two, and chance it.

A tall, languid person, in a deerstalker and an ulster, whom I have noticed for some time standing near us, and who, I fancy, is waiting patiently for the reversion of my campstool,-which he won't obtain, as I carry it with me wherever I go,-observes, in the patronising tone of a man who wishes it to be understood that he is accustomed to frequent only the "hupper suckles" of Society,"Rather an absurd hour for dinner,-two?"

Except," I say, "when you're hungry, and then any hour is a good hour for dinner."

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And," he continues, without noticing my reservation, and speaking severely at me, as if the hours for meals were of my choosing, "I suppose, tea at seven, and a heavy breakfast at eight in the morning, at such a ridiculous hour." All this sort of thing upsets the digestion. It's impossible to feed

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"Ten to two!" exclaims HOBSON joyfully, and I am grateful for the interruption as the languid man is inclined to adopt a bullying tone towards me. This is doing you good, eh? Didn't I say so?" Then as I follow him in his blithesome skip towards the companion, he pauses, and, as if he had a rare treat in store for me, whispers, with a confidential chuckle, "I've secured the two best seats at the head of the table next to the Captain! Aha!" And elated beyond measure with the success of this last instance of his forethought-all on my account I am convinced, and not the least on his own-he trips down the stairs, and in another five minutes the bell announces feeding time, and the passengers troop in and take their places on either side of a long table at the head of which is the Captain, a fine upstanding middle-aged man in a nautical uniform, who bows reverently over a huge steaming joint of boiled beef rising out of a contracted with the steward for their meals heartily join,-and then sea of pale turnipy gravy, says grace, in which all those who have he sets to work to carve for his hungry family of sixty persons, and appears as Captain CARVER, playing the part to perfection until further notice, which is given by himself only when he is thoroughly exhausted.

Dinner.-Saloon cool. No smell to speak of. Motion of ship rather more perceptible here than on deck; but hunger is a sharp thorn. Happy Thought.-The test of qualmishness has arrived. If I can stand this, the biled mutton and bilious sauce," and the strange manners and customs of some of my immediate neighbours, who evidently are of opinion that fingers were made, not only before forks, but before toothpicks, I can stand anything. I do; and what is more, enjoy the dinner and the Captain's conversation-but not the manners and customs aforesaid-immensely,

As a precaution, and to make assurance doubly sure, HOBSON proposes a bottle of champage. Why, certainly quite a Happy Thought. I notice that the languid person who thinks two o'clock a prepos terous and absurd hour for dinner, is doing remarkably well in spite of the absurdity of the idea. As for the "high contracting

Captain Carver in his celebrated Saloon Entertainment. Captain, who, poor man, is only just commencing his own dinner, mutters knowingly, "No, I'm hanged if you do!" as with a smile he beckons to an under-steward to remove the joint and carve it at the side-board.

"It's not like this when it's rough," says Captain CARVER, slily to us, alluding to the run on the joint. I assent to his remark, with an Old Saltish sort of sea-dog wag of the head; but I do not confide to him that "I am not like this when it's rough." HOBSON pledges him cheerily in a glass of dry Pommery, and he acknowledges the toast, being a teetotaller, in a brimmer of gingerade.

After dinner, a sudden shower of rain compels us to seek refuge in a small cabin, facetiously termed "the Smoking-Room," where the atmosphere is, to use 'ARRY's expression, rather thick."

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Here 'ARRY and his party are in great force, playing a rubber. "O Jee-roo-salum!" cries 'ARRY, when he loses a trick, whereupon his admirers roar with laughter.

'ARRY has not been giving his best attention to the game, and on his partner, an elderly, business-like looking man, warning him of the consequences, 'ARRY gives a wink at his companions, and says, "Steady yerself, EMILY!" which witticism sends them into convulsions.

The wiry old Scotch-terrier-like man is also here, pulling at the stump of a cigar, closely watching the game, with difficulty refraining from offering advice, but consoling himself by telling the lookers-on in whispers what he would have done if he had been in the last player's place, and by significant shrugs and grunts expressive of his disapprobation of the style of play generally. 'ARRY takes a trick with great delight, in spite of some mistake of his partner's.

"Ah," says 'ARRY to the latter, "you're not too thick, you ain't." "Thick" puzzles me. Presently the wiry old man offers to make him a bet.

"No, old boy," replies the knowing and suspicious 'ARRY, "you're too thick for me." And his companions shout with laughter. When one of his opponents at whist is rather slower than usual in dealing, 'ARRY calls out "Time!" and subsequently requests him, if he has dealt himself a good hand, to “Walk round and show his muscle." Fortune favours 'ARRY with first-rate trumps,-and ARRY triumphantly coming down with his Ace says:

"Ow's that for kitchen soup?"

Immense delight of the 'Arry Gallery, which is raised to the highest pitch when he throws down the Queen of Trumps, and in a sort of tune sings:

"That's a Beau-ty! that's a Beau-ty!"

When he and his partner ultimately win the game, he leads a chorus in which all his companions heartily join, and the purport of which, as far as I can catch the words, seems to be a tuneful expression of a wish, addressed to some imaginary butcher by an intending customer, to be informed as to the market price of liver, and a further demand of a like nature as to the current quotation of kidneys.

There being no more rain, this is the last I see of 'ARRY and his comrades, until next morning when they complain of headache and evince an inordinate passion for kippered herrings, and boiling hot tea. We are standing well out to sea. Daylight and the coast-line are disappearing.

"Now!" cries HOBSON, who is in ecstasies at the verification of all his prophecies about the state of my health, and the excellence of the passage. "Now!" he cries, extending his right arm towards the horizon, and then turning towards me as if the supreme moment had arrived when he must unburden himself of a tremendous secret,

It's a fearful charge,-worse than being accused of disrespect for the Equator, and I assure him that as far as I know, there is nothing whatever between me and the North Pole. And so we sit on deck, chatting, and congratulating ourselves on its being one of the most lovely nights we've seen for a very long time.

HOBSON delighted. Didn't he tell me it would be a perfect passage? The lights ashore become few, and far between, and gradually disappear entirely. Mysterious lights, now green, now red, approach us, and the Look-out Man, and the Captain, and the Man at the Wheel, keep up a trio of an hour's duration, led always by the first-mentioned as tenor, followed up by the Captain as baritone, and finished by the steersman as basso-profondo.

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It must be very annoying for the Look-out Man, who never announces any discovery of his, such as 'Light on the port bow!" 'Light on the starboard!" or whatever it may be without the Captain immediately replying "Aye, aye!" in a tone which certainly conveys that he has seen this danger a-head ever so long ago, and is perfectly aware of it. Very satisfactory to the passengers to know they have such a Captain as Captain CARVER, whom nothing can escape, but still rather disheartening for the Look-out Man, who seems to be perfectly incapable of giving the Captain any information which the latter does not already possess. Begin to feel drowsy.

"This is doing you good!" exclaims HOBSON, surveying me with pride.

"All right up to now," I say,, cautiously. "But suppose it should change to stormy in the night?

"Not a chance of it," replies HOBSON. And we descend to our Cabin, which, fortunately, is at present unoccupied. Now, how to climb up to my nest?

AN OPPORTUNITY.

LONDON is always a nice place for equestrian exercise, but just now, in the "dead season," if you ask "What's up?" the answer must be, "Roads, pavements, streets, boards, red flags, &c.'

Quite right, of course, and just the time of year for it. Only, as there are workmen digging into the soil of Kensington Gardens and the Parks, Mr. Punch, in the interest of Equestrians generally, would again beg to inquire why on earth there cannot be

First,-Aride under the trees from Kensington to Bayswater through Kensington Gardens.

Secondly,-Another ride across Hyde Park, as a trifling variation on the monotony of Rotten Row and the dreariness of the ride between the Marble Arch, which is now being "restored," though no one ever had the audacity to remove it. Thirdly. A propos of restoration," why not restore at once the soft ride all round the Park?

Fourthly. And why not do the

same in Regent's Park, where the only chance for Equestrians is about half a mile of "the soft" in the Inner Circle?

Fifthly. Why not open up two or three rides in Regent's Park? Who objects? There's room, and to spare, for everyone, Pedestrians and Equestrians alike, and plenty of space for amusements of all sorts.

Surely GEORGE RANGER, our Ediles, and the Police Commissioners, might hit on some plan between them for the benefit of the Liver Brigades of Light and Heavy Cavalry.

SOMETHING TO BE THANKFUL FOR.-Our dear old friend, Mrs. RAM, just saved herself from a nasty fall the other day coming down-stairs. I should have broken my leg or worse," she said, “if I hadn't put out my hand and caught hold of the barristers."

MONOTONOUS.-While the Sacred Lamp of Burlesque was alight at the Gaiety, there was a variety of tunes all through the entertainment. Now, there is only one Eyre.