Volume 25 — A ROYAL "LUNCH" PREVENTED.

It must be a relief, indeed, to Her Majesty to get away to Scotland, where in the retirement of Balmoral she is at least free from the importunities of that sort of loyalty which deprives her of the common comforts of a private individual. Provincial Mayors are perhaps the greatest pests that Royalty has to encounter; and the Preston Corporation seems to have made itself a fearful bore on the return of the Queen from Scotland. No sooner was it understood that Her Majesty would stop at Preston fifteen minutes to take luncheon, than the Town Clerk issued a circular to all the members of the Corporation, calling on them to meet for the purpose of deciding how the fifteen minutes Her Majesty had allowed herself for refreshment could be consumed by some municipal twaddle, of which Royalty was to be made the recipient. Instead of the Queen being suffered to take her hurried basin of mock-turtle at the station, she was to be bothered with calf's head, in the shape of the Mayor, and a dish of hash was to be set before her in the form of an adulatory address from the authorities.

It is indeed hard that Royalty cannot get a quarter of an hour free for luncheon on a long journey, but is compelled to give up every minute of spare time to the swallowing of a quantity of unwholesome stuff in the way of flattery from the authorities. We admire a loyal address when circumstances render it appropriate and convenient; but to intercept Her Majesty at every resting point on her way, and subject her to the fatigue of listening to and answering a mass of commonplace rubbish from the mouth of a Mayor, is no less impertinent on the part of the authorities, than it must be annoying to the Sovereign. We are quite sure that the Queen would prefer a sandwich to a puff, and a glass of sherry to all the milk-and-water in the world—notwithstanding all the sugar that the authorities might put into it.

HOW BRITANNIA SALUTES HER BABIES!

Britannia—like a most careful mother—expends a world of powder on her babies. A week ago she flourished the powder-puff regardless of expense; and regardless of noise. Her three youngest royal babies—the Princess Louisa, aged five years; the Prince Arthur, aged three; and the dear little poppet Prince Leopold, aged not one—were all of them brought down from the nursery at Osborne, and—with their nurses—embarked on board the Fairy to cross to Portsmouth, on their way to Windsor Castle, to be smothered with kisses by one of the best of mammas, and one of the tenderest of fathers.

Well, the precious babies passing through Spithead "were saluted by the Blenheim, by the garrison, and by the Victory, flag-ship;" and this was ordered by Grannam Britannia, who, we think, by such smoke and pother rather exposes her dotage than shows her affection. Why should the "adamantine lips" of sixty-eight pounders salute those little babies? Louisa, being five years old, may be a little seasoned to the custom; and Arthur—(as godson to the Duke)—may have a precocious taste for gunpowder; but consider the tender months of baby Leopold! A suckling, and saluted with a smack of thunder.

Poor little heart! No doubt Granny Britannia means the noise as an evidence of her love; but, we needs must think it a proof of her foolishness. Dear little rose-buds! Why not go to be kissed at Windsor in all their innocent freshness? Why should they be forwarded to their parents, new too from Scotland, smelling of gunpowder in which is so much brimstone?

OUR TRAVELLING CONTRIBUTOR, AFTER A SEVERE ATTACK OF INN-FLUENZA.

Retaliation.

Photography, it was erroneously stated, had enabled forgers to commit frauds upon the Bank of England. Had it been true, the retribution would have been just. The Bank issues light sovereigns—why not repay it with Light five-pound notes?

How to Mull Porte.—Ask Lord Aberdeen.