Puslapio vaizdai


BE seated, pray. "A grave appeal "?

The sufferers by the war, of course ; Ah, what a sight for us who feel,—

This monstrous mélodrame of Force! We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know, On whom its heaviest burden falls; Collections shattered at a blow, Museums turned to hospitals!

"And worse," you say;
Alas, 'tis true distress exists,
Though, let me add, our worthy Press

Have no mean skill as colourists ;-
Speaking of colour, next your seat

There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand; Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,

Yet not indifferently planned;

"the wide distress!"

Note specially the gray old Guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap ;-

But, as regards the present war,—
Now don't you think our pride of pence
Goes-may I say it ?—somewhat far
For objects of benevolence?

You hesitate. For my part, I-
Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Esthetically-still reply

That "Charity begins at Home."
The words remind me. Did you catch

My so-named "Hunt"? The girl's a gem ;

And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them!

"But your appeal 's for home,"-you say,For home, and English poor! Indeed! I thought Philanthropy to-day

Was blind to mere domestic needHowever sore-Yet though one grants

That home should have the foremost claims,

At least these Continental wants

Assume intelligible names;

While here with us-Ah! who could hope
To verify the varied pleas,

Or from his private means to cope
With all our shrill necessities !

Impossible! One might as well
Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell
With these half-dozen Indian beads.

Moreover, add that every one

So well exalts his pet distress, 'Tis-Give to all, or give to none,

If you'd avoid invidiousness. Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,

The same applies to B.'s and C.'s ;
By my selection I should raise
An alphabet of rivalries;

And life is short,-I see you look
At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,
They say that Raphael painted it ;—
And life is short, you understand;

So, if I only hold you out
An open though an empty hand,

Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.

Nay, do not rise. You seem amused;
One can but be consistent, Sir !
'Twas on these grounds I just refused
Some gushing lady-almoner,-


Believe me, on these very grounds.

Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity! That cost me quite three hundred pounds,-That Dürer figure,-"Charity."


"Prophete rechts, Prophete links,
Das Weltkind in der Mitten."

GOETHE'S Diné zu Coblenz.

To left, here's B., half-Communist,

Who talks a chastened treason, And C., a something-else in "ist," Harangues, to right, on Reason.

B., from his "tribune," fulminates
At Throne and Constitution,
Nay, with the walnuts, advocates
Reform by revolution;

While C.'s peculiar coterie
Have now in full rehearsal
Some patent new Philosophy
To make doubt universal.

And yet-Why not? If zealots burn, Their zeal has not affected

My taste for salmon and Sauterne,
Or I might have objected :-

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