Puslapio vaizdai


E seated, pray.
The sufferers by the war, of course;
Ah, what a sight for us who feel,-


"A grave appeal "?

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; "the wide distress!" 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;

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,
Æsthetically—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 need— However 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 !

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.

O 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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