While at this he wonders blindly,

Nor their meaning can divine, Proud she turns them round, and kindly,

"All of these are mine and thine !"

Here he pines and grows dyspeptic,

Losing heart he loses pithHints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic,

Swears that Moses was a myth. Sees no evidence in Paley,

Takes to drinking ratafia : Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey,

While she's pouring out the tea. One day, knocking up his quarters,

Poor Miss Bailey found him dead, Hanging in his knotted garters, Which she knitted ere they wed.


I envy not the plodding boor,

Whose stupid ignorant content

Cares not if odds on an event
Are 2 to 1 or 10 to 4.
Nor him who counts himself as blest,

And says, “I take the wiser way,
Because for love alone I play,
So gambling never breaks my rest."
I hold it true, whate'er befall,

I feel it when I lose the most,

'Tis better to have play'd and lost Than never to have played at all.

(Name of Author not known).

PUNCH TO SALISBURY. I hold it true, whate'er befall, Though Jingo bounce and patriot rail, 'Twere better far to meet and fail, Than never try to meet at all.

In Memoriam.

£ s. D. "Abiit ad plures." BADEN-BADEN, MDCCCLXVIIT,

THE RINKER'S SOLACE. I hold it true whoe'er may fall,

I feel it when I tumble most, 'Tis better to have rinked and lost Than never to have rinked at all.

Tennyson (revised).


I Hold it truth, with him who rings · His money on a testing stone

To judge its goodness by its tone,

That gold wili buy all other things. It hides the ravages of years;

It gilds the matrimonial match;

It makes desormity “a catch ;" And dries the sorrowing widow's tears. Let love grasp cash, lest both be drowned ;

Let Mammon keep his gilded gloss;

Ah, easier far to bear the loss
Of love, than of a thousand pound !
Let not the victor say with scorn,

While of his winnings he may boast,
“Behold the man who played and lost,

And now is weak and overworn."


0, Fortune, fickle as the breeze !

O, Temptress, at the shrine of gain !

O, sweet and bitter !-- all in vain I come to thee for monied ease ! ". The chances surely run," she says;

But prick the series with a pin ;

Mark well ; and then go in and win !Or lose ! for there are but two ways. And still the phantom, Fortune, stands

And sings with siren silvery tone ;
Music that I may reach alone
With empty purse and empty hands !
And shall I still this sickle fair

With constant energies pursue ?

Or do as other people do-Escape the tangles of her hair?

She looked quite cross-her face had not

The smile that once lured one and all,
While waiting at that seaside spot

For him she loved ;- divinely tall;
Her sloe-black eyes showed restless change,

Small sparks of anger you might catch,

And yet those eyes you could not match,
Were you throughout the world to range,
“ Alas! I'm getting weary, weary-

Waiting here for Fred ;
He said he'd take me sailing-query?

He's not come yet,” she said.
“He asked me when we met last night,

If I would like a sail or row ;
I answered 'Yes,' with great delight;

He said at one o'clock we'd go.
'Tis now five minutes past the hour,

And where is he, I'd like to know?

Oh! if I did not love him so
I'd punish him—and show my pow'r.
But oh, alas ! it is so dreary

When I am not with Fred ;
I feel like Moore's lamenting Peri :

Why won't he come ?" she said.
The tear-drops then welled from her eyes,

And down her damask cheek they crept ;
Her bosom heaved with sundry sighs,

She cried, “I'll no excuse accept.
I will not speak to him," said she;
“ How dare he keep me waiting here ?"

When suddenly, approaching near,
Her tardy swain she chanced to see ;
And then, forgetting she'd been weary,

She cried, “ Qh, here comes Fred !"
And somehow then she seemed less dreary,
How nice he looks !" she said.

H. C. NEWTON. From Tom Hood's Comic Annual, 1884.

XXVII. I envy not in any mood

The mortal void of Mammon's lust,

Who never to a chance will trust, And never Fortune's favours woo'd.

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