PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 146.

May 13, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

Some idea of the amount of distress there is among Stock Exchange men, owing to the continued depression, may be gathered from the fact that a number of members, anxious to get to Brighton on their recent holiday on the 1st inst., walked all the way.

While there would seem to be no "Picture of the Year," the canvas which appears to attract anyhow most feminine attention is the Hon. John Collier's "Clytemnestra," with its guess at the fashion of to-morrow—the low-neck blouse carried a little bit further.

A publication entitled Pictures and the Picturegoer has made its appearance, and, please, we want to know what a Picturegoer is. Suffragettes, it is true, are apt to go for pictures, but we have never known anyone merely go pictures.

Sculptors submitting designs for a statue of Peter the Great, to be set up at the Winter Palace, St. Petersburg, are required by the conditions not only to produce a statue which will be recognized by the man in the street as that of the monarch, but it must also convey the idea that he spent his last days in the Palace. Possibly this might be effected by his wearing his linen collar inside out, plainly showing the marking, "Peter the Gt. Winter Palace."

In the duel which took place last week between M. Caillaux and M. d'Allières the ex-Finance Minister fired in the air. As a result, we hear, aviation societies all over France are protesting against what they consider may develop into an exceedingly dangerous practice.

As regards the result of the duel, M. d'Allières was certainly the more successful of the two. He fired at the ground and hit it. M. Caillaux aimed at the sky and missed it.

The House of Commons has passed the second reading of a Bill to enable Health Resorts and Watering Places to spend a portion of their rates on advertising. The urgent necessity for such a measure would appear to be proved by the fact that newspapers of every shade of political opinion approve it.

"Democracy," says Lord Haldane, "is rapidly finding its feet." But it will not gain much if at the same time it loses its head.

"A rector," we read, "has written to his bishop and to his wife announcing his elopement with the wife of one of his parishioners." This is a little act of courtesy which some men would not have thought of.

The London County Council proposes to allow on the Aldwych site a circular experimental railway on the Kearney high-speed mono-rail system. It seems strange that what is undoubtedly the most rugged and wildest tract of forest land in London should for so long have been without railway facilities. To nature-lovers, however, the proposal is as distasteful as the idea of a railway up Borrowdale.

We had thought that races between omnibuses had, owing to an entire lack of encouragement on the part of the police, died out, but we see that the L.C.O.C. is now advertising "Another Motor-Bus Derby."

The police are said to be viewing with some apprehension the spread of habits of cleanliness among our house-breakers. Last week, for instance, some burglars who paid a visit to a Birmingham firm, after opening a safe and removing its contents, obtained a bucket of water and carefully removed all finger-marks.

At a recent smoking-match at Brighton the winner kept an eighth of an ounce of tobacco alight for 103 minutes. The tobacco trade, we understand, is strongly opposed to the holding of competitions of this nature, "which serve no useful purpose whatever."

"There are 'vintage years' for babies," says Dr. James Kerr. These must be the years when they take most readily to the bottle.

Extract from an account in The Birmingham News of a meeting at Solihull:—"The next business was the presentation of a handsome breakfast egg to the Rev. Courtnay Smith, B.A." Once upon a time such gifts were confined to political gatherings.

In the course of his exploring expedition Mr. Roosevelt lost nearly four stone in weight, and it is rumoured that Mr. Taft may once again follow in his footsteps.

A vulgar person with no respect for wealth has suggested that the Royal Automobile Club shall change its name to the Hotel Nouveau Ritz.

"I say, I've a bone to pick with you."

"Pardon me, Sir, that's quite impossible, for I'm a strict vegetarian."

Another Mysterious Disappearance.

From a catalogue:—

"20 Dozens Bottles Excellent Old Tawny Port, sold without reserve by the Port of London Authority to pay for charges, the owner having been lost sight of, and bottled by us last year."

We hope that, after this callous confession, Scotland Yard will now take action.

Musical Candour.

"The singing of the Bradshaw choirs broke up a happy evening."—Local Paper.

We understand that the famous Presidential biography, From Log-Cabin to White House, is to be followed by another, entitled, From White House to Semi-attached Villa.

"'Reflection,' a picture of an elderly gentleman lost in thought after a lonely dinner, not only suggests a story, but how effective Mr. Jack is with interiors."

Cork Constitution.

In this picture, however, the gentleman's interior is wisely left to the imagination.

THE UNHAPPY MEAN.

(How the Budget strikes a Brain-Worker.)

Would I were poor (but not too poor),

A working plumber, say, by trade,

One of the class for whom the lure

Of Liberal Chancellors is laid;

For then no single sou from my revénue

Should go to swell the Treasury's bin,

Save indirectly through my breakfast-menu,

My pipe, my beer, my gin.

Would I were rich (O passing rich),

One of the idlers, softly bred,

From whom the hands of David itch

To pluck their plumage, quick or dead;

For then, a super-man, I'd scorn to grudge it—

This super-tax on my estate,

But like a bird contribute to his Budget

The paltry two-and-eight.

Alas, not being this nor that,

But just a middling type of man,

Neither a bloated plutocrat

Nor yet a pampered artisan,

I am not spared, nay, I am hardest smitten,

Although 'tis held (and I agree)

That half the backbone of these Isles of Britain

Is made of stuff like me.

O brothers, ye who follow Art,

Shunning the crowds that strive and pant

Indifferent how you please the mart

So you may keep your souls extant,

Lloyd none the less is down upon your earnings,

And from the increment that flows

(With blood and tears) from your poetic yearnings

You pay him through the nose.

These very lines, in which I couch

My plaint of him and all his works—

Even from these he means to pouch,

Roughly, his six per cent. of perks;

This thought has left me singularly moody;

I fail to join in George's joke;

So strongly I resent the extra 2d.

Pinched from my modest poke.

O. S.

MR. ROOSEVELT'S DISCOVERIES.

Scrapping the Map in Brazil.

We are glad to be able to supplement with some further interesting details the meagre accounts of Mr. Roosevelt's explorations in Brazil which have appeared in the daily papers.

Not only did Mr. Roosevelt add to the map a new river nearly a thousand miles long, but he has discovered a gigantic mountain, hitherto undreamt of even by Dr. Cook, to which he has attached the picturesque name of Mount Skyscraper. The lower slopes were thickly infested with cannibals, whom Mr. Roosevelt converted from anthropophagy by a sermon lasting six hours and containing 300,000 words—almost exactly as many as are contained in Mr. de Morgan's new novel.

The middle regions are densely covered with an impenetrable forest inhabited by rhomboidal armadillos and gigantic crabs, to which Mr. Roosevelt has given the name of Kermit crabs, to commemorate the escape of his son, who was carried off by one of these monsters and rescued by a troglodyte guide after a desperate struggle. On emerging from the forest the travellers were faced by perpendicular granite crags, which they ascended on the backs of some friendly condors.... The summit proved to be an extensive plateau, the site of a prehistoric city, built of pedunculated wood-pulp. Lying among the ruins was a gigantic mastodon in excellent preservation, which Mr. Roosevelt brought down on his shoulders.

It was after the descent from Mount Skyscraper, which was accomplished in parachutes, that Mr. Roosevelt struck the new river, the upper parts of which were utterly unknown except to some wild rubber-necked Indians. In consequence of its character and size Mr. Roosevelt originally thought of calling it the Taft, but finally decided on the Rio Encyclopædia in virtue of its volume.

The journey was made in canoes and was full of incident. Descending the great Golliwog Falls Mr. Roosevelt's canoe was smashed to atoms, but the ex-President escaped with only slight injury to his eyeglasses, after a desperate conflict with a pliocene crocodile. The Encyclopædia River, as described by Mr. Roosevelt, resembles the Volga, the Hoang-ho and the Mississippi; but it is richer in snags and of a deeper and more luscious purple than any of them. Near its junction with the Mandragora it runs uphill for several miles, with the result that the canoes were constantly capsizing. The waters of Mandragora are of a curiously soporific character, while those of the River Madeira have a toxic quality which renders them dangerous when drunk in large quantities.

Mr. Roosevelt, it may be added, is shortly expected in London, when he will lecture before the Royal Geographical Society, Master Anthony Asquith having kindly consented to preside.

TO MY HUSBAND'S BANKER.

Florence, May 2nd.

Dear Mr. S.,—We have been here a week, and I feel I really must write and thank you for what I can see is going to be the most lovely holiday.

It was ripping of you to let us come—for sending us, in fact. I can't think why more people don't do it—I mean travel when they can't afford it. Perhaps it is that all bankers aren't so good-natured as you are. I shall tell all my friends to come to you in future. Of course I shall only recommend the conscientious ones. We are being frightfully conscientious. For instance, when we arrived we purposely didn't go to a hotel some friends of ours were at because it was two francs a day dearer than one we found in Baedeker—though as I told Fred I don't believe you'd have grudged us the two francs a bit. The only thing I have on my conscience a little is that in Paris, where we stayed three days on our way out, we did go to rather good restaurants. But I had never been to Paris before, and I thought, when you knew that, you would quite approve, because first impressions are everything, aren't they? It is rather as if you were an invisible host everywhere we go. "Of course you will have a liqueur with your coffee, Mrs. Merrison?" I hear you say after dinner; and really, Grand Marnier (cordon jaune) is heavenly, isn't it?

Then we came on here, and, do you know, "The Birth of Venus" nearly made me cry when I first saw it, it's so beautiful. I shall never forget that it was you who introduced me to it, so to speak.

And isn't Pisa jolly?

Oh, there's just one other thing I wanted to tell you. Before we came away we gave a little farewell dinner to one or two of our most intimate friends. It came out of the travelling money; and I do feel you ought to have been asked too, when you were really our host. But you see I don't know you very well (except through your actions), and I thought that just possibly you might have felt a little out of it. But I want you very much to come and dine with us one night when we are home again. I think it is time we knew each other ever so much better.

Well, no more now as we are off to lunch. (How ridiculously cheap food is in Italy, isn't it?) We shall be home in three weeks, I expect. I wish we could stay longer, especially as it's really cheaper to stay here than to come home, now we are here. But we mustn't put too much strain on your hospitality.

Yours always gratefully, Isabel Merrison.

THE SWASHBUCKLERS.

Tory Die-Hard. "DOWN WITH HOME RULE!"

Radical Extremist. "DOWN WITH ULSTER!"

John Bull. "THIS SORT OF THING MAY AMUSE YOU, GENTLEMEN, BUT I'VE NO USE FOR IT. I'M NOT GOING TO HAVE CIVIL WAR TO PLEASE EITHER OF YOU!"

HIGH ART.

Our very busiest Society Portrait Painter (who has rushed back to his studio after a luncheon in Park Lane). "I'm late, Mrs. Faulkner. Anybody come?"

Studio Caretaker. "Yes, Sir. I've already shown a lady up to the dressing-room."

Portrait Painter. "Is it the Countess of West Middlesex or Lady Vera Valtravers?"

Studio Caretaker. "I'm sure I can't say, Sir. They're that covered up with powder and paint I can't tell one from t'other."

THE NOBLEST WORK OF MAN.

[In an article on Animal Training it has been stated that "wolves are so stupid it is a waste of time trying to do anything with them," and that "it is a wonderful tribute to the trainer's skill that he has succeeded in evolving so faithful a companion as the dog from this unpromising material.">[

Full many a time when I've been overwrought,

And all has seemed beset by doubts and fogs,

I have gleaned ample comfort from the thought,

"Nature is kindly; she has given us dogs

To share our griefs with sympathetic eyes

And force us out for healthy exercise."

But, Carlo, I was wrong to take that view;

Nature, though wonderful, does not (I find)

Deserve the credit of evolving you;

A trainer did it, just by being kind;

Your rise from wolfish ancestors you owe

To some primæval impresario.

One sees the scene: how in the bygone days

Our forbears, fresh from bludgeoning their foes,

Would gather round to watch with glad amaze

A wolf who balanced rocks upon his nose.

"How quaint! How human!" thus their praises flowed;

"Look at his ikey way of wearing woad!"

And ever as the long years took their course

The trainer's skill came farther to the front,

Until, through gentleness and moral force,

One wolf achieved the "trust-and-paid-for" stunt.

Topical, this produced unbounded fun,

Coming when commerce had but just begun.

Then cleverer grew the wolflings year by year,

And greater yearly grew the "spot-cash" boon

Given to trainers summoned to appear

And charm a cave-man's idle afternoon,

Till came the whisper, "This is not the least

Bit like a wolf's cub; 'tis a nobler beast."

And thus the dog was born; the gathered crowd

Cheered their approval of this wise remark;

A glad tail wagged its pride, and clear and loud

Rang out the music of the earliest bark,

While envious Nature sighed, "O parlous miss!

I was a silly not to think of this."

Maid at Country Hotel. "Please, sir, will you use the hot water soon as there's an 'ole on the can?"

A SILVER JUBILEE.

"Another!" said George, flinging down the card. "I have had just about ENOUGH OF IT!" He spoke vehemently, with an intonation that I have tried to convey by the employment of capitals. It was obvious that he was deeply moved.

"Do you mind explaining?" I asked.

"It explains itself," he answered disgustedly, referring to the card. I picked it up. It was a printed communication, in which somebody, whose name I forget, requested the pleasure of George's presence at the marriage of his daughter Something to Mr. Somebodyelse.

I read it aloud. "What's wrong with that?" I asked. "Were you in love with her yourself?"

"I was not," said George shortly. "To the best of my knowledge I have never even set eyes on the wretched girl, and never want to. My implication in the affair rests solely on my having once been at school with the bridegroom."

"Then what more touching than that he should desire the presence of his old comrade at such a crisis?"

"Presence!" began George bitterly. "If they'd said——"

I stopped him. "I know the pun," I said quickly, "and am no longer capable of being amused at it. So that is the ground of your complaint. I must say, George, that I regard this as a little mean of you."

"You may," answered George. "That shows you don't realise the facts. If you were in my position you wouldn't talk like that. Why, look at it," he went on, warming to his subject, "here am I, a bachelor nearing fifty, with an income, secure certainly, but by no means lavish; and what do we find? Scarcely a day goes by without my receiving some more or less veiled demand from persons without a shadow of claim!

"Relatives," pursued George, "one, of course, expects. I have myself five elder sisters, all of them comfortably married with my assistance. Pianos or dinner-sets or whatever it happened to be," explained George. "I make no complaint there. Not even though in these cases the initial outlay was only the beginning. I am by now seventeen times an uncle. A pleasant position at first, but repetition stales it. The expense of that alone is becoming appalling. Why on earth didn't Henry VIII. or somebody institute a bounty for uncles?"

"It can't be so bad as all that."

"It would not be, if, as I say, the matter was kept within one's own family. But you see it isn't. I have now reached that time of life in which the rush of weddings appears to be heaviest. Everybody I ever met seems to be doing it, and using the fact as an excuse for blackmail. I am a poor man, and I have had enough of it!"

I made a sympathetic noise. As a matter of fact, George's friends agree that he is very comfortably off, but I let that pass. "What are you going to do about it?" I asked.

"This," answered George unexpectedly. He opened his pocket-book and produced a half-sheet of note-paper. "This is going in The Morning Post to-morrow. I wrote it some time ago, but the hour has now come when I must make a stand and endeavour to get a little of my own back. So in she goes!"

I took the paper and read as follows: "1839-1914. Mr. George Pennywise, of 1096, Upper Brook Street, having remained a bachelor during twenty-five years of eligibility, invites his numerous friends to join with him in celebrating his silver celibacy."

"The idea is not original," I said coldly, "but I am interested to know why you should select this particular moment rather than any other. What happened in '89?"

George looked faintly conscious. "Nothing," he answered. "That's just the point. It's what might have happened. I think you've never heard me speak of a girl called Emeline? Anyhow, I was rather struck at that time; we were staying in the same house that autumn, and I believe everybody expected me to propose. Only, somehow I didn't. But it was the closest shave I've ever had, and, as that was just twenty-five years ago, I began counting from then."

"Did Miss—er Emeline share the general expectation?"

"To be candid, I rather fancy she did. Several of her set were quite nasty about it afterwards, though it was obviously no business of theirs. She married somebody else later on, and lives in Ireland." George sighed reflectively.

As it was apparent that he would shortly become sentimental, a condition for which he is unfitted, I took my leave. "You're not really going to put that nonsense in the paper?" I asked.

"I am," said George, recovering abruptly. "If there is any way in which a put-upon bachelor can get equal with the world, I mean to take it. I regard it as a public duty. Look in again next week, and you'll see the result."

Curiosity brought me on my next visit to George with more anticipation than usual. The advertisement had duly appeared. But my inquiries found him oddly reticent.

"Look here, George," I said at length, "what did that paragraph produce?"

"I got stacks of letters, mostly humorous, that will require answering."

"No presents?"

"One," answered George reluctantly, "from Emeline."

This was intriguing. George's manner with regard to it was discouraging, not to say morose. But I am not easily put off.

"What sort of present?" I persisted.

"Oh, handsome enough. A silver frame, quite good in its way, with a family group of herself and her husband and three kids inside it. I shall take that out."

"Any inscription?"

The moment I had said it I saw that I had found the trouble.

"Only three words," answered George evasively. He hesitated. "But there, Emeline never did know how to express herself."

"George," I demanded sternly, "what were those three words?"

"A Thank Offering," said George.

GLEANINGS FROM GRUB STREET.

(By our Special Parasite.)

A brilliant reception is being prepared for Professor Hjalmar Stormbarner, the Finnish novelist, on the occasion of his first visit to England in June. An address of welcome, composed by Mr. C. K. Shorter and Sir Robertson Nicoll, with lyrics by Mr. Max Pemberton and Lord Burnham, will be presented to him at the Grafton Gallery, and Dr. Clifford is arranging what he happily calls a "pious orgy of congratulation" at the Caxton Hall, at which Sir Alfred Mond, Baron de Forest, and Mr. Thornton, the new manager of the Great Eastern Railway, will deliver addresses. A demonstration in Hyde Park in honour of our guest is also being organised by his English publishers, Messrs. Dodder and Dodder, at which their principal authors will speak at thirteen different platforms, and a resolution will be simultaneously moved by blast of trumpet that Professor Stormbarner is the greatest novelist in the world.

Professor Stormbarner is of course best known in this country as the author of the famous romances, Letters from Limbo, The Devil's Ducats, Narcotic Nelly and The Sarcophagus, but his versatility and accomplishments in other departments of mental activity will come as a surprise to his English admirers. He has penetrated the Arctic circle in a bath-chair drawn by reindeer; he plays with great skill on the balalaika, and he has translated most of the works of Mr. Edmund Gosse into Mæso-Gothic. At the present moment he is undoubtedly the first favourite for the Nobel Prize, though Willie Ferrero runs him close in virtue of the patronage of Mr. Andrew Carnegie and the Dowager-Empress of Russia.

Perhaps the finest and most convincing tribute to the overwhelming genius of the great Finnish romancer is the quatrain recently written in his honour by Mr. Edmund Gosse:—

George Eliot, greatest of blue stockings,

Joseph and Silas K. (the Hockings),

Watts-Dunton and Professor Garner—

Are all united in Stormbarner.

We understand that during his visit to London Professor Stormbarner will stay with Mr. David Dodder at Hampstead, but will spend a week-end with Mr. Lloyd George at Walton Heath.

Mrs. Ray Clammer, whose novels in praise of Blackpool, written at the commission of the municipal council, have gained her equal cash and kudos, has gone to Australia for a visit, but hopes to return in time to spend August at the famous health resort which her genius has done so much to adorn. Her only regret is that she has had to leave at home her Persian cat Abracadabra, called "Abe" for short. "Abe," by the way, figures prominently in a bright personal article about Mrs. Ray Clammer which Miss Marjorie Moult contributes to The Penwiper for May.

Lady Canvasser. "I've called to ask you to give us something for the O.P.Q.S. The——"

Old Gentleman. "My dear lady, I already give away one-tenth of my income."

Lady Canvasser. "Oh, just this year, couldn't you make it an eleventh?"

Another Impending Apology.

"Meanwhile Dick Smith is matched with Carpentier, and will receive £200 as the loser's end of a £1,200 purse offered by the Liverpool Stadium."—Daily Mail.

If it is as certain as this we shall put our money on Carpentier.

"Fallen by the Way.

Making a Deep Impression."

Advt. in "Era."

Evidently an accident to the heavy tragedians.

"Nurse, superior, or Help wanted, immediately: go to seaside: experienced infant."

Advt. in "The Manchester Guardian."

The infant: "Let her come. I think I shall know how to deal with her."

"WRONGLY ATTRIBUTED."

You've heard of Willy Ferrero, the Boy Conductor? A musical prodigy, seven years old, who will order the fifth oboe out of the Albert Hall as soon as look at him. Well, he has a rival.

Willy, as perhaps you know, does not play any instrument himself; he only conducts. His rival (Johnny, as I think of him) does not conduct as yet; at least, not audibly. His line is the actual manipulation of the pianoforte—the Paderewski touch. Johnny lives in the flat below, and I hear him touching.

On certain mornings in the week—no need to specify them—I enter my library and give myself up to literary composition. On the same mornings little Johnny enters his music-room (underneath) and gives himself up to musical composition. Thus we are at work together.

The worst of literary composition is this: that when you have got hold of what you feel is a really powerful idea you find suddenly that you have been forestalled by some earlier writer—Sophocles or Shakspeare or George R. Sims. Then you have to think again. This frequently happens to me upstairs; and downstairs poor Johnny will find to his horror one day that his great work has already been given to the world by another—a certain Dr. John Bull.

Johnny, in fact, is discovering "God Save the King" with one finger.

As I dip my pen in the ink and begin to write, Johnny strikes up. On the first day when this happened, some three months ago, I rose from my chair and stood stiffly through the performance—an affair of some minutes, owing to a little difficulty with "Send him victorious," a line which always bothers Johnny. However, he got right through it at last, after harking back no more than twice, and I sat down to my work again. Generally speaking, "God Save the King" ends a show; it would be disloyal to play any other tune after that. Johnny quite saw this ... and so began to play "God Save the King" again.

I hope that His Majesty, the Lord Chamberlain, the late Dr. Bull, or whoever is most concerned, will sympathise with me when I say that this time I remained seated. I have my living to earn.

From that day Johnny has interpreted Dr. John Bull's favourite composition nine times every morning. As this has been going on for three months, and as the line I mentioned has two special rehearsals to itself before coming out right, you can easily work out how many send-him-victoriouses Johnny and I have collaborated in. About two thousand.

Very well. Now, you ask yourself, why did I not send a polite note to Johnny's father asking him to restrain his little boy from over-composition, begging him not to force the child's musical genius too quickly, imploring him (in short) to lock up the piano and lose the key? What kept me from this course? The answer is "Patriotism." Those deep feelings for his country which one man will express glibly by rising nine times during the morning at the sound of the National Anthem, another will direct to more solid uses. It was my duty, I felt, not to discourage Johnny. He was showing qualities which could not fail, when he grew up, to be of value to the nation. Loyalty, musical genius, determination, patience, industry—never before have these qualities been so finely united in a child of six. Was I to say a single word to disturb the delicate balance of such a boy's mind? At six one is extraordinarily susceptible to outside influence. A word from his father to the effect that the gentleman above was getting sick of it, and Johnny's whole life might be altered.

No, I would bear it grimly.

And then, yesterday, who should write to me but Johnny's father himself. This was the letter:—

"Dear Sir,—I do not wish to interfere unduly in the affairs of the other occupants of these flats, but I feel bound to call your attention to the fact that for many weeks now there has been a flow of water from your bathroom which has penetrated through the ceiling of my bathroom, particularly after you have been using the room in the mornings. May I therefore beg you to be more careful in future not to splash or spill water on your floor, seeing that it causes inconvenience to the tenants beneath you?

Yours faithfully, Jno. McAndrew."

You can understand how I felt about this. For months I had been suffering Johnny in silence; yet, at the first little drop of water, from above, Johnny's father must break out into violent abuse of me. A fine reward! Well, Johnny's future could look after itself now; anyhow, he was doomed with a selfish father like that.

"Dear Sir," I answered defiantly,—"Now that we are writing to each other I wish to call your attention to the fact that for many months past there has been a constant flow of one-fingered music from your little boy, which penetrates through the floor of my library and makes all work impossible. May I beg you therefore to see that your child is taught a new tune immediately, seeing that the National Anthem has lost its first freshness for the tenants above him?"

His reply to this came to-day.

"Dear Sir,—I have no child.

Yours faithfully, Jno. McAndrew."

I was so staggered that I could only think of one adequate retort.

"Dear Sir," I wrote,—"I never have a bath."

So that's the end of Johnny, my boy prodigy, for whom I have suffered so long. It is not Johnny but Jno. who struggles with the National Anthem. He will give up music now, for he knows I have the bulge on him; I can flood his bathroom whenever I like. Probably he will learn something quieter—like painting. Anyway, Dr. John Bull's masterpiece will rise no more through the ceiling of the flat below.

On referring to my encyclopædia, I see that, according to some authorities, "God Save the King" is "wrongly attributed" to Dr. Bull. Well, I wrongly attributed it to Johnny. It is easy to make these mistakes.

A. A. M.

WEST HIGHLAND.

With stern a-droop, a "dowie chiel,"

I see him lugged at Beauty's heel,

A captive bound on Fashion's wheel,

Down Bond Street's aisle,

Far from his land of cairn and creel

In grey Argyle.

I wonder if in dreams he goes

Afar from streets and kindred woes,

A-rabbiting with eager nose

And strenuous paw

In birch-woods where the west wind blows

By banks of Awe;

And if his slumbers take him back

To trail the mountain-fox's track,

In corries of the shifting wrack

Where one may spy

Old Cruachan's twin Titan stack

Heaved to the sky;

Or, boudoir-bred degenerate,

If ne'er he knew the nobler state,

The birk-clad brae, the roaring spate,

The tod's dark lair,

Too spiritless to grin at Fate

Or greatly care.

And better this, perhaps you'd say,

Than break his heart for yesterday,

Uneasy in the dreams that stray

Where lost trails stretch—