One ling’ring look around he gave, then on the river cast That sullen stare of rash resolve he meant should be his last. Far down the old cathedral rose, a shadow grey and dim, The light of day would dawn on that but ne’er again on him. One plunge within the murky stream would end the bitter strife. “What rest’s there now,” he sobbed aloud, “to bid me cling to life?” Just then the sound of stamping feet smote on his list’ning ear, A sandwich-man upon his beat paused ’neath the lamplight clear. One hurried glance--he read the board that hung upon his back, He leapt down from the parapet, and smote his thigh a smack. “I must see that,” he cried--the words that put his woe to flight Were “John S. Clarke as Acres at the Charing Cross to-night.” Another of these effusions, well worthy of insertion here, appeared quite recently in a humorous paper, and is devoted to the interests of Messrs Cook & Son, the tourist agents. Whether or not it was paid for as an advertisement, they must have found it valuable. Despite the sneers of several small wits whom fortune has enabled to travel in the old expensive mode, there are very many who are neither cads nor snobs, whatever the distinction may be, and whose greatest sin is a paucity of income, that have felt the benefit of the popular excursionists’ endeavours. The verses are called COOK’S PERQUISITES. In longitude six thousand ninety-two, Latitude nothing, the good ship, _Salt Beef_, Caught in a gale, the worst that ever blew, Was stranded on a coral island’s reef. Her back was broken, so she went in halves, The crew and captain perished, every hand; Only a pig, some chickens, and two calves, And the one passenger, escaped to land. King Bungaroo, with all the royal suite, Was waiting to receive him on the beach; And seeing he was plump and nice to eat, Received him graciously with courteous speech. The suite, who thus their coming banquet eyed, Their gastric regions rubbed with grateful paw, And wondered if the king would have him fried, Or boiled, or roasted,--or just eat him raw! The hungry passenger their meaning caught As hinting dinner in some manner dim, And smiling at the notion, little thought That they meant feasting _on_--and not _with_--him! But, as you draw a fowl before ’tis drest, The suite proceeded first, of everything The pockets of their victim to divest, And laid their plunder down before the king. The monarch started at some object there-- Then seized the prisoner’s hand and cried aloud, “Bo, bingo wobli! Chungum raggadare. Howinki croblob? Boo! Owchingadowd!” Which means--“Unhand this kindly gentleman. Observe those coupons! Note that small green book! Put out the fire--hang up the frying-pan! We mustn’t eat him. He belongs to Cook!”