"Not members of your body, sure? No, that can hardly be: All statesmen, I suppose, are pure. What! there are rogues? Dear me!" You added, you'll recall, that though You were surprised and pained, You thought, upon the whole, you'd go, And in that mind remained. Now, what so great a change has wrought That you so frankly speak Of "seeking" honors once unsought Because you "scorned to seek"? Do you not fear the grave reproof In good Creed Haymond's eye? Will Stephen Gage not stand aloof And pass you coldly by? O, fear you not that Vrooman's lich Will rise from earth and point At you a scornful finger which May lack, perchance, a joint? Go, Stanford, where the violets grow, And join their modest train. Await the work of William Stow And be surprised again. THE SUBDUED EDITOR Pope-choker Pixley sat in his den A-chewin' upon his quid. He thought it was Leo Thirteen, and then He bit it intenser, he did. The amber which overflew from the cud Like rivers which burst out of bounds-- 'Twas peculiar grateful to think it blood A-gushin' from Papal wounds. A knockin' was heard uponto the door Where some one a-waitin' was. "Come in," said the shedder of priestly gore, Arrestin' to once his jaws. The person which entered was curly of hair And smilin' as ever you see; His eyes was blue, and uncommon fair Was his physiognomee. And yet there was some'at remarkable grand-- And the editor says as he looks: "Your Height" (it was Highness, you understand, That he meant, but he spoke like books)-- "Your Height, I am in. I'm the editor man Of this paper--which is to say, I'm the owner, too, and it's alway ran In the independentest way! "Not a damgaloot can interfere, A-shapin' my course for me: This paper's (and nothing can make it veer) Pixleian in policee!" "It's little to me," said the sunny youth, "If journals is better or worse Where I am to home they won't keep, in truth, The climate is that perverse. "I've come, howsomever, your mind to light With a more superior fire: You'll have naught hencefor'ard to do but write, While I sets by and inspire. "We'll make it hot all round, bedad!" And his laughture was loud and free. "The devil!" cried Pixley, surpassin' mad. "Exactly, my friend--that's me." So he took a chair and a feather fan, And he sets and sets and sets, Inspirin' that humbled editor man, Which sweats and sweats and sweats! All unavailin' his struggles be, And it's, O, a weepin' sight To see a great editor bold and free Reducted to sech a plight! "BLACK BART, Po8" Welcome, good friend; as you have served your term, And found the joy of crime to be a fiction, I hope you'll hold your present faith, stand firm And not again be open to conviction.