To strike, or not to strike, that is the question:―― Whether ’tis nobler on the box to suffer The persecutions of outrageous bobbies, Or to take arms against the rising public, And serve them out by striking. That is, to ply No more. To make them walk who fain would ride The ’Busses scorning,――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished,――to stop the ills Cabmanic flesh is heir to; there’s the rub, For in such strike of cabs perchance we starve; Yet who would bear the inflicted wrongs of [33]MAYNE, Sixpenny fares, and lamps compulsory, Woes of backed licenses, police court fines, The beak’s severity, and the many spurns That patient cabmen from their riders take Without a murmur: when each man can strike, And leave town cabless; each railway station Without a vehicle of any sort To greet the luggage-laden traveller, Until our native hue of resolution Shall sickly o’er with the pale cast of thought The members anxious to get home at night, And force them to repeal the hateful Act. _Judy_, December 11, 1867. ――――:o:―――― THE SOLILOQUY OF A WOULD-BE BLOOMER. Trousers, or no trousers――that is the question; Whether ’tis better on the legs to suffer The dirt and scrapings of bespatter’d crossings, Or to take arms against this present Fashion, And with new dresses, change it? To fix――to change―― No more; and by this change to say we stop Mud splashings, and the thousand natural woes The legs are heir to.――’tis an emendation Devoutly to be wished. To fix――to change―― To change! perchance the gown;――ay, there’s the rub; For in that change of dress what jeers may come When we have shuffled off this flounced coil,―― Must we then pause? Where’s the respect That makes the petticoats for so long rife? For who would bear the great constraint of gowns, The dresses long, the small feet hid thereby, The pangs of tight-laced stays, the waist’s display, The dirtiness of stockings, and the turns The patient follower of fashion takes, When she herself might her own comfort make With pairs of trousers? Who would flounces wear To brush and sweep the mud,――a weary wife,―― But that the dread of some one’s sneering breath,―― That unforgiven sarcasm from whose spurn The maiden e’er recoils,――puzzles the will; And makes us rather wear the dress we have Than change for others that we know not of? Thus custom does make cowards of us all; And thus the very name of resolution Is passed o’er by the frail cant of the law, And novel dresses of great use and beauty Meet no regard: the trousers they despise, And spurn the name of BLOOMER! _The Month_, by ALBERT SMITH and JOHN LEECH, November, 1851. ――――:o:―――― HAMLET ON VACCINATION.