But dress is, after all her dream, Her veritable passion. Her costume’s always an extreme, A nightmare of the fashion. The style that now-a-days we know, Has from the first revealed her As ruthlessly as long ago Its opposite concealed her. She waltzes well, she does not sing, She loves to chatter, chatter Of anything and everything―― It really doesn’t matter! She skims a novel now and then To get at the sensations, And thinks Invention made the pen To answer invitations. Her little head’s so vain and light It whirls in all directions, And yet you smile on her, despite Her host of imperfections. Her heaven is one of summer skies, And dreams that bloom to wither, And like a love bird, when she dies, Her little soul will thither. _London_, 1877. ――――:o:―――― SOMETHING PRAEDESQUE. I’ve many sweethearts; which shall I Make just a pretty bit of rhyme to, Now as the midnight moments fly, And I have the caprice and time to? “Be,” says my editor, “Praedesque: That is, omit the fiery particle.” He thinks my heart is in my desk―― Indeed, I have not such an article. And of my sweethearts, one or two Would almost fly into a passion, If I desired their lips to woo In that old easy worn-out fashion. Praed, though no poet, had some power; He is defaced by many a mocker: I’m criminal this very hour, And so is Dobson, so is Locker. “O give us something new and fresh!” The girls exclaim, they’re right, the beauties, To catch their hearts in merrier mesh Is chiefest of a lover’s duties. How easy is this rambling rhyme! Eight syllables, with rhymes that double; It makes one fancy at the time That neither rhyme nor love’s a trouble. No trouble ’tis to scribble off Verse to the girls you little care for; To flatter, satirize, or scoff, Amused, and hardly knowing wherefore. But love――or hate――or be afraid Of any woman … when you greet her, It won’t be in the rhythm of Praed; You’ll have to find Peculiar Metre. MORTIMER COLLINS. ――――:o:―――― LONDON’S ‘SUEZ CANAL.’ What pretty girls one sees about At rink and race, at ball and rout, At drums and dinners! In books, where Ænids find Geraints, In pictures Mr. Millais paints In church――I’m fond of such young saints And sinners. A score at least one’s sure to meet From Charing Cross to Oxford Street, Or climbing hilly St. James’s, where of clubdom sick, Old fogeys voted at old nick, Fond glances turn at four towards Pic- ――cadilly. Muse-favored haunt of all that’s gay! Whose every stone has had its day Of loves and graces! Your triumphs many a bard can tell, Fred Locker sings them passing well―― I know you bear away the bell For faces.