We are too often painfully reminded that the best of us are but very frail. A very painful case of moral declension has occurred lately. Martin Farquhar Tupper, the great moral philosopher at whose feet all England has sat so long and learnt so much, that great and good man who had discovered a new species of poetry which was neither rhyme nor reason, but all beautiful pure sentiment, has come down to writing rhyme! Happily he has not yet reached the next stage――he has not fallen so low yet as to incur the suspicion of writing reason. But this abandonment of his principles has been, we fear, the result of bad company, for――our heart breaks almost while we pen the words,――but it is too plain, we cannot shut our eyes to the cruel truth――Martin Farquhar Tupper has fallen into the power of Algernon Charles Swinburne!! He, the purest of philosophers, the chosen minstrel of the Evangelical Church, has been studying the words of the erotic Pagan bard, the laureate of Venus and Faustina! We are enabled, by a wonderful effort of clairvoyance, to publish a poem which the modest songster of _The Rock_ has held back, the charming domestic interest and true Protestant flavour of which must commend it to all admirers of Martin Farquhar Tupper:―― GOING TO THE WASH. (_Lines written on Monday morning._) BY M. F. T. I really must look to my washing this week, I must watch how my shirts are got up; For I feel that in matters like this I’m too meek, And I don’t keep my pluck enough up; I ought to be brave, and to speak my mind out, For of sheep, sure the male is a Tup, And I am a Tupper, so quite to the rout I must put Mrs. Sarah Hiccup. Let me see; five fine shirts as ever was seen, Five collars (not paper) to match, With four pairs of socks, some blue and some green, Will make up a beautiful batch; Then of handkerchiefs seven seem semblant to see, And two or three neckties so white! Every clear starcher’s soul will be strangled with glee, When on my sacred things they set sight. Stop, I’ve nearly forgotten two jerseys (quite thin), And two flannel shirts too I vow! In this weather its right to wear flannel next skin, At least I do truly so trow; One nightshirt, if modesty lets me to add, In my list I must also include, I would mention my nightcap, but soberly sad, Society sneers that it’s rude. Mrs. Sarah Hiccup now I hope will take care, And return all the things that I send; But trumpets of treachery tickle the air Till I know not where Treason will end! What if Ritualist robbers should recklessly join My shirts, to make copes with, to seize; Or the pattering Papist my parcel purloin His priests so prehensile to please? _The Tomahawk._ August 22, 1868. ―――― The following excellent parody has been ascribed to Mr. Andrew Lang:―― MR. TUPPER IN THE CLOUDS.