Along the boulevard's busy curb That bristles bravely with _étrennes_, A thing has threatened to disturb The careless _vie parisienne;_ It isn't spies or journalist blackmailers, It is the question of monarchic tailors. For lo! from _perfide Albion_ Has lately come a ducal note With patterns for a _pantalon_ And therewithal a _redingote;_ (Observe, in passing, that the royal _billet_ Says nothing of the corresponding _gilet_). Now while in matters of the gown The _monde_ of Paris sets the _mode_, Their gay _flâneurs_ that paint the town Long since affect a foreign code, Developing in fact a steady passion For dressing in the latest London fashion. With any perfect patriot How bitterly it stirs the bile, This craze for being clothed in what Is thought to be the English style; It makes the language of his heated brain Occasionally verge on the profane. And now the Exile, armed with red Hot coals of living anthracite, Projects them on his country's head, And more in pity than in spite Bids France that hunted him and his like rabbits Henceforth to execute his daily habits. Some fancy, romping at results, The constitution's overthrow, A view unworthy of adults, According to the _Figaro;_ It makes a democrat extremely nettled. To hear the thing is practically settled. Of course there may be something in That strange omission of the vest, Yet were it little short of sin To lay this unction to the breast; A person isn't worth a paltry _filet_ Who stakes the Third Republic on a _gilet_. There lacks, you see, a final law To guide in France the statesman's game The casual ignited straw Will set the camel's hump aflame; A _redingote_ may raise enough _éclat_ To bring about a pretty _coup d'état_. * * * * * [Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT. THE REHEARSAL; OR, PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT. "Lord H-LSB-RY will be the principal guest at a smoking 'At Home,' Jan. 25th, at the W-stm-nst-r P-l-ce Hotel."--_Daily Paper._] * * * * * A GENTLE HINT TO THE JUBILANT JAP. There is a Jappy land Far, far away, Where Art they understand; None more than they. Now in fair battle's ring They've pummelled poor PING-WING, All men their praises sing Who've won the day. Bright in that Jappy land Beams every eye. But, though their pluck be grand, Bar-bar-i-ty Their choicest gifts will mar, Blood stains their rising star, Foul slaughter is not war. Fie, Jappy, fie! * * * * * A CABINET SECRET. (_Fragment for the Historian of the Future._) [After the Cabinet several of the Ministers present took luncheon with the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER.--_Daily Paper._]