THE ELIGIBLE FAMILY SUPPLY AGENCY have at the present moment applications from several Invalid Gentlemen who require care and solicitude, and will be glad to hear from Widows with an eye to the main chance, and "Superior" Housekeepers desirous of getting hold of an unquestionably good thing. * * * * * [Illustration: HAPPY THOUGHT. _Jones (of Hampstead)._ "THIS IS ONE OF OUR CELEBRATED PONDS. YOU'VE HEARD OF THEM, EH, GRIGSBY?" _Grigsby (who has never been to Hampstead before)._ "_HEARD_ OF 'EM? I SHOULD THINK SO--EVER SINCE I WAS A BOY! WHY, THE _PONDS ASINORUM_, OF COURSE!"] * * * * * THE TWO VOICES. "That this representative body of Working-men, representing the _bonâ fide_ Unemployed Workmen of the East and South-East of London, beg to place on record their entire want of sympathy, and their utter condemnation of the recent conduct which has been made in the name of the Unemployed."--_Resolution passed at a Meeting of Representative Workmen, held in Whitechapel, for the purpose "of considering the present position of the Unemployed Workmen, and the grave events of last week."_ The Unemployed? Well, here I stand, Have stood for many weary weeks, With sinking heart and idle hand, Hunger's white ensign on my cheeks. I raise no howl Like yon plump ruffian with the bull-dog jowl; But the smug swells, with pleasure's honey cloyed, May see in me the real Unemployed! Oh, yes! this hand is used to work, The hardness has not left its palm. I'm no black-coated spouting shirk, Like him upon the tub there. Calm? By Heaven, I choke! Could I but fell the gang at one sharp stroke, Ranters who rail, and roughs who watch for spoil, 'Twere one good blow in the true cause of Toil. How shall I make my poor Voice heard 'Midst this brute shindy, brainless, mad? The slime-deeps of the town are stirred, All that's bloodthirsty, blatant, bad, Comes, surging up; And I--ah! I hang back and drain the cup Of bitter want in silence, blent with shame At this base smirching of a Man's good name. And then the cynic cacklers crow In their snug cushions; crow and cry: "Oh, the whole thing's a farce, you know. The old sham play of Poverty, Pushed just once more Upon the public boards. An awful bore!" So (whilst we starve) the well-fed idlers scoff At the spoilt tragedy, and cry, "Off! Off!" Ah! the sleek fops should take a turn At the long, weary foot-sore tramp, In search of work, till sick hearts burn, Till the cold flags or footways damp, Of London seem The endless mazes of some devilish dream, And tempting visions haunt the fevered head, Of the sharp knife-edge or the river's bed.