We was remarkably fortnate in cumming back, as it didn't rain near so much as it did in the morning, and quite left off jest as we got home. My sweet darling didn't grumbel a bit at me for giving her such a reglar damper for her birthday, but the werry larst thing as she did say that night was, "Thank you, ROBERT dear, for your little holliday, but I think that we won't spend my next buthday at the Darby!" ROBERT. * * * * * [Illustration: THE SERGEANT-AT-ARMS' DREAM OF THE BAR OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. (_If Delegates from everywhere are allowed to appear there, and air their grievances._)] * * * * * THE COLISEUM--AT CHICAGO! (_IMITATED--AT A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE--FROM_ E.A. POE.) ["It is stated that a Syndicate of American Capitalists has been formed with the object of purchasing the remains of the Coliseum at Rome, and transporting them to Chicago."] "_BARTERED_ TO MAKE A _YANKEE_ HOLIDAY." I. Type of wolf-nurtured Rome! Rich reliquary Of splendour (and of slaughter) left to Time, By centuries of ante-Yankee pomp! At length--at length--after so many days, Of ruined majesty, and rotting pride (Pride which Chicago will transmute to dollars), There is a chance for you, a right smart chance, Of turning to some profitable end Thy size, thine age, thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! II. Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! Where are ye now? POE said _he_ felt your strength, But POE was but a poet. Better far Be turned to "bizness" in a dime Museum, Or trotted out, for cents, at the World's Fair Than rot away beneath Rome's ruddy stars! III. Here a smart Syndicate shall set you up, Here, where we slaughter swine as Rome did slaves, (A sanguine carnival of sausage-meat), Here, where Chicago belles their braided hair Pile in Greek knots,--to gaze on brawn and gristle! Here, where in gilded cars the pork-kings loll, Driven Mammon-like unto their marble homes, Lit by the wan light of the electric arc, Swift-wheeled and silent-tyred o'er wood or stone. IV. You'll _pay_! These walls--these ivy-clad arcades-- These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts-- These vague entablatures--this wreck--this ruin-- Are worth the carriage o'er the Atlantic foam, And the tall price that Italy will ask,-- _If_ she should cell you to Porkopolis! V.