_Sub._ Again capital, my Lord. I will see that the troops have a version that gives the old legend (stolen from us by the English) of "The Song of Sixpence, or a pocketful of Rye-bread," as the real translation. _Rus. Big._ A happy thought! The moral is wholesome. The Monarchical principle is advocated in the approved counting out of money and consumption of bread and honey by their Majesties, and the right of life and death is suggested by the pecking off of the nose of the housemaid while employed in hanging out the clothes! And about the troops--have they been warned that they might some day be expected to give a hated alien an enthusiastic reception? _Sub._ They have, my Lord. And in anticipation of such an occasion, they have been taught for the last six months how to cheer in a whisper. _Rus. Big._ Good! And now to a pleasanter duty. Have you those hundred thousand copies of _Punch_ that were yesterday seized at the frontier? _Sub._ I have, my Lord! _Rus. Big._ (_with fiendish glee_). To Siberia with them! Come, help me to post them! _Sub._ (_trembling_). But, my Lord, should _Punch_ be read by the political prisoners who lie covered with chains in the secret mines under the lowest mountain in the Czar's dominions? What then? _Rus. Big._ (_in an awesome whisper_). Mark me well! In the present pitiable state of the prisoners, such a feast of mirth-compelling waggery would kill them--yes, _kill_ them--with laughter! [_Exeunt stealthily to put this craftily-conceived plot into guilty execution._ * * * * * A NEW LEADER. ["At present the followers are obliged to be amiable because the Leader is amiable. Under the Leader I suggest they would be less amiable, and would be at liberty to say stronger things."--Mr. ATKINSON, M.P., _in the House of Commons_.] _CHORUS OF AMIABLE TORIES._ Hear! hear! Mr. A. We are amiable too, For we follow our amiable Leader, like you; But when forced to say, "Bless you!" we choke with our spleen, And we add, _sotto voce_, "You know what I mean." While we sit spick and span as a picture by FRITH, And contend with our feelings, to please Mr. SMITH. Oh, we pule and we prate, we are nerveless and weak, And we swallow, like _Pistol_, the odorous leek. We palter with truth, and we flatter our foes, And we cringe, and we crawl, and are led by the nose. We are fools soft of speech, and without any pith, For we smother our feelings to suit Mr. SMITH. Time was when a Member who hated the Celt Might detest him aloud and declare what he felt. He might use the crisp words which, if lacking in length, Make up for their shortness by meaning and strength. But now we all fawn on the Celt and his kith, While we smother our feelings to suit Mr. SMITH.