Deep in a murky hole, Cavernous, untransparent, fetid, dank, The demiurgus of the servants' hall, The scuttle-bearing buttons, boon and blank And grimy loads his evening load of coals, Filled with respect for the cook's and butler's rank, Lo, the round cook half fills the hot retreat, Her kitchen, where the odours of the meat, The cabbage and sweets all merge as in a pall, The stale unsavoury remnants of the feast. Here, with abounding confluences of onion, Whose vastitudes of perfume tear the soul In wish of the not unpotatoed stew, They float and fade and flutter like morning dew. And all the copper pots and pans in line, A burnished army of bright utensils, shine; And the stern butler heedless of his bunion Looks happy, and the tabby-cat of the house Forgets the elusive, but recurrent mouse And purrs and dreams; And in his corner the black-beetle seems A plumed Black Prince arrayed in gleaming mail; Whereat the shrinking scullery-maid grows pale, And flies for succour to THOMAS of the calves, Who, doing nought by halves, Circles a gallant arm about her waist, And takes unflinching the cheek-slap of the chaste And giggling fair, nor counts his labour lost. Then, beer, beer, beer. Spume-headed, bitter, golden like the gold Buried by cutlassed pirates tempest-tossed, Red-capped, immitigable, over-bold With blood and rapine, spreaders of fire and fear. The kitchen table Is figured with the ancient, circular stains Of the pint-pot's bottom; beer is all the go. And every soul in the servants' hall is able To drink his pint or hers until they grow Glorious with golden beer, and count as gains The glowing draughts that presage morning pains. * * * * * [Illustration: QUITE UNANSWERABLE. _Ethel._ "MAMMY DEAR! WHY DO YOU POWDER YOUR FACE, AND WHY DOES THOMAS POWDER HIS HAIR? I DON'T DO EITHER!"] * * * * * EPISCOPACY IN DANGER.--_Mr. Punch_ congratulates Dr. PEROWNE, Bishop of Worcester, on his narrow fire-escape some days ago, when his lawn sleeves (a costume more appropriate for a garden-party than a pulpit) caught fire. It was extinguished by a bold Churchwarden. In future let Churchwardens be prepared with hose whenever a prelate runs any chance of ignition from his own "burning eloquence." If _Mr. Punch's_ advice as above is acted upon, a Bishop if "put out" may probably mutter, "Darn your hose." But this can be easily explained away. * * * * * BETTER AND BETTER.--The Report last week about Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN was that "he hopes to go to the country shortly." So do our political parties. Sir ARTHUR cannot restrain himself from writing new and original music at a rapid pace. This, is a consequence of his having taken so many composing draughts. * * * * *