P.S.--A youthful shootist bought the Poppyland book because he thought that it would tell him all about where to go popping. Also a bashful suitor was misled by the title, hoping that in Poppy Land he would learn how to "Pop--the question." The Learned Author has not said one word about the "weasels that go pop," which, of course, are natives of Poppy Land. * * * * * "THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE." [Illustration] It surely sounds a pretty phrase, Some poeesy for woe it wins, Commemorating roundelays And troubadours and mandolins: We seem to view some minstrel-boy Beside his shattered music mute, The shattered string, the ruined joy-- The Rift within the Lute. How swift the slip from tune to twang! Sweets bitter grow, as aye they did; For e'en the Roman poet sang "_Surgit amari aliquid_." Our pigmy worries turn us grey; And sorrows fierce are less acute; Our hearts are riddled every day With Rifts within the Lute. You envy FORTUNATUS--rich-- A charming bride--subservient friends. To rival him were something which The dream of Avarice transcends. That charming bride a mother owns Whom FORTUNATUS brands a brute: She mars his life's entrancing tones-- His Rift within the Lute! Then, PEREGRINE--he journeys far; Unshackled, he by toil's routine: By turns he quaffs a samovar Or sherbet, as he shifts his scene. "Strong as a horse!"--ah! there's the string That snaps asunder--"to recruit." He wanders, manufacturing A Rift within his Lute. And DULCINEA! What a life! Adoring crowds, adornments rare And many fain to call her wife, And sue her smiles in Belgrave Square. And yet her Fetch-and-carry swears He heard her, while he pressed his suit, Sigh, "Bored to desperation!"--there's A Rift within that Lute. What need more trivial ills to quote, The freshly-furnished house that shines, The coxcomb's fashionable coat, Both brushed and polished "to the nines," Both yielding to some fatal flaw; A crack; a fiend who plays the flute; Both, both examples of the law Of Rift within the Lute. Whate'er the dulcet instrument We favour, still the lilt will stop; And with a gorgeous chalice blent Oft lurks the tiny poisoned drop. I'm not so spry myself to-night; I'll try a dose of arrowroot. You'll own that Indigestion's quite A Rift in any Lute! * * * * * "WALKER ART GALLERY."--Show commences this week at Liverpool. _The_ WALKER was a Genius. But is this show all "Walker," or the genuine article? Has Mr. J.L. TOOLE, of _Walker, London_, anything to do with it? No doubt it's quite "'O.K.' WALKER, Liverpool." * * * * *