_Mr. Wilkins._ "BEG PARDON, SIR POMPEY, BUT COULD YOU TELL ME WHO THAT YOUNG GEN'L'MAN IS YOU JUST TOOK OFF YER 'AT TO?" _Sir Pompey_ (_pompously_). "HE'S NOT A GENTLEMAN AT ALL, WILKINS. HE'S A NOBLE LORD--THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD VISCOUNT SPEEDICUTTS--A FRIEND OF MINE." _Mr. Wilkins._ "INDEED, SIR POMPEY! BUT, I S'POSE _SOME_ OF 'EM'S GEN'L'MEN, SOMETIMES?"] * * * * * Great consternation at hearing of the arrest of "M. BLONDIN" in connection with the Panama scandals. Of course there can be only _one_ BLONDIN, and some wiseacres at once applied the proverb about "Give him enough rope," &c. But BLONDIN never fell. It was quite another BLONDIN. The Hero of Niagara was not the Villain of the Panama piece--if villain he turn out to be. BLONDIN is still performing; always walking soberly, though elevated, on the rope that is quite tight. Maybe the rope gets tighter than ever at this jovial period, but BLONDIN, _the_ BLONDIN, our BLONDIN'S acts are in the sight of everybody, his proceedings are intelligible to all, though far above the heads of the people. *** Still, whatever financial accident may have happened to M. BLONDIN, he has always kept his balance--on the rope. * * * * * TO CHLORINDA. (_With a Fan._) [Illustration] All in your glory you to-night Will dance, and me they don't invite Your charms to scan; And, as a seal might send its skin To please the girl it may not win, I send a fan. Behind this fan some other man Your hand will hold; Your fearless eyes, so bright and brown, Will hide their gladness, glancing down, No longer cold. And your pale, perfect cheek will take That colour for another's sake, I ne'er controlled,-- Yet, ere you sleep, stray thoughts will creep To days of old. Of old! For in a single day, When love first gilds a maiden's way, The world grows new; And from that new world you will send Sweet pity to the absent friend Who so loved you. Loved--for my love will wither then; I cannot share with other men The dear delight That dwells in your austerest tone, That latent hope of joys unknown-- Though now you will not be my own, Some day you might. My trusted little friend of yore, Of course you'd think my love a bore, It's not romantic: I've passed beyond the football stage, And e'en despair is saved by age From growing frantic. No, like a veteran grim and grey, With sling and crutch, I am but fit to watch the fray Where, in the world-old, witching way, In other hands your fingers stay With lingering touch, That may mean nothing, or it may Mean, oh! so much.