Where lecturers with lanterns make the vice of drinking clear, Where publicans prove amply that our only hope is beer,-- To each and all of these I come, a champion of the cause, And sit imbibing wisdom, and I join in the applause; I join in the applause, and--yes! The Anti-Smoking cranks Invited me, not long ago, to move a vote of thanks! Ah, happy, happy moment, when I stood, composed but proud, And looked at Mr. Chairman, and the hushed, expectant crowd! Yes, Canon FURSE, I thank you for your warning so discreet; Indeed, our education now is wholly incomplete Unless we meet and "sympathise," "insist on," and "deplore," And listen to the prattling Prig, the Faddist, and the Bore! * * * * * HOME FOR ADVERTISERS.--"Puffin Island." Of course this is only for those who find themselves in "many straits." * * * * * [Illustration: DRAWING-ROOM INANITIES. _He._ "I LIVE IN HILL STREET. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?" _She._ "I LIVE IN HILL STREET, TOO." _He (greatly delighted to find they have something in common)._ "_REALLY!_" (_After a moment's hesitation._) "ANY PARTICULAR NUMBER?"] * * * * * THE CHIEF MOURNER. "----Past To where beyond these voices there is Peace." TENNYSON'S "_Guinevere_." Peace! Lo! her hand is on thine heart at last. No boding echoes of the battle-blast, Whose hated sound thy earthly slumbers broke, Shall break the rest whereunto thou hast past. Earth's mightest autocrat, and yet a man Unwitched by War's wrath-stirring rataplan! A phantom haunted thee from the red snows Where with the blood of legions Plevna ran. Where War took on its deadliest, dreadfullest guise, The love of Peace possessed thee. Those closed eyes Frowned back Bellona's long solicitings. Peace smiles on them, though lid on lid now lies. Peace smiles in love, and weeps in true lament, Mourner for one who, worn and trouble-bent, Yet with firm hand held fast the Janus gates, A despot's aid to the dove-carrier lent. Therefore the hearts of freemen to thee warmed Great Autocrat, because the strong man armed, And irresponsible, kept sheathed the sword,-- By Glory's glittering lure unmoved, uncharmed. In uncheered isolation, fear-beset, Who shall divine what longing, what regret, Ached in the heart within that Titan frame, How oft with anguish those stern eyes were wet? Pinnacled in thy peril-compassed post, With Terror like a grey and boding ghost Haunted continually, of what avail The boundless realm, the huge embattled host?-- Of what avail to solace, gladden, bless? From wife's endearment or from child's caress Starting dread shaken, Power sees danger lurk, In Peace more menacing than in War's fierce press.