Ah, it’s a rum world as we all lives in, and in nothink much rummer than in the wunderfool power of a bewtifool face, ah, and as sumbody says, for Wheel or for Wo, jest as it appens, more’s the pitty.

I rayther thinks, as I gathers from the tork of the many yung swells as we has dining here, that they are not altogether what I shoud call a marrying race; they seems to think as there’s allers plenty of time for that sollem seremony when they’re a good deal older.

Ah, of course it isn’t for a poor old Hed Waiter to presume to adwise young and hemenent swells, but my xperiense of uman life teaches me, as the werry werry appiest time of a man’s life is from 30 to about 40, perwided as he has been lucky enuff to secure for hisself a yung, bewtifool, good-tempered, helegant, and ercomplished Bride, to, as the Poet says, harve his sorrows, and dubble his joys.

ROBERT.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  WHAT OUR ARTIST (THE ILLUSTRATOR) HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

Fair Authoress.  “AND, FOR THE FRONTISPIECE, I WANT YOU TO DRAW THE HEROINE STANDING PROUDLY ERECT BY THE SEASHORE, GAZING AT THE STILL IMAGE OF HERSELF IN THE TROUBLED WAVES.  THE SUN IS SETTING; IN THE EAST THE NEW MOON IS RISING—­A THIN CRESCENT.  HER FACE IS THICKLY VEILED; AN UNSHED TEAR IS GLISTENING IN HER BLUE EYE; HER SLENDER, WHITE, JEWELLED HANDS ARE CLENCHED INSIDE HER MUFF.  THE CURLEWS ARE CALLING, UNSEEN—­”

F.A.’s Husband.  “YES; DON’T FORGET THE CURLEWS—­THEY COME IN CAPITALLY!  I CAN LEND YOU A STUFFED ONE, YOU KNOW—­TO DRAW FROM!” &c., &c., &c., &c., &c.]

* * * * *

THE LYING SPIRIT.

  The Lying Spirit!  “Doctrine hard!” some mutter,
    Dictated by unsympathetic scorn;
  A doctrine that on light would draw the shutter,
    And close the opening gateways of the morn. 
  No so; no guiding light would Punch extinguish,
    Or chill true champion of the toiling crowd;
  But wisdom at its kindliest must distinguish
    Between true guides and tricksters false as loud. 
  The blameless King his headlong knights upbraided
    In kindly grief for “following foolish fires,”
  False flames that in mere dun marsh-darkness faded,
    Leaving lost votaries to its mists and mires;
  And here’s an ignis fatuus, fired by folly,
    And moved by violence as fierce as blind;
  The gulf before’s a bourne most melancholy,
    And what of those fast following behind? 
  Well-meaning hearts, maybe, all expectation
    Of glittering gains upon a perilous road,
  Stirred by wild whirling words to keen elation,
    Pricked on by poverty’s imperious goad;
  Hoping,—­as who of hope shall be forbidden?—­
    Striving,—­as who hath not the right to strive?—­
  For flaunted gain through perils shrewdly hidden! 
    Oh, labourers hard in Industry’s