Then methought the air grew denser.  I remembered stout Earl SPENCER,
And the silly pseudo-Seraph who “obstructed” him of yore;
I remembered Maamtrasma, faction, partisan miasma,
CHURCHILL—­CHURCHILL and his henchman, lank and languorous BALFOUR. 
“What,” I cried, “was ARTHUR, then, or RANDOLPH, in those days of yore?”

                        Quoth the bird, “Obstructive Bore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “of things evil, prophet callous, cold, uncivil,
By your favourite ‘Tu quoque’ how can you expect to score? 
Though your cheek may be undaunted, little memory is wanted,
And your conscience must be haunted by bad memories of yore,
When you were—­ah! well, what were you?  Tell me frankly, I implore!”

                        Quoth the bird, “Obstructive Bore.”

“Prophet,” said I, “of all evil! that we’re going to the devil
All along of that ’Obstruction’—­which of old you did adore. 
Ere you won official Aidenn—­is the charge with which is laden
Every cackling speech you make—­if you do represent BALFOUR,
That mature and minxish ‘maiden’ whom the PATS call ‘Miss BALFOUR,’”—­

                        Quoth the bird, “Obstructive Bore!”

“Here! ’tis time you were departing, bird or not,” I cried, upstarting;
“Get you back unto the Carlton, they on parrot-cries set store. 
Leave no feather as a token of the lies that you have spoken
Of the Man, Grand, Old, Unbroken!  Quit his bust above my door. 
Take thy claws from off his crown, and take thy beak from off my door!”

                        Quoth the bird, “Obstructive Bore!”

And the Jackdaw, fowl provoking, still is croaking, still is croaking,
On the pallid bust of GLADSTONE just above my study door,
And his eyes have all the seeming of a small attorney scheming;
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And the shape cut by that shadow which lies floating on the floor,

                        Looks (to me) OBSTRUCTIVE BORE!

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

SUBMARINE ENTERPRISE.—­It is a pity, perhaps, that on the very first occasion which enabled you to submit, for an experimental trial, to the Dockyard Authorities at Portsmouth, your newly-designed Self-sinking and Propelling Submarine Electric Gun Brig, your vessel, owing, as you say, “to some trifling, though quite unforeseen, hitch in the machinery,” should have immediately turned over on its side, upsetting a quantity of red-hot coal from the stoke-hole, and projecting a stifling rush of steam among the four foreign captains, and the two scientific experts whom you had induced to accompany you in your projected descent under the bottoms of the three first-class