In the dark jungle dim and damp
  It lurks, and Civilisation’s tramp
    Disturbs its sanctuary. 
  Hard on the snake?  Perchance, perchance! 
  But Civilisation, to advance,
    Must ruthless be, as wary.

  “Vindictive spirit” of the wild,
  ‘Twixt you and Progress’ pale-faced child
    Fated vendetta rages,
  And Pity’s self stands powerless
  To help you counter with success
    The onset of the ages.

  Long driven, lingeringly you lurk;
  Steel and starvation ply their work
    Of slow extermination. 
  Armed once again Columbia stands,
  And who’d arrest avenging hands,
    Must challenge—­Civilisation.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  MANNERS OF THE BAR.

A SKETCH IN THE LAW COURTS, SHOWING THE PATIENT AND RESPECTFUL ATTENTION OF THE COUNSEL FOR THE PLAINTIFF DURING THE SPEECH OF COUNSEL FOR DEFENDANT.]

* * * * *

The Archbishop of CANTERBURY’s learned judgment in the Lincoln Case was very much after the style in which His Grace parts his hair.  It was a first-rate example of the Via Media.

* * * * *

A PAGE FROM A POSSIBLE DIARY.

(WRITTEN IN THE WILD WEST.)

Monday.—­Well, here I am.  Guess I have got together a pretty tidy Army, that should beat BARNUM into small potatoes.  The Arabs from Earl’s Court will soon go along straight enough.  They seem to miss the Louvre Theatre over yonder, where they were on the free list.  Rather a pity I can’t start a Show here, but I calculate the country is too disturbed.

Tuesday.—­Nothing much doing.  Sent along to SMALL BITE, and he has promised to come round along with a few of the Ghost-Dancers to let me see what I think of them.  Fancy the ballet has been done before.  That clever cuss GUS, must have used it at Covent Garden when he put up Robert the Devil.  It seems like the Nun Ballet—­uncommonly.

Wednesday.—­SMALL BITE is here.  He’s friendly enough, but his terms are too high.  Fancy they must have been trying to annex him for the Aquarium.  The Ghost-Dance is a fraud.  Nothing in it.  Might fake it up a bit with national flags and red fire.  But it’s decidedly disappointing.  Altogether small pumpkins.

Thursday.—­Settlers want to know when I am going to begin.  They are always in such a darned hurry.  They ought to know I am the hero of a hundred fights (see my Autobiography—­a few copies of which may still be had at the almost nominal price of half-a-dollar) and should rely on me accordingly.  Am to visit the Indian Camp to-morrow.

Friday.—­Terms agreed.  SMALL BITE and fifty braves engage themselves for six months certain, sharing terms, travelling exes, and one clear benefit.  I find front of the curtain and advertising, they provide entertainment, which is to include Ghost-Dance (with banners and red fire) religious rites, war-dance, and scalping expedition with incidentals (SMALL BITE says he knows “some useful knockabout niggers”) and procession in and out of towns.  Think I can boom it.