Pars about pictures (by Old Par).—­At the Fine Art Society’s Gallery I gazed upon the pictures of “Many-sided Nature” with great content, and came to the conclusion that Mr. Albert Goodwin was a many-sided artist.  “Now,” said I, quoting SHAKSPEARE—­Old Par’s Improved Edition—­“is the Goodwin of our great content made glorious.”  O.P., who knows every inch of Abingdon, who has gazed upon Hastings from High Wickham, who is intimate with every brick in Dorchester, who loves every reed and ripple on the Thames, and has a considerable knowledge of the Rigi and Venice, can bear witness to the truth of the painter.  There are over seventy pictures—­every one worth looking at.

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“Business!”

[Illustration:  Sweater (to Mr. Punch).  “NO USE YOUR INTERFERING.  BUSINESS IS BUSINESS!”

Mr. P. “YES, AND UNCOMMONLY BAD BUSINESS, TOO, FOR THEM.  COULDN’T THE LARGE FIRMS TAKE A TRIFLE LESS PROFIT, AND PUT A LITTLE PLEASURE INTO THE BUSINESS OF THESE POOR STARVING WORKERS?”]

["Business!” cries the Sweater, when remonstrated with for paying the poor Match-box makers twopence-farthing or twopence-half-penny a gross, whilst his own profits reach 22-1/2 to 25 per cent.—­Daily News.]

PUNCH TO THE SWEATING SHYLOCK.

  Eh?  “Business is business”?  Sheer cant, Sir!  Pure gammon? 
  Of all the inhuman, sham Maxims of Mammon,
    This one is the worst,
  For under its cover lurks cruelty callous,
  With murderous meanness that merits the gallows,
    And avarice accurst.

  Oh, well, I’m aware, Sir, how ruthless rapacity
  Loves to take shelter, with cunning mendacity
    ’Neath an old saw;
  But well says the scribe that such “business” is crime, Sir,
  And such would be but for gaps half the time, Sir,
    ’Twixt justice and law.

  Bah!  Many a man who’s sheer rogue in reality,
  Hides the harsh knave in the mask of “legality.” 
    When ’tis too gross,
  Robbery’s rash, but austere orthodoxies
  Countenance such things as modern match-boxes
    Nine-farthings a gross!

  From seven till ten, and sometimes to eleven,
  For “six bob” a week.  Ah! such life must be heaven;
    Whilst as for your “profit,”
  That’s bound to approach five-and-twenty per cent.,
  That Sweaters shall thrive, let their tools be content
    With starvation in Tophet.

  To starve’s bad enough, but to starve and to work
  (Mrs. LABOUCHERE hints), the most patient may irk;
    And the lady is right—­
  Business?  On brutes who dare mouth such base trash,
  Mr. Punch, who loves justice and sense, lays his lash,
    With the greatest delight.

  He knows the excuses advanced for the Sweater,
  But bad is the best, and, until you find better,
    ’Tis useless to cant
  Of freedom of contract, supply and demand,
  And all the cold sophistries ever on hand
    Sound sense to supplant.