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A PORTIA A LA RUSSE.

["I repeat that a great military Power, having at her disposal an army of two millions of well-disciplined and drilled soldiers, whom no European country dares to attack single-handed, can face calmly, and even good-humouredly, both the wild attacks of unscrupulous publicists, and mistaken protests of philanthropic meetings, though these be as imposing and brilliant as the Lord Mayor’s Show itself.”—­Madame Novikoff’s Letter to the “Times,” on “The Jews in Russia."]

  The quality of mercy is o’erstrained,
  It droppeth twaddle-like from Lord Mayor’s lips
  Upon a Russian ear:  strength is twice scornful,
  Scornful of him it smites, and him who prates
  Of mercy for the smitten:  force becomes
  The throned monarch better than chopped logic;
  His argument’s—­two millions of armed men,
  Which strike with awe and with timidity
  Prating philanthropy that pecks at kings. 
  But Mercy is beneath the Sceptre’s care,
  It is a bugbear to the hearts of Czars. 
  Force is the attribute of the “God of Battles”;
  And earthly power does then show likest heaven’s
  When Justice mocks at Mercy.  Therefore, Jew,
  Though mercy be thy prayer, consider this,
  That in the course of mercy few of us,
  Muscovite Czars, or she-diplomatists. 
  Should hold our places as imperious Slavs
  Against humanitarian Englishmen,
  And Jews gregarious. These do pray for Mercy,
  Whose ancient Books instruct us all to render
  Eye for eye justice!  Most impertinent! 
  Romanist Marquis, Presbyterian Duke,
  And Anglican Archbishop, mustered up
  With Tabernacular Tubthumper, gowned Taffy,
  And broad-burred Boanerges from the North,
  Mingled with Pantheist bards, Agnostic Peers,
  And lawyers latitudinarian,—­
  Lord Mayor’s Show of Paul Pry pageantry,
  All to play Mentor to the Muscovite! 
  Master of many millions!  Oh, most monstrous! 
  Are we Turk dogs that they should do this thing? 
  In name of Mercy!!!

            I have writ so much,
  As ADLER says, with “dainty keen-edged dagger,”
  To mitigate humanity’s indignation. 
  With airy epigram, and show old friends,
  GLADSTONE, and WESTMINSTER, MACCOLL and STEAD,
  That OLGA NOVIKOFF is still O.K. 
  A Portia—­a la Russe!  Have I not proved it?

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DIAMONDS ARE TRUMPS!

[The ladies, who are learning Whist in New York, do not, says the Daily News, worry much about the rules, but rather use the old-fashioned game as an opportunity for exhibiting their diamond rings, &c.]

  I played the other day at Whist,
    My partner was a comely maiden,
  Her eyes so blue, her pretty wrist
    With bracelets and with bangles laden,
  She wore about ten thousand pounds,
    Each finger had its priceless jewel,
  She was, in fact, ablaze—­but zounds! 
    Her play, indeed, was “something cruel.”