O woman, in our hours of ease. 
  The mockery of false M.P.’s! 
  When an Election comes in sight,
  E’en Ministers admit thy “right.” 
  Believe them not; they do not dote
  On the Political Petticoat. 
  ’Tis all a politic pretence. 
  Some of them are upon the fence;
  Some of them have “political” wives,
  And shirking stings in their home-hives,
  Take up “the Cause” with a sham zeal,
  Which not five in five thousand feel. 
  But hear them over a Club-dinner
  Chuckling about the “pretty sinner”
  Who hankers for that finer Club,
  The House o’ Commons!  There’s the rub! 
  They do not want you there, my dears;
  The prospect of your “franchise” queers
  Wire-pullers’ plans, and party reckoning—­
  Hope, in male guise, stands blandly beckoning. 
  He—­Codlin—­is the friend, not Short,
  But, in his heart he’s making sport. 
  Of course ’tis wickedest of shames,
  But—­recollect Sir HENRY JAMES,
  Your open enemy avowed,
  Did not the House o’ Commons crowd
  Of frauds and shams play up to him,
  And shelve “the Female Franchise” whim
  Only the other day?  Sheer diddle! 
  Have you not nous to read the riddle? 
  How wondrous prompt was W.G. 
  To back up SMITH!  With what sly glee
  The “Woman’s-Rightists” did subside. 
  And—­sub silentio—­let you slide! 
  Your Grand Old Man, dears,—­well, he’s human. 
  He doesn’t want some Grand Old Woman
  As colleague or as rival.  WOODALL? 
  Well, he is gentle, genial, good all;
  But there’s a twinkle in his eye
  Persuades me that he would not die
  Did you consent to drop your “claim.” 
  And now there comes another name
  To raise for Shes the party slogan. 
  Well, trust, dears—­if you like—­to LOGAN;
  He “will support you at all times!”
  Keep your eye on him!  SHAKSPEARE’s rhymes
  Tell you “Men were deceivers ever.” 
  M.P.’s wise, foolish, crass, and clever,
  Are—­nominally—­on your side,
  And—­privately—­your cause deride. 
  Take the straight tip, my dears—­I glean it
  From private talk—­they don’t half mean it!

* * * * *

THE VOLUNTEERS’ FOOTHOLD.—­SHOEBURYNESS.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

BORN, FEB. 22, 1819.  DIED, AUG. 12, 1891.

    “We could not have been prouder of him had he been one of
    us.”—­Times.

  Bard of two worlds, and friend of both,
    As ripe in years as culture, verily
  To miss that voice two worlds are loth,
    In which much wisdom spake so merrily. 
  A voice, and no mere echo, thine,
    Of many tones, but manly ever. 
  Thy rustic Biglow’s rugged line
    A grateful world neglecteth never! 
  It smote hypocrisy and cant
    With flail-like force; sleek