* * * * *

NEW NAME.

  Who prizes Literature?  All sorts and sizes
  Of literary wares now hang on “prizes.” 
  ’Tis not prose fictionists or poem-spinners
  The public rush for; no, ’tis “all the winners!”
  Letters in lotteries find support most sure—­
  Let us be frank, and call them Lotteryture!

* * * * *

SUITOR RESARTUS.

A SENTIMENTAL DILEMMA.

[Illustration]

  How can I woo you in this ancient suit? 
    You do not notice it, of course; I know it. 
  My soul is burdened with a shapeless boot,
    Your heart is singing welcome to your poet. 
  Here in the shadowy settle I can sit
    And sparkle with you, brightly confidential,
  But when into the lamp-bright zone you flit,
    I shrink into some corner penitential. 
  A well-dressed crowd, their tailors all unpaid,
    Throng round you there, and cuffs and collars glisten;
  Of pity’s blindness, as of scorn, afraid,
    I shun the merry fray, and darkling listen,
  For who could urge the timidest of suits,
    Conscious of such indifferent clothes and boots?

  You think me quite as good as other men;
    Nay, more, I think you think me vastly better;
  Your candid glances seem to ask me when
    I’ll seek to bind you in a willing fetter. 
  Is this presumption?  Not from friend to friend,
    Whose souls unite like clasping hands of lovers;
  Yet can I breathe no word of love, to end
    The delicate doubt that o’er the unspoken hovers. 
  If I were hopeless that you loved me not,
    My hopeless love, confess’d, myself would flatter,
  But should the blissful dream be true, I wot
    That love confess’d the joy of love would shatter. 
  My Queen, indeed as king I’d love to lord it;
    I cannot tell you that I can’t afford it.

* * * * *

POSSIBLE EXPLANATION:—­“For many months nothing has been heard of Lieutenant IVANITCH,” was the remark of our leading journal a propos of Russian disappearances.  Is it not probable that IVANITCH, unable to find a post to suit him, has gone on tour with a “scratch company”?

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO XVII.

SCENE—­Under the Colonnade of the Hotel Grande Bretagne, Bellagio.  CULCHARD is sitting by one of the pillars, engaged in constructing a sonnet.  On a neighbouring seat a group of smart people are talking over their acquaintances, and near them is another visitor, a Mr. CRAWLEY STRUTT, who is watching his opportunity to strike into the conversation.

Mrs. Hurlingham. Well, she’ll be Lady CHESEPARE some day, when anything happens to the old Earl.  He was looking quite ghastly when we were down at SKYMPINGS last.  But they’re frightfully badly off now, poor dears!  Lady DRIBLETT lets them have her house in Park Lane for parties and that—­but it’s wonderful how they live at all!