What wonder if the Horror, homaged thus
  By frenzied eagerness and foolish fuss,
  Swells to a hideous self-importance, struts
  In conscious dignity, and gladly gluts
  With vanity’s fantastic tricks the herd
  Whose pulses first by murderous crime it stirred. 
  Narcissus-like, the slayer bends to trace
  Within Sensation’s flowing stream its face,
  And, self-enamoured, smiles a loathsome smile
  Of fatuous conceit and gloating guile;
  Laughs at the shadow of the lifted knife,
  And thinks of all things save its victim’s life. 
  The “Noisy Nymph,” the Echo of our times,
  The gossip, with an eager ear for crimes,
  Lurks, half-admiring, all-recording there,
  Watching Narcissus with persistent stare,
  And ready note-book.  Nothing but a Voice? 
  No, but its babblings travel, and rejoice
  A myriad prurient ears with noisome news,
  Fit only for the shambles and the stews. 
  These hear, admire, and sometimes imitate!—­

  Narcissus is a danger to the State,
  And Echo hardly less.  Vain-glorious crime;
  That pestilent portent of a morbid time,
  Would flourish less could sense or law avail
  To strangle coarse Sensation’s clamorous tale,
  Silence the “Noisy Nymph,” for half crime’s ill
  Would end were babbling Echo’s voice but still.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “THE MISSING CIPHER.”

“OH, PAPA, ONLY FIFTY POUNDS FROM SIR GORGIUS MIDAS!  SUCH A MILLIONAIRE—­WHY HE OUGHT TO HAVE SENT FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS AT LEAST!”

“AH, I’M AFRAID HE FORGOT THE OUGHT, MY DEAR!”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE NEWEST NARCISSUS; OR, THE HERO OF OUR DAYS.]

* * * * *

FETTERED.—­In reply to the Unemployed Deputation which found employment in paying a visit to the L.C.C. at Spring Gardens, Messrs. BURNS and BEN TILLETT (Alderman) intimated that as Mr. POWER, the U.D.’s spokesman, was not a member of the L.C.C., that body was Power-less to assist them in their trouble.  A nasty time of it had the Labour Candidates on this occasion.  Nothing like putting men of Radical revolutionary tendencies into responsible positions.

* * * * *

A SHADY VALET.—­One DONALD CROSS was a Valet in the service of an absent master, whose best clothes and jewellery DONALD wore, while he kept his flat well aired by giving little supper-parties to young ladies who took him at his own valuation,—­for a very superior swell.  Alas! he was but a valet de sham!  “Cross purposes,” but Magistrate “disposes”; and the once happy Valet is in the shade for the next six months.

* * * * *

IN FANCY DRESS.

A SKETCH AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE.