Second Mem. of the Pub. (in a voice of thunder).  Silence!  You are an impudent set!  You are calculated to injure the class to whom you belong!  I am ashamed of you!

First Emp. And who may you be?

Second Mem. of the Pub. Whom may I be?  I will tell you! (Throws off his disguise.) I am the Postmaster-General!!!

    [Scene closes in upon a tableau suggestive of astonishment,
    contrition and excitement.

* * * * *

ITS LATEST APPLICATION.—­Chorus for Royal Academicians, for Monday next:—­“Ta-R.A.-R.A.-Boom-to-day!”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  HISTORY EXAMS.

(Effects on Education of Modern Advertising.)

“WHO WAS BORN IN CORSICA?” (Silence.) “TRY AND THINK—­AND DIED IN ST. HELENA?”

“OH, OF COURSE—­I KNOW!  THE GREAT SAPOLIO!”]

* * * * *

TO THE NEW “QUEEN OF THE MAY”.

(A HYMN OF HONEST LABOUR.)

After the Proclamation of the Anarchist Manifestoes, (With Apologies to the Author of the magnificent “Hymn to Proserpine.")

["For the third time the International mobilises its battalions....  Already the mere mention of the magical word ‘May-Day’ throws the bourgeoisie into a state of nervous trembling, and its cowardice only finds refuge in cynicism and ferocity.  But whether the wretch (the bourgeoisie) likes it or not, the end draws nigh.  Capitalist robbery is going to perish in mud and shame....  The conscious proletariat organises itself, and marches towards its emancipation.  You can have it all your own way presently; proletarians of the whole world, serfs of the factory, the men of the workshop, the office, and the shop, who are mercilessly exploited and pitilessly assassinated....  For, lo! ’93 reappears on the horizon....  ’Vive l’Internationale des Travailleurs!’”—­Manifesto of the May-Day Labour Demonstration Executive Committee.]

  Have we lived long enough to have seen one thing, that hate hath
          no end? 
  Goddess, and maiden, and queen, must we hail you as Labour’s
          true friend?—­
  Will you give us a prosperous morrow, and comfort the millions who
          weep? 
  Will you give them joy for their sorrow, sweet labour, and
          satisfied sleep? 
  Sweet is the fragrance of flowers, and soft are the wings of the
          dove,
  And no goodlier gift is there given than the dower of brotherly
          love;
  But you, O May-Day Medusa, whose glance makes the heart turn cold,
  Art a bitter Goddess to follow, a terrible Queen to behold. 
  We are sick of spouting—­the words burn deep and chafe:  we are fain,
  To rest a little from clap-trap, and probe the wild promise of gain. 
  For new gods we know not of are acclaimed