EMBARRAS DE RICHESSES.

["The Bank Return shows considerable additions to the reserve and the stock of bullion.""Times," on "Money Market."]

RICHER Old Lady you'll not meet,
Than this one, of Threadneedle Street.
Nicer Old Lady none, nor neater,
But, like the boy in Struwwelpeter,
That whilom chubby, ruddy lad,

The dear old dame looks sour and sad;
Nay, long time hath she seemed dejected,
And her once fancied fare rejected.

She screams out-"Take the gold away!
Oh, take the nasty stuff away!

I won't have any gold to-day."

This Dame, like Danaë of old

Has long been wooed in showers of gold,

By Jupiters of high finance;

But, sick of that cold sustenance,

Or surfeited, or cross, or ill,
The dear Old Lady cries out still-
"Not any gold for me, I say!
Oh, take the nasty stuff away!!
I won't have any more to-day!!!"
And on my word it is small wonder,
For in her spacious house, and under,
Of bullion she hath boundless store,
And scarcely can find room for more.
Filled every pocket, purse, safe, coffer.
And still the crowds crush round and offer
Their useless, troublesome deposits,
To cram her cupboards, choke her closets.
What marvel then that she should say-
"Oh, take the nasty stuff away!
I won't have any more to-day!!"
The poor Old Lady once felt pride as
A sort of modern Mrs. Midas;
For all she touches turns to gold
Within her all-embracing hold;
Gold solid as the golden leg

Of opulent Miss Kilmansegge,

But, like that lady, poor-rich, luckless,

She values now the yellow muck less,
Though once scraped up with assiduity,
Because of its sheer superfluity.

It blocks her way, it checks the breath of her;

She dreads lest it should be the death of her.

With bullion she could build a Babel,

So screams, as loud as she is able,

"Not any more, good friends, I say!

For goodness gracious go away!!

I won't take any more to day!!!"

They beg, they pray, they strive to wheedle
The Old Lady of the Street Threadneedle.
The cry is still they come! they come!
Men worth a "million" or a "plum,"
The "goblin," or the "merry monk"
Constantly chinketh, chink-chank-chunk!
In "Gladstone" or in canvas bag;
But sourly she doth eye the "swag,
Peevishly gathers round her skirt,
As though the gold were yellow dirt.
Crying, "Oh, get away now, do!
I'm really getting sick of you.
The proffered stuff' I must refuse;
I have far more than I can use.
I've no more need or wish for money
Than a surfeited bee for honey.
Money's a drug, a nauseous dose.
At cash the Market cocks its nose.
'Tis useless as the buried talent,
Or the half-crown to a poor pal lent;
As gilded oats to hungry nag.
Away with bulging purse and bag!
They are a bother and a pest.
I will not store, I can't invest.
With your old stocking' be content,
I can't afford you One per Cent.
Bullion's a burden and a bore.
I cannot do with any more!
Not any more for me, I say
Oh, take the nasty stuff away
I won't have any gold to-day!!!"

THE NEW AIR.

(To an Old Tune.)

O RAYLEIGH now, this raelly strange is This New Nitrogen!

Air that into water changes

Seem not new to men,

(All our atmosphere this summer
Has been "heavy wet,")

But sheer solid air seems rummer,
More Munchausenish yet!
New things now are awfully common;
And it seems but fair,

With New Humour, Art, and Woman,
We should have New Air.
"Lazy air," one calls it gaily;
Seasonable, very!

Will it quiet us, dear RAYLEIGH,
Soothe us, make us merry?

LYRE AND LANCET.

(A Story in Scenes.)

PART VIII.-SURPRISES-AGREEABLE AND OTHERWISE. SCENE XIII.-The Amber Boudoir. Sir RUPERT has just entered. Sir Rupert. Ha, MAISIE, my dear, glad to see you. Well, RoHESIA, how are you, eh? You're looking uncommonly well! No idea you were here!

Spurrell (to himself). Sir RUPERT! He'll have me out of this pretty soon, I expect!

Lady Cantire aggrieved). We have been in the house for the best part of an hour, RUPERT as you might have discovered by inquiring-but no doubt you preferred your comfort to welcoming a guest who was merely your sister!

Sir Rup. (to himself). Beginning already! (Aloud.) sorry-got rather wet riding-had to change everything. And I knew ALBINIA was here.

Lady Cant. (magnanimously). Well, we won't begin to quarrel the moment we meet; and you are forgetting your other guest. (In an undertone.) Mr. SPURRELL the Poet-wrote Andromeda. (Aloud.) Mr. SPURRELL, come and let me present you to my brother.

Sir Rup. Ah, how d'ye do? (To himself, as he shakes hands.) What the deuce am I to say to this fellow? (Aloud.) Glad to see you here, Mr. SPURRELL-heard all about you-Andromeda, eh? Hope you'll manage to amuse yourself while you're with us; afraid there's not much you can do now though. Spurr. (to himself). Horse in a bad way; time they let me see it. (Aloud.) Well, we must see, Sir; I'll do all I can.

Sir Rup. You see, the shooting 's done now.

Spurr. (to himself, professionally piqued). They might have waited till I'd seen the horse before they shot him! After calling me in like this! (Aloud.) Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Sir RUPERT. I wish I could have got here earlier, I'm sure.

Sir Rup. Wish we'd asked you a month ago, if you're fond of shooting. Thought you might look down on Sport, perhaps.

Spurr. (to himself). Sport? Why, he's talking of birds-not the horse! (Aloud.) Me, Sir RUPERT ? Not much! I'm as keen on a day's gunning as any man, though I don't often get the chance now.

Sir Rup. (to himself, pleased). Come, he don't seem strong against the Game Laws! (Aloud.) Thought you didn't look as if you sat over your desk all day! There's hunting still, of course. Don't know whether you ride?

Spurr. Rather so, Sir! Why, I was born and bred in a sporting county, and as long as my old uncle was alive, I could go down to his farm and get a run with the hounds now and again.

Sir Rup. (delighted). Capital! Well, our next meet is on Tuesday-best part of the country; nearly all grass, and nice clean post and rails. You must stay over for it. Got a mare that will carry your

Spurr. I wouldn't back him myself. I know something that's safe to win, bar accidents-a dead cert, Sir! Got the tip straight from the stables. You just take my advice, and pile all you can on Jumping Joan. Capt. Thick. (later, to himself, after a long and highly interesting conversation). Thunderin' clever chap-never knew poets were such clever chaps. Might be a "bookie," by Gad! No wonder MAISIE thinks such a lot of him! [He sighs.

Sir Rup. (returning). Now, Mr. SPURRELL, if you'll come upstairs with me, I'll show you your quarters. By the way, I've made inquiries about your luggage, and I think you'll find it's all right. (As he leads the way up the staircase.) Rather awkward for you if you'd had to come down to dinner just as you are, eh?

Spurr. (to himself). Oh, lor, my beastly bag has come after all! Now they'll know I didn't bring a dress suit. What an owl I was to tell him! (Aloud, feebly.) Oh-er-very awkward indeed, Sir RUPERT!

Sir Rup. (stopping at a bedroom door). Verney Chamber-here you are. Ah, my wife forgot to have your name put up on the door-better do it now, eh? (He writes it on the card in the door-plate.) There -well, hope you'll find it all comfortable-we dine at eight, you know. You 've plenty of time for all you've got to do!

Spurr. (to himself). If I only knew what to do! I shall never have the cheek to come down as I am!

[He enters the Verney Chamber dejectedly. SCENE XIV.-An Upper Corridor in the East Wing. Steward's Room Boy (to UNDERSHELL). This is your room, Sir-you'll find a fire lit and all.

Undershell (scathingly). A fire? For me! I scarcely expected such an indulgence. You are sure there's no mistake?

Boy. This is the room I was told, Sir. You'll find candles on the mantelpiece, and matches.

Und. Every luxury indeed! I am pamperedpampered!

Boy. Yes, Sir. And I was to say as supper's at

you in the Pugs' Parlour whenever you pleased to come down and set there.

Und. The Pugs' Parlour?

Boy. What we call the 'Ousekeeper's Room, among ourselves, Sir. Und. Mrs. POMFRET does me too much honour. And shall I have the satisfaction of seeing your intelligent countenance at the festive board, my lad ?

Boy (giggling). Lor, Sir, I don't set down to meals along with the upper servants, Sir!

Und. And I-a mere man of genius-do! These distinctions must strike you as most arbitrary; but restrain any natural envy, my young friend. I assure you I am not puffed up by this promotion! Boy. No, sir. (To himself, as he goes out.) I believe he's a bit dotty, I do. I don't understand a word he's been talking of!

SCENE XV.-The Verney Chamber. Spurr. (to himself). My word, what a room! Carpet all over the

walls, big fourposter, carved ceiling, great fireplace with blazing logs, if this is how they do a vet here, what price the other fellows' rooms? And to think I shall have to do without dinner, just when I was getting on with 'em all so swimmingly! I must. I can't, for the credit of the profession-to say nothing of the firm-turn up in a monkey jacket and tweed bags, and that's all I've got except a nightgown!... It's all very well for Lady MAISIE to say "Take everything as it comes," but if she was in my fix! And it isn't as if I hadn't got dress things either. If only I'd brought 'em down, I'd have marched in to dinner as cool as a (he lights a pair of candles.) Hullo! What's that on the bed? (He approaches it.) Shirt! white tie! socks! coat, waistcoat, trousers-they are dress clothes!... And here's a pair of brushes on the table! I'll swear they're not mine-there's a monogram on them-"U. G." What does it all mean? Why, of course! regular old trump, Sir RUPERT, and naturally he wants me to do him credit. He saw how it was, and he's gone and rigged me out! In a house like this, they're ready for emergencies-keep all sizes in stock, I daresay. It isn't" U. G." on the brushes-it's "G. U."-"Guest's Use." Well, this is what I call doing the thing in style! Cinderella's nothing to it! Only hope they're a decent fit. (Later, as he dresses.) Come, the shirt's all right; trousers a trifle short-but they'll let down; waistcoat-whew must undo the buckle-hang it, it is undone! I feel like a hooped barrel in it! Now the coat-easy does it. Well, it's on; but I shall have to be peeled like a walnut to get it off again. Shoes? ah, here they are-pair of pumps. Phew-must have come from the Torture Exhibition in Leicester Square; glass slippers nothing to 'em! But they'll have to do at a pinch; and they do pinch like blazes! Ha, ha, that's good! I must tell that to the Captain. (He looks at himself in a mirror.) Well, I can't say they're up to mine for cut and general style; but they're passable. And now I'll go down to the Drawing Room and get on terms with all the smarties! [He saunters out with restored complacency.

• ..

...

SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF LITERATURE THE first annual meeting of this society, which, as our readers will remember, has been in process of formation for some years past, was held yesterday. We cannot congratulate the society on its decision

to exclude reporters. It is true that our representative, on seeking admission, was informed that his presence would be unnecessary, as members of the society, having for some time past done their own reviewing, intended for the future to report themselves. The public, however, whose eager interest in literature is sufficiently attested not only by the literary page of democratic newspapers, but by the columns which even reactionary journals devote to higher criticism and literary snippets-the public, we say, will not brook this absurd plea, and will refuse to accept any but an impartial report of a gathering such as was held yesterday. This we have obtained, and we now proceed to publish it for the benefit of the world.

The meeting opened with a prayer of two thousand words specially written for the occasion by Mr. RICHARD L- G-LLI-NNE in collaboration with Mr. ROBERT B-CH-N-N. As this is shortly to be published in the form of a joint letter to the Daily Chronicle it is only necessary to say at present that it combines vigour of expression with delicacy of sentiment and grace of style in the very highest degree. By the way, we may mention that the new Prayer-book of the Society is to be published by Messrs. E-K-N M-TTH-WS and J-HN L-NE, at the "Bodley Head," before the end of the year. It will be profusely illustrated by Messrs. A-BR-Y B-ARD-L-Y and W-LT-R S-CK-RT, who have also designed for it a special fancy cover. Only three hundred copies will be issued. To return, however, to the meeting.

After harmony had been restored, Mr. W-LT-R B-S-NT asked leave to say a few words. His remarks, in which he was understood to advocate the compulsory expropriation of publishers, were at first listened to with favour. Happening incautiously to say a word or two in praise of a Mr. DICKENS and a Mr. THACKERAY he was groaned down after a sturdy struggle. Mr. DICKENS and Mr. THACKERAY were not, we understand, present in the room at the time.

Mr. H-B-RT CR-CK-NTH-RPE rose and denounced the previous speaker. Literature, he declared, must be vague. What was the use of knowing what you were driving at? What was the use of anyone knowing anything? Personally he didn't mean to know

more than he could help, and he could assure the meeting that he could help a great deal; yes, he could help his fellow-creatures to a right understanding of the value of patchwork and jerks. That was the religion of humanity.

Mr. N-RM-N G-LE said he wasn't much good speaking, but he could do something in the dairy and orchard style. He then gave the following example:Enter CELIA, robed in white, CELIA's been a-milking. CELIA daily doth indite

Praises to the Pill-king.

CELIA's flocks and CELIA's herds
(Only she can teach 'em)
All produce their cream and curds,
Helped by Mr. В-CH-M.

editor, who is not often a victim to mere sentiment, said it reminded A loud cheer greeted the recital of this charming pastoral, and one him of his happy childhood, when he used to take Dr. GREGORY'S powders after a day spent in the neighbouring farmer's orchard. must be GEORGES. GEORGE SAND and GEORGE ELIOT were women The next speaker was G-ORGE EG-RT-N. All women, she said, she believed. GEORGE MEREDITH was an exception, but that only proved her rule. Women were a miserable lot: it was their own fault. Why marry? ("Hear, hear," from Mrs. MONA CAIRD.) Why be born at all? She paused for a reply.

At this point Mr. W. T. ST-AD entered the room and offered to talk about "JULIA in Chicago," but the meeting broke up in confusion, without the customary vote of thanks to the Chair.

66

near

Not at all, Sir," replied the Minister, graciously. "On the contrary, in the name of the people of Utopia, I beg to offer you my sincere thanks."

"For what?" queried the Duke.

66

For doing your duty, my liege. Not that that is a novelty, for, as a matter of fact, you are always doing it." "I am pleased to hear you say so," observed His Highness; "as I was under the impression that I had rather shirked my engagements." "Not at all, Sir-not at all. If you consult your memory, you will find you carried out to-day's programme to the letter." "Had I not to lay a foundation stone, or something, this morning?" Assuredly; and you touched a cord as you were getting up, and immediately the machinery was set in motion, and the stone was duly laid. Much better than driving miles to have to stand in a drafty marquee." "And had I not to open an exhibition?"

66

66

Why, yes. And you opened it in due course. Your equerry represented you and ground out your speech from the portable phonograph." Well, really, that was very ingenious," remarked His Highness. "But was I not missed ?"

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COUNTING THE CATCH.

A Waltonian Fragment.

First Piscator, R-S-B-RY. Second Piscator, H-RC-RT. First Piscator. Oh me, lock you, master, a fish, a fish! [Loses it. Second Piscator. Aye, marry, Sir, that was a good fish; if I had had the luck to handle that rod, 'tis twenty to one he should not have broken my line as you suffered him; I would have held him, as you will learn to do hereafter; for I tell you, scholer, fishing is an art, or at least it is an art to catch fish. Verily that is the second brave Salmon you have lost in that pool!

First Piscator. Oh me, he has broke all; there's half a line and a good flie lost. I have no fortune, and that Peers' Pool is fatal fishing. Second Piscator. Marry, brother, so it seemes-to you at least! Wel, wel, 'tis as small use crying over lost fish as spilt milk; the sunne hath sunk, the daye draweth anigh its ende; let us up tackle, and away!

First Piscator. Look also how it begins to rain, and by the clouds (if I mistake not) we shal presently have a smoaking showre. Truly it has been a long, rough day, and but poorish sport.

Second Piscator. Humph! I am fairly content with my catch, and had all been landed that have been hookt-but no matter! "Fishers must not rangle," as the Angler's song hath it. First Piscator. Marry, no indeed!

O the brave fisher's life

It is the best of any!

He who 'd mar it with mere strife

Sure must be a zany.

Other men,

Now and then,

Have their wars,

And their jars;

Our rule stil

Is goodwill

As we gaily angle.

(Sings.)

Fishers must not rangle. Second Piscator. Well sung, brother! Oh me, but even at our peaceful and vertuous pastime, there bee certain contentious and obstructive spoil-sports now. These abide not good old Anglers' Law, but bob and splash in other people's swims, fray away the fish they cannot catch, and desire not that experter anglers should, do muddy the stream and block its course, do net and poach and foul

hook in such noisy, conscienceless, unmannerly sort, that even honest angling becometh a bitter labour and aggravation.

First Piscator. Marry, yes brother! the Contemplative Man's Recreation is verily not what it once was. What would the sweet singer, Mr. WILLIAM BASSE, say to the busy B's of our day; DUBARTAS to B-RTL-Y, or Mr. THOMAS BARKER, of pleasant report, to TOMMY B-WL-S? Second Piscator. Or worthy old COTTON to the cocky MACULLUM MORE?

First Piscator. Or the equally cocky BRUMMAGEM BOY? Second Piscator. Or Dame JULIANA BERNERS to B-LF-UR? First Piscator. Or Sir HUMPHREY DAVY to the haughty autocrat of H-TF-LD?

Second Piscator. Wel, wel, I hate contention and obstruction and all unsportsmanlike devices-when I am fishing. First Piscator. And so say I. (Sings.)

The Peers are full of prejudice,
As hath too oft been tri'd;
High trolollie lollie loe,
high trolollie lee!

Second Piscator. The Commons full of opulence,

And both are full of pride.

Then care away

and fish along with me!

First Piscator. Marry, brother, and would that I could always do so. But doomed as we often are to angle in different swims, I may not always land the big fish that you hook, or even

Second Piscator. Wel, honest scholer, say no more about it, but let us count and weigh our day's catch. By Jove, but that bigge one I landed after soe long a fight, and which you were so luckie as to gaff in that verie snaggy and swirly pool itselfe, maketh a right brave show on the grassie bank! And harkye, scholer, 'tis a far finer and rarer fish than manie woule suppose at first sight!

[Chuckleth inwardly.

First Piscator. You say true, master. And indeed the other fish, though of lesser bigness, bee by no manner of meanes to be sneezed at. Marry, Master, 'tis none so poor a day's sport after all-considering the weather and the much obstruction, eh?

Second Piscator. May bee not, may bee not! Stil, I could fain wish, honest scholer, you had safely landed those two bigge ones you lost in Peers' Pool, out of which awkward bit of water, indeed, I could fain desire we might keep all our fish!