Nevertheless each one as it appeared was brutally slated in the organs controlled by the literary adviser to the Crown, and himself belittled and ridiculed.  When, as luck would have it, his wife eloped with a wrestler, a flood of melody poured from his soul which, connoisseurs have assured us, ranks high amongst the lyrical masterpieces of the world.  These verses will be found amongst the collection known as “Swan Songs,” published posthumously, for, not long after, the poet unfortunately developed phthisis and died.

But though he was thus cut-off in early manhood his name will live for ever.  It is borne by a square in the boarding-house quarter of the capital and by a cravat which, though, alas, no longer in the fashion, is still worn every Sunday by countless artisans.

His poems too have achieved immortality.  Showily bound they make a favourite school prize and have given entertainment to generations of cultured refined persons, who have never paused in their reading to give a thought to the author of their enjoyment, the sagacious Prince to whose action they owe their emotional treat.  His royal Highness’s reward was his own aesthetic satisfaction.  “By Heaven, this is more like,” he rapturously exclaimed as he laid down the last volume of the collected works; “this verse has got some stuff in it.”  And on the occasion of his next birthday he conferred the Companionship of a Household Order upon the poet’s publisher.

* * * * *

    “Lord Basil’s scratching is said to be due to soreness.”—­Daily
    Sketch.

It frequently is.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  OUR WEALTHY WORKERS.

Host (to guest with Socialistic opinions). “I hope you’ll be careful what you have to say about the moneyed classes.  Our maid is very sensitive.”]

* * * * *

BIRD-LORE.

I.—­THE CUCKOO.

  The Cuckoo is a tell-tale,
    A mischief-making bird;
  She flies to East, she flies to West
  And whispers into every nest
    The wicked things she’s heard;
  She loves to spread her naughty lies;
  She laughs about it as she flies: 
  “Cuckoo,” she cries, “cuckoo, cuckoo,
      It’s true, it’s true.”

  And when the fairies catch her
    Her busy wings they dock,
  They shut her up for evermore
  (She may not go beyond the door)
    Inside a German clock;
  Inside a wooden clock she cowers
  And has to tell the proper hours—­
  “Cuckoo,” she cries, “cuckoo, cuckoo,
      It’s true, it’s true.”

  R.F.

* * * * *

“THE SILENT SERVICE.”

    “Horace ——­, labourer, was charged with using insulting language. 
    He was said to be training for the Navy and the case was accordingly
    dismissed.”—­Local Paper.