* * * * *

[Illustration:  YANKEE EXCLUSIVENESS.

Young Britisher.  “YOUR FATHER’S NOT WITH YOU THEN, MISS VAN TROMP?”

Fair New York Millionnairess (one of three).  “WHY, NO—­PA’S MUCH TOO VULGAR!  IT’S AS MUCH AS WE CAN DO TO STAND MA!”]

* * * * *

THE QUICKSAND!

  Is this the Eagle-hunter,
  The valiant fate-confronter,
  The soldier brave, and blunter
    Of speech than BISMARCK’s self? 
  This bungler all-disgracing,
  This braggart all-debasing. 
  This spurious sportsman, chasing
    No nobler prey than pelf?

  The merest “fly in amber,”
  He after eagles clamber? 
  Nay, faction’s ante-chamber
    Were fitter place for him,
  A trifler transitory,
  To gasconade of “glory”! 
  He’d foul fair France’s story,
    Her lustre pale and dim.

  Les Coulisses? Ah, precisely! 
  They suit his nature nicely,
  Who bravely, nobly, wisely,
    Can hardly even “act.”
  Histrio all blague and blather,
  Is it not pity, rather,
  One Frenchman should foregather
    With him in selfish pact?

  In selfish pact—­but silly.
  His neighbouring, willy-nilly,
  Must smirch the Bee, the Lily,
    Or stain the snow-white flag. 
  Wielder of mere stage-dagger,
  Loud lord of empty swagger,
  In peril’s hour a lagger. 
    A Paladin of Brag!

  And now his venture faileth,
  And now his valour paleth;
  Et apres? What availeth
    His aid to those who’d use him? 
  Imperial or Royal,
  What “patron” will prove loyal
  Unto this “dupe”?  They’ll joy all
    To mock, expose, abuse him!

  But from the contest shrinking,
  The draught of failure drinking,
  In trickery’s quicksand sinking,
    Pulls he not others down? 
  Will PLON-PLON stand securely,
  The COMTE pose proudly, purely,
  Whilst slowly but most surely
    Their tool must choke or drown?

  Indifferent France sits smiling. 
  And what avails reviling? 
  Such pitch without defiling
    Can “Prince” or “Patriot” touch? 
  This quicksand unromantic
  Closes on him, the Antic,
  Whose hands with gestures frantic
    Contiguous coat-tails clutch.

  The furious factions splutter,
  Power’s cheated claimants mutter,
  And foiled fire-eaters utter
    Most sanguinary threats.
  “He Freedom’s fated suckler? 
  The traitor, trickster, truckler!”
  So fumes the fierce swash-buckler,
    And his toy-rapier whets.

  But will that quicksand only
  Engulph him lost and lonely? 
  The fraud exposed, the known lie,
    The bribe at length betrayed,
  Must whelm this sham detected,
  But what may be expected
  From “Honour” shame-infected,
    And “Kingship” in the shade?