Henley-on-Thames, New Year’s Eve, 1890.

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THE PERFECT UNION OF CHURCH AND STATE is exemplified in the title and name of BISHOP KING.

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[Illustration:  “A HAPPY NEW YEAR!”]

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[Illustration:  “DEFENCE, NOT DEFIANCE.”

“In these days of conflicts between Counsel, I propose to make a few additions to my usual forensic costume.”—­Extract from a Letter of Mr. Welnown Kewsee, Q.C., to a young Friend.]

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AT THE END OF THE YEAR.

To a Friend,

  Do you remember how we sat,
    We two, in this same room together
  Last year, and talked of this and that,
    And warmed our toes and cursed the weather?

  And dreamed of fame, and puffed a cloud
    (We both smoked briars, I remember),
  And sipped our whiskey hot, and vowed
    To do or die ere next December?

  We spoke without respect of BEN,
    BEN who was ploughed, or very nearly;
  Now BEN bamboozles jurymen,
    And makes his thousand guineas yearly.

  We both despised the wretched JOE,
    My fag at school, your butt at College. 
  Dull, elephantine, pompous, slow,
    Choked with absurdly useful knowledge.

  Yet JOE assists to give us laws,
    Speaks in the House, and shows his fat form,
  ’Midst empty thunders of applause,
    Erect on many a Tory platform.

  And poor, inconsequential JACK,
    His mind a maze, like Mr. TOOTS’s,
  Has married money, keeps a hack,
    And has a big account at COUTTS’s.

TOM owns a house in Belgrave Square,
And DICK is noted for his dinners—­
Life is a race, but was it fair,
We asked, that these should be the winners?

We, too, would win; and Heaven knows
What vows we uttered fiery-hearted,
While ’89 drew to its close,
And ’90 found us—­so we parted.

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And here, good lack, while ’90 wanes,
Our candles flaring in their sockets,
We sit once more and count our gains—­
Wrinkles, grey hairs, and empty pockets.

Yet, Heaven be thanked that made us friends;
Men prate of wealth in empty words, I
Sit here content as ’90 ends. 
And sip my grog, and smoke my bird’s-eye.

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