NAVAL NOTE.—­The Shibboleth of international courtesy in these days of big Iron-clad Fleets should surely be, “May it please your Warships!”

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SONG OF THE SHAMPOOED ONE (AFTER TENNYSON),—­“Sweet after showers ambrosial (h)air!”

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[Illustration:  CAUSE AND EFFECT.

“MY LITTLE BOY, SIR, DIED WHEN HE WAS ONLY TWO MONTHS OLD, JUST AFTER HE HAD BEEN VACCINATED.”

“HOW VERY SAD!  HAD HE BEEN BAPTISED?”

“YES, SIR; BUT IT WAS THE VACCINATION AS CARRIED HIM OFF, SIR!”]

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THE MODERN “BED OF PROCRUSTES.”

[PROCRUSTES, or “the Stretcher,” was the surname of one POLYPEMON, a Greek “gentleman of the road,” whose amiable habit was to stretch or shorten the bodies of travellers who fell into his hands, so as to make them of the same length as a certain bed of his upon which it was his wont to tie them.]

  To shorten the long, and to lengthen the short,
  May have made the Greek robber-chief excellent sport;
  But the Stretcher’s strange pallet-rack seems out of date
  In the land of the free, ’neath a well-ordered State. 
  MENIPPUS told NIREUS,[1] that pet of the ladies,
  Equality perfect prevaileth in—­Hades
  “Where all are alike.”  Said THERSITES, “for me
  That’s enough,” but beau NIREUS could hardly agree
  With such levelling down to the churl who for shape
  In his strange second life chose the form of an ape. 
  For THERSITES & Co., for the weakly and small,
  Who in free competition must go to the wall,
  The plan of PROCRUSTES has obvious charms: 
  “Cut ’em down to our standard, chop legs, shorten arms! 
  Bring us all to one level in power and pay,
  By the rule of a legalised Eight Hours Day!”
  So shouts Labour’s Lilliput—­that is its voice,
  And the modern PROCRUSTES thereat must rejoice. 
  “No giants, no dwarfs!” So say BROWNING and BURT,
  But to “raise the whole race” can’t be done in a spurt,
  And while Nature provides us with genius and clown,
  There is nought to be gained by mere levelling down. 
  So the plan of PROCRUSTES, my boys, will not work,
  Or will benefit none save the sluggard or shirk. 
  Oh yes, the bold bully stands swaggering there
  With the axe in his hand, and his head in the air,
  Type of heedless Compulsion, the shallow of pate,
  Who man’s freedom would sell to a fetish of State. 
  Self-help and joint effort, as BURT wisely said,
  Are better by far than—­that comfortless bed. 
  That new Little-Ease that free Labour would pack,
  On a sort of plank-pillow combined with a rack. 
  “Come on, longs and shorts!” shouts PROCRUSTES the New,
  “Law shall lend us its axe, and its rope, and its screw
  I must make you all fit to my Bed standard-sized!”