AT SEA IN AN EASTER EGG-SHELL.
All at sea in an (Easter) egg,
Like a Witch of the good old days!
What is it moves you, my Puck, I beg?
Say, is it purpose, or simple craze?
There is nous and pluck
In our modern Puck,
And many admire him, and some wish him luck;
But the Men of Gotham reached no good goal
By going to sea in an open bowl.
The business of brewing storms may do
For a Witch, my Grandolph, but scarce for you,
And the Petrel-part, played early and late,
Must spoil a man for a Pilot of State.
The knowing Nautilus sets her sails
In a way to weather the roughest gales;
But an egg for bark, with an imp for crew,
To navigate Politics' boundless blue,
Looks crank and queer;
Drifting comes dear—
It may pay for a day, but scarce for a year.
A Puck-like sprite it may please to see
"All things befall preposterously."
But pure perversity soon out-pegs,
Grandolph, "as sure as eggs is eggs!"
All Through London for a Shilling.—The Fine Art Society in Bond Street, has a marvellous exhibition in the London-pictures by Herbert Marshall—he ought to be called for ever afterwards the City Marshall—so well does he understand all moods of our great city, so admirably can he translate every phase of its atmosphere, and each subtlety of its colour. Just a hundred pictures this clever artist shows, and everyone is a portrait of an old friend. This Gallery is the very place to take country cousins to. Just turn them loose here for a couple of hours, and they will get a better idea of what London is really like, than if they stopped in the Metropolis for a month.