ON THE SPOT.
(By a Practical Sportsman.)
The spot for me all spots above
In this wide world of casual lodgers,
Is not the nook sacred to love;
The "cot beside a rill" of Roger's.
'Tis not the spot which Tommy Moore
Praised in "The Meeting of the Waters."
Avoca's Vale my soul would bore;
I should prefer more lively quarters.
Thy "little spot," Eliza Cook,
Means merely patriotic flummery;
And Coleridge's "hidden brook"
Won't fetch me, e'en when weather's summery.
I hold the Picturesque is rot,
"Love in a Cot" means scraps for dinner;
I only know one pleasant spot,—
I mean the "spot" that "finds a winner!"
Private and Special Literary Intelligence.—Mr. George Meredith's new novel is to be entitled, Won of the Conquerors. It would be unfair to the author to mention how what the Conquerors had conquered was won from them in turn. "I am at liberty to inform the public, however," says the Baron de B.-W., "that William the Conqueror is not in it with the others. I am able also to assure his numerous admirers that Beauchamp's Career is not a medicinal romance, and has no sort of connection with a certain widely-advertised remedy."
"WILL HE GET THROUGH?"
William Henry loquitur:—
Pouf! Pouf! I'm that awfully out of breath with my long and terrified scamper,
With that bull on my track, and this bag on my back, a burden that Milo would hamper.
Though Milo was not a pedestrian "pot," nor was it a turnstile that nipped him;
No, if I remember my classics aright, 'twas the fork of a pine-tree that gripped him.
But nowadays one had need be a Milo and a fleet Pheidippides in one, Sir.
And with carrying weight I'm in such a state, it isn't much further I can run, Sir.
Oh, drat that bull! Will nobody pull the brute by the tail, and stop him?
Such beasts didn't ought to be let loose; in the clôture pound they should pop him,
With a gag on his muzzle. This turnstile's a puzzle, with its three blessed wings, confound it!
I don't see my way to getting through it, and there's no way of getting round it;
And I am that fat—no, I won't say that; but I'm not, like dear Arthur, quite lathy.
And I'm sure, by the bellow of that bull, that the fellow is getting exceedingly wrathy.
Pouf! Now for a burst! Which to take the first of the turnstile wings is the floorer.
If I breast it wrongly, though I'm going strongly, I'll expose my rear to yon roarer.
Eugh! I fancy I feel his horns, like steel, my person viciously prodding.
Against such points broadcloth's no protection, although padded with woollen "wadding."
Oh, hang this bag! I shall lose the swag, if I slacken or lag one second.
I thought I had measured my distance so well, but I fear that I must have misreckoned.
That bull of Gladdy's most certainly mad is, though he gave me his word, the Old Slyboots,
It was perfectly quiet. I have Salisbury's fiat, but I wish he was only in my boots.
"Tithes first," indeed! Why, with all my speed, and my puffings, and perspiration,
I doubt if I'll be in time to get through; and as for that "Compensation,"
It is sure to stick. "Quick, Smith, man, quick!" Oh, it's all very well to holloa;
With a sack on one's back, and a bull on one's track, 'tisn't easy that counsel to follow.
My life's hardly worth an hour's "Purchase," if I'm overtaken by Taurus.
Such brutes didn't ought to be loose in the fields, to bore us, and score us, and gore us.
"Run! run!" Oh, ain't I running like winking? Reach the turnstile? I may just do it
But with its three wings—oh, confound the things!—I much doubt if I'll ever get through it!
[Left trying.