Yes, life _is_ hard. Our fellows judge us coldly;
We mostly dwell in fog, and dance in fetters;
But sweeter far to face oblivion boldly,
Than front posterity through a _Life and Letters._
That Memory's the Mother of the Muses,
We're told. Alas! it must have been the Furies!
Mnemosyne her privilege abuses,--
Nothing from her distorting glass secure is.
Life is a Sphinx: folk cannot solve her riddles,
So they've recourse to spiteful taradiddles,
Which they dub "Reminiscences." Kind fate,
From, the fool's Memory preserve the Great!
* * * * *
"HOW LONDON THEATRES ARE WARMED."--By having first-rate pieces. This
prevents any chance of a "frost."
* * * * *
SONG FOR THE LIBERATOR SOCIETY, AND OTHERS.--"Oh, where, and oh where,
is our J. S. B-LF-R gone?"
* * * * *
When the _P. M. Gazette_ by a Tory was book'd,
The Editor "Cust," and its readers were Cooke'd.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "SURGIT AMARI ALIQUID----"
"AND WHOM DID YOU TAKE INTO SUPPER, MIKE?" "MAUD WILLOUGHBY."
"YOU LUCKY BOY! WHY SHE'S A DARLING!"
"YES--BUT THERE WAS ANOTHER FELLOW ON HER OTHER SIDE!"]
* * * * *