Volume 103 — "ART COMPETITIONS."

Mr. Poland said, at Bow Street, Choosing pictures thus imparts Judgment good as that of those treat- Ed as foremost in the arts. Hitherto each paid his shilling At the House of Burlington, Gazed at pictures, feeble, thrilling, Bad or good, and wandered on— Stared with awe-struck admiration At "the Picture of the Year," Gained artistic education In a stuffy atmosphere. Then all changed; he paid his shilling And he sent his coupon in To a weekly paper, willing To discriminate the tin; And be wisely praised or blamed, yet He knew nothing of design, The Bridge of Bow Street claimed yet One more shilling as a fine. Oh, rejoice, Academicians! Learned Bridge knew what to do; Artisans or mechanicians Might have grown as wise as you. Which would sadden any just man, And might make an angel weep— Dicksee distanced by a dustman, Storey staggered by a sweep! Boughton beaten by a baker, Housemaids humbling helpless Hook; Stone surpassed by sausage-maker, Cooper conquered by a cook! Crowe or Crofts crushed by a cow-boy, Millais made by milkmen mad, Pettie plucked by any ploughboy, Leighton licked by butcher's lad! It effected all you care for, But Sir John has pulled you through; Bold Bow-Street's Beak is, therefore, No Bridge of Sighs for you

Phew! It's all very fine, when you gather to dine, And to blow off the steam, while you blow off your 'bacca, (As the farmers of Aylesbury did, when their wine Was sweetened with "news from the Straits of Malacca"); But things are much changed since the voters of Bucks Flushed red with loud fun at the phrases of Dizzy, And M.P.'s are dreadfully down on their lucks, Since Balfour's confounded "tribunals" got busy. What precious stiff posers to loyal Primrosers Are offered by Rochester, Walsall, and Hexham! Platform perorators, post-prandial glosers, Must find many points to perplex 'em and vex 'em. It bothers a spouter who freely would flourish Coat-tails and mixed tropes at political dinners, When doubts of his safety he's driven to nourish, Through publicans rash and (electoral) sinners. Good lack, and good gracious! One may be veracious, And look with disgust upon bribes and forced bias, Yet owing to "Agents" more hot than sagacious, Appear as Autolycus-cum-Ananias. One might just as soon be a Man-in-the-Moon, Or hark back at once to the style of Old Sarum. That Act (Corrupt Practices) may be a boon. But the way they apply it seems most harum-scarum. Should a would-be M.P. ask old ladies to tea, Or invite male supporters to crumpets or cricket; Should a snug Party Club prove a trifle too free, Or give an equivocal "treat," or hat-ticket; A seven years' nursing of Slopville-on-Slime, A well-fought Election and Glorious Victory (Crowed o'er by proud Party prints at the time) May—lose you your Seat. It does seem contradictory. Of course, my good friends, one would not say a word, Against England's glory—Electoral Purity! Suspect me of slighting that boon? Too absurd! But what good's a Seat without some small security. To fight tooth and nail, land a win, and then fail Along of dishon—I mean o'er-zealous "Agents"— Well, well, I don't wish at our Judges to rail, But—putting it plainly—I fear it won't pay, gents. 'Tis hard to attend a political feast, And strut like a peacock, and crow like a bantam, Yet feel at one's back, like a blast from the east, A be-robed and be-wigged and blood-curdling law phantom. Stentorian cheers, and uproarious hear-hears, Though welcome, won't banish the sense of "wet-blanket" (That's Ingoldsby's rhyme), when Petition-bred fears Conjure up a grim Skeleton (Judge) at the Banquet!