Then the darkness came on swiftly, and the gloaming turned to night.

Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow;

Of the thousands who had worshipped never one came near her now.

Broken down in health and fortune, men forgot her very

name,

Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame;

And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an "actress" lay

Sick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day.

One there was who read the story in a far-off country place, And that night the dying woman woke and looked upon his face.

Once again the strong arms clasped her that had clasped her long ago,

And the weary head lay pillowed on the breast of Ostler Joe.

All the past had he forgotten, all the sorrow and the shame; He had found her sick and lonely, and his wife he now could claim.

Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk away,

He could clasp his long-lost darling, and no man would say him nay.

In his arms death found her lying, in his arms her spirit fled;

And his tears came down in torrents, as he knelt beside her dead.

Never once his love had faltered through her base unhallowed life;

And the stone above her ashes bears the honoured name of wife.

That's the blossom I fain would pluck to-day from the garden above her dust;

Not the languorous lily of soulless sin nor the blood-red rose of lust;

But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot

In the arid desert of Phryne's life, where all was parched and hot.

In 1886, Mrs. James Brown Potter recited this poem at a soirée given in the house of Mr. Secretary Whitney, in Washington, U.S. A., before a large company of ladies and gentlemen. During the recital some of the ladies rose and left the room; the New York papers spitefully remarked of those ladies who remained to hear the poem to the end, that, being in evening dress, they were observed to blush almost down to their waists.

The poem was severely criticised in several of the prudish American papers, and assigned by some of them to the pen of A. C. Swinburne, although as unlike his style as anything could well be.

The controversy that arose created a tremendous demand for the poem, and many thousands of copies were sold in a few days, from which however, the author derived no benefit whatever, owing to the disgraceful state of the international copyright, or want of copyright.

As Mrs. Kendal has recited the poem in public on several occasions, it may be taken for granted that it contains nothing indelicate, or objectionable, although the outcry raised in the States was so great that the principal newspapers took sides on the question, and debated the merits of the poem with almost as much heat as a Presidential Election. One well-known humorist attempted to ridicule "Ostler Joe" in the following ballad :—

TEAMSTER JIM.

It ain't jest the story, Parson, to tell in a crowd like this, With the virtuous maiden a-frownin' an' chidin' the giggling miss,

An' the good old deacon a-noddin', in time with his patient snores,

An' the shocked elect of the Capital, stalkin' away through the doors.

But then, it's a story that happened, an' every word of it's true,

An' sometimes we can't help talkin' of the things that we sometimes do.

An' though good society coldly shuts its door on to Teamster Jim,

I'm thinkin' ther's lots worse people, that's better known than him.

When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared

away,

All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay.

She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet,

But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet.

She had traced the road by asking-she had learnt the way to go;

She had found the famous meadow-it was wrapt in cruel snow;

Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed.

With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground,

And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found.

Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim;

And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb.

(I am not a noted poet, but to tell you I shall try, Since it "comes with perfume laden "-as a moral-that is why.)

Simple toys had made them happy through a sultry summer day

(Two old boots and one dead kitten), then they quarrelled in their play,

'Mid the grime on Billy's visage shone in streaks the angry red,

And he seized a handy brickbat, which he threw at Nellie's head.

Little boys should love their sisters-here I might have had to paint

How the pretty, hapless maiden suddenly grew pale and faint;

How anon she drooped and faded, looking dove-like all the while,

Rending Billy's little bosom with the sweetness of her smile!

But she didn't. Nellie started-darted up each creaking stair

Till she reached their dismal garret, for she knew a stick was there;

This she held behind her slyly, meaning to avenge her

woes,

Sought the unsuspecting Billy, and she hit him on the

nose.

Billy's missile missed its object, Nellie's stick descended hard,

And the boy from all his pleasures was for three whole weeks debarred;

Could he hop-scotch in the alley-in the gutter take his place,

With that lattice work of plaster-very dirty-on his face?

Little boys should love their sisters-that's the moral that I meant,

Seeing Billy's nasal feature now, alas! is sadly bent; And he has a secret sorrow, for whene'er his temper glows,

Nellie stands with lean arms folded, saying "Billy, how's your nose?"

FRED RAWKINS (HAROLD WYNN.)

We pedalled away in the heat, sir; the "Wells" was the goal in view,

And never a one but doubted if the riders could live it through.

Our Tricycles stood it bravely, and thirsty and hot and weak,

We drew in sight of the hopfields we had dared so much to seek;

And then we rested and turned, and homeward again we faced,

When one machine collapsed, sir, as down a hill we raced! That was an awful moment, and the stoutest held his breath,

And watched the wreck on the road, sir, as if he looked on death.

The road was strewn with pieces, and, to tell you the truth, sir, then

I thought of the Bank in London I never might see again.
I thought of the manager's look, sir, if vacant my seat were

seen

On the morrow when I was due there-and all through a friend's machine!

However, I thought I'd risk it; I couldn't desert a friend, So we set to work with a will, sir, the broken wheel to mend,

And after some skilful hammering our joy can well be guessed

When we saw the wheel go round again, though shaky at the best.

Well, we stopped at a neighbouring "public"-of the rest I know no more;

But I spent next day at the Bank, sir, with limbs both tired

and sore,

And as I sat cal n and quiet my memory clouded grew As I thought of that awful journey, that ride I had just gone through.

Cassell's Saturday Journal. May 1, 1886.

—:0:

THE TERROR OF TADGER'S RENTS.

A " Dagonet Ballad " Gone
Wrong.

AIN'T heard of Tadger's Rents? My eye! where was you bred and born?