II. THE SUPERFLUOUS VETERAN.

    The dreadful, dreadful minutes!
        Silent and sure and slow;
    They master and quench and overwhelm
        Alike our joy and woe.
    They conquer beauty, youth, and strength,
        And grind in their cruel mill
    Glory and Fame and Power and Wealth,
        The good as well as the ill.

    The dreadful, dreadful minutes!
        They drip and drift and pass,
    And shear the generations
        As a mower shears the grass.
    Till nought remains of Cæsar
        Except a floating breath,
    A lie on the page of History,
        A drop in the sea of Death!

III. THE SMOKER.

    Sometimes the big world vexes me,
    Sometimes dull care perplexes me;
        Sometimes on the sea of life
    Such storms around me cluster,
    And roar and rave and bluster,
        I seem to sink in the strife.
    No matter! There's always truce
        In the heat of the wildest war;
    At least I dream or think so,
        As I smoke my first cigar.

    Sometimes when nothing ails me
    Except that the money fails me,
        I envy the rich in their pride;
    Though their only obvious merit
    Is the gold that they inherit
        And couldn't earn if they tried;
    But quietly after dinner
        I banish such thoughts afar,
    What do I care for Fortune
        As I smoke my second cigar?

    Sometimes, in the heartless city,
    I think it a shame and pity
        That cash and virtue are one;
    That to swindle for shillings seems awful,
    While to plunder for millions is lawful,
        If only successfully done.
    But why should I mend its morals,
        Or call the world to my bar?
    I've dined, and I wish to be quiet—
        I'll smoke my third cigar!

IV. THE STRANGER, WHO HAS DINED, AND HATES
TOBACCO.

    Upon his mouth may curses fall,
        May it be dead to savour,
    May all his fruits turn cinders dry,
        And all his wines lose flavour;
    May bread be sawdust in his jaws,
        His teeth grow loose and black, O!
    And all his sweets turn bitter sour—
        The wretch who chews tobacco!

    Upon his nose may curses light,
        May odours never charm it;
    May garden flowers and woods and bowers
        Yield noxious scents to harm it;
    May all Arabia's spice exhale
        Foul gas to make him suffer,
    Who makes a dusthole of his nose—
        The vile tobacco-snuffer.

    May never lady press his lips,
        His proffered love returning,
    Who make a furnace of his mouth,
        And keeps its chimney burning!
    May each true woman shun his sight,
        For fear his fumes might choke her,
    And none but hags, who smoke themselves,
        Have kisses for a smoker!

A CRAZY COLONY.

ONCE upon a time, a very ancient time, there
reigned in Ireland a pagan king. Hideously
wicked himself, he had a daughter who was as
beautiful as the day, and as good as she was
beautiful. The queen mother, who had been
converted to Christianity by a good priest
named Gerrebert, had taught the Princess
Dymphna to love all that was pure and noble.
Added to a naturally sweet disposition, her
mother's training rendered the maiden a very
saint. Feeling her end approaching, the queen
confided the youthful princess to the care of
pious Gerrebert, knowing how unfit for such a
charge was her unhappy spouse. The king,
now that the check of his wife's presence was
removed, gave free vent to his evil passions;
and even his daughter was not safe from his
iniquity.

Driven to desperation, the Princess Dymphna,
as the only means of guarding her honour and
her life, braved all the unknown dangers of sea
and land, and, accompanied by the faithful priest,
took refuge from her father's wrath in the
deserts of Kempenland. Here she hoped to
live and die, remembered by God, but forgotten
by man. But not even in the remote solitudes
of Belgium was she to find an asylum from her
revengeful parent. The king tracked the
fugitives, pursued and discovered them, and ordered
Gerrebert to be put to death. This order his
servants executed, but, staggered by their
monarch's unnatural ferocity, they hesitated to
obey his further commands that the princess
should share the same fate. Exasperated and
pitiless, the king with his own hand murdered
the unfortunate maiden. But of such saints the
memory survives, and the spot in which the
pious princess had lived became hallowed and
blessed for evermore to numbers of her afflicted
fellow-creatures. To the rude chapel where
her pure devotions had been performed flocked
multitudes who had heard of the barbarous
assassination of Gerrebert and Dymphna. Among
others, several poor lunatics came, who, cured
of their malady at the desert shrine, returned to
their homes in full possession of their faculties.
Saint Dymphna, to whom these miraculous
cures were attributed, became the beloved
patron saint of lunatics. Pilgrimages to her
shrine became common, and more or less
success attended the prayers of those who brought
their afflicted relatives to the lonely chapel in
the wilds of Kempenland. Many would leave
the sufferers under the kind care of the inhabitants
of the little hamlet which had now grown
up round the chapel; so that in time the village