(_The lecture was still proceeding when our Reporter left,
the dryness of the subject having unfortunately affected his throat._)

* * * * *

[Illustration: A CONNOISSEUR.

_Sir Pompey Bedell._ "THIS BOTTLE OF ROMANEE-CONTI SEEMS RATHER
CLOUDY, BROWN! IT _OUGHT_ TO BE ALL RIGHT. I KNOW IT STANDS ME IN
_TWELVE GUINEAS A DOZEN!_"

_The New Butler._ "THERE CERTAINLY _HIS_ SOME SEDIMENT, SIR POMPEY;
BUT IT'S OF NO CONSEQUENCE WHATEVER! I TRIED A BOTTLE OF IT _MYSELF_
THE OTHER DAY, AND FOUND IT FIRST-RATE!"]

* * * * *

"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"

["The 'tehorni narod'--the inconceivably ill-used, patient,
long-suffering 'black people,' as the moujiks of White
Russia are grimly denominated by their rulers--are dying by
thousands, of sheer starvation, without a hand being stretched
out by the 'Tchin' to rescue them from the greedy jaws of
Death."--_Daily Telegraph_.

The moujiks are remonstrating and even rebelling in
consequence.]

"Little Father," we have suffered long, and sorrowed,
We the "children" of the wonderful White Tsar,
Steadfast patience from staunch loyalty have borrowed,
Slaved for Slavdom still in Peace, and died in War;
We have borne the yoke of power, and its abuses,
We have trusted cells and shackles served their turn;
Nay, that e'en the ruthless knout had noble uses;
Now we starve--and think--and burn.

"Little Father," is your power then so paternal
As in pious proclamation is set forth?
If the round earth bears a brand of the infernal,
Does the trail of it not taint our native North?
Ay, we love it as in truth we've ever loved it.
Our devotion, poorly paid, is firm and strong;
Have our little pitied miseries not proved it,
And our weary tale of wrong?

"Little Father," we are hungering now, neglected,
While the foreigner shouts praises in our ports;
We are honoured, say your scribes, loved, feared, respected,
The proud Frank, we fought for you, your friendship courts.
The golden price of it you hug most gladly.
Well, that price, what is its destined end and aim?
The indulgence of ambitions cherished madly?
The pursuit of warrior fame?

Your realm is ever widening, Tsar, and lengthening,
Though its peoples--your dear children--prosper not;
Railways stretching, boundaries creeping, legions strengthening!