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Page 7
* * * * *
"WE ARE NOTHING IF NOT CORRECT."--In last week's number the title
of Picture, p. 198, should have been "Studies in _Contrapuntal_ (not
'Continental') Perspective;" and at p. 201, in EFFIE's reply to the
Governess, "AN" was a misprint for "no." This information will relieve
a vast number of perplexed inquirers.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE GENTLE EGOTIST.
_The Doctor_. "AND WHICH OF YOU TWO LADIES IS THE INVALID?"
_Elder Sister_. "I'M SORRY TO SAY IT'S _ME_, DOCTOR!"]
* * * * *
THE ROAD TO RUIN;
_OR, THE REAL MILITARY LONG-DISTANCE RIDE._
["A quarter of a century hence, France will have more than
four million trained soldiers, and Russia more than four
millions and a half. We may deplore, as we will, this
conversion of Europe into a vast camp, but the German
Government, witnessing the development of such colossal armies
on either hand, cannot be said to propose anything excessive
or unnecessary when it asks, as it now does, for the
means of raising the trained soldiers of the Empire to
4,400,000."--_The "Times" on the German Army Bills._]
Ride on! Ride on! "Tis a pace will kill!
Like Smuggler BILL and Exciseman GILL,
In the _Ingoldsby Legends_, you ride a race
On a perilous path, at a breakneck pace,
In a mingled spirit of hate and fear,
Too hot to heed, and too deaf to hear;
With a fierce red eye on each other cast,
And a rate of going that _cannot_ last,
On a road that leads, as such roads lead all,
To a crumbling cliff, and a crashing fall.
"The Road to Ruin? Pooh! preacher trite!
'Tis a gallant race, and in glorious flight,
With the clinkety-clank of scabbard and spur,
O'er moor and meadow, by linden and fir,
With the wind of speed blowing brisk in one's face,
A Long-Distance Ride is a soul-stirring race!"
Verily yes,--for the riders gay,
Saddled softly, in armed array,
Hand on the bridle, heel at the flank,
And that martial music, clinkety-clank!
Charming the ear in galloping time
With the hoofs' hard rattle in clattering chime.
Clumpety-clump! Clankety-clink!
Out on the caitiff who'd pause or shrink!
Clinkety-clank! Clumpety-clump!
The stout steed's heart at his ribs may thump,
In spasms the breath through his nostrils pump,
The strained neck droop, though 'tis held at stretch,
The labouring lungs in sheer agony fetch
Blood-mixed breathings, red-dappled foam,--
Let the lash descend, let the spur strike home!
Are they not _racing_? Is not their pride
Engaged in winning _this_ Long-Distance Ride?
_Excessive_? No! Who dares hint so?
The going's hot, and the steeds must _go_!
Chargers entered for such a race
Must not complain of the pounding pace;
Must not grumble at crushing weight.
Yes; they appear in a piteous state,
Almost foundered, and well nigh blown,
With the burden big o'er their shoulders thrown.
Ever swelling, like miser's sacks;
But why have horses such broad strong backs,
If not to _bear_--to the death at need,
Though lungs may choke, and though flanks may bleed?
Ride, ye _militaires_, ruthlessly ride!
Shouting Emperors hail with pride,
"Gallant" riders, who lash and goad
Their staggering steeds on this desperate road;
Their whips are wet, and their spur-points gory,
But--beasts must bleed, in the name of Glory!
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