Chapter V: Her Own (7)

Veil, dese leedle schafers vos goin' to pe men, Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den; Dey vill vear a vhite shirt-vront inshted of a bib, Und voudn't got tucked oop at nighdt in deir crib. Veil! veil! ven I'm feeple und in life's decline, May mine oldt age pe cheered by dot baby off mine.

A DUTCHMAN'S MISTAKE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

I geeps me von leedle schtore town Proadway, und does a pooty goot peeznis, but I don't got mooch gapital to work mit, so I finds it hard vork to get me all der gredits vot I vould like.

Last veek I hear about some goots dot a barty vas going to sell pooty sheap, und so I writes dot man if he vould gief me der refusal of dose goots for a gouple of days. He gafe me der refusal--dot is, he sait I gouldn't haf dem--but he sait he vould gall on me und see mine schtore, und den if mine schtanding in peesnis vas goot, berhaps ve might do somedings togedder.

Veil, I vas behind mine gounter yesterday, ven a shentle-man gomes in and dakes me py der hant and says, "Mr. Schmidt, I pelieve." I says, "Yaw," und den I tinks to mine-self, dis vas der man vot has doze goots to sell, und I must dry to make some goot imbressions mit him, so ve gould do some peesnis.

"Dis vas goot schtore," he says, looking roundt, "bud you don't got a pooty big shtock already." I vas avraid to let him know dot I only hat 'bout a tousand tollars vort of goots in der blace, so I says, "You ton't tink I hat more as dree tousand tollars in dis leedle schtore, vould you?" He says, "You ton't tole me! Vos dot bossible!" I says, "Yaw."

I meant dot id vas bossible, dough id vasn't so, vor I vas like 'Shorge Vashingtons ven he cut town der "olt elm" on Poston Gommons mit his leedle hadchet, and gouldn't dell some lies aboud id.

"Veil," says der shentleman, "I dinks you ought to know petter as anypody else vot you haf got in der schtore." Und den he takes a pig book vrom unter his arm and say, "Veil, I poots you town vor dree tousand tollars."

I ask him vot he means py "Poots me town," und den he says he vas von off der tax-men, or assessors off broperty, und he tank me so kintly as nefer vas, pecause he say I vas sooch an honest Deutscher, und tidn't dry und sheat der gofermants.

I dells you vot it vos, I tidn't veel any more petter as a hundert ber cent, ven dot man valks oudt of mine schtore, und der nexd dime I makes free mit strangers I vinds first deir peesnis oudt.

THE OWL CRITIC.

JAMES T. FIELDS, IN "HARPER'S MAGAZINE."

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop!
The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop!
The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding
The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
Not one raised a head or even made a suggestion;
And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"
Cried the youth with a frown,
"How wrong the whole thing is,
How preposterous each wing is,
How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is--
In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!
I make no apology, I've learned owl-eology.
I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,
And cannot be blinded to any deflections
Arising from unskilful fingers that fail
To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.
Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down,
Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"
And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've _studied_ owls,
And other night fowls,
And I tell you
What I know to be true;
An owl cannot roost
With his limbs so unloosed.
No owl in this world
Ever had his claws curled,
Ever had his legs slanted,
Ever had his bill canted,
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude.
He can't _do_ it, because
'Tis against all bird laws,
Anatomy teaches,
Ornithology preaches,
An owl has a toe
That _can't_ turn out so!
I've made the white owl my study for years,
And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!
Mister Brown, I'm amazed
You should be so gone crazed
As to put up a bird
In that posture absurd!
To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness;
The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"
And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes,
I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass;
So unnatural they seem
They'd, make Audubon scream,
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.
Do take that bird down:
Have him stuffed again, Brown!"
And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark
I could stuff in the dark
An owl better than that.
I could make an old hat
Look more like an owl
Than that horrid fowl,
Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather,
In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic.
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:
"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway;
Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.
I'm an owl; you're another, Sir Critic, good day!"
And the barber kept on shaving.

THE TRUE STORY OF KING MARSHMALLOW,

O a jolly old fellow was King Marshmallow
As ever wore a crown!
At every draught of wine he quaffed,
And at every joke of his jester he laughed,
Laughed till the tears ran down--
O, he laughed Ha! Ha! and he laughed Ho! Ho!
And every time that he laughed, do you know,
The Lords in waiting they did just so.

But Queen Bonniberry was not quite so merry;
She sat and sighed all the while,
And she turned very red and shook her head
At everything Jingle the jester said,
And never vouchsafed a smile.
O, she sighed Ah me! and she sighed Heigh-oh!
And every time that she sighed, do you know,
The Ladies in waiting they did just so.

Then the jester spoke just by way of a joke,
(O he was a funny man!)
And he said May it please your majesties,
I wish to complain of those impudent fleas
That bite me whenever they can!
Then the king he laughed Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!
And the queen she sighed Ah me!--Heigh-oh!
While the Lords and the Ladies they did just so.

As for that, my man, the king began,
The fleas bite whoever they like,
But the very first flea you chance to see,
Wherever he may happen to be,
You have my permission to strike!
And the king he roared, Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!
While the queen she sighed Ah me!--Heigh-oh!
And the Lords and the Ladies they did just so.

Just then Jingle sighted a flea that had lighted
Right on--well, where _do_ you suppose?
On Marshmallow's own royal face, and the clown
In bringing his hand with a swift motion down
Nearly ruined the poor monarch's nose.
And the king he shrieked Ah! Ah! Oh! Oh!
And the queen burst out laughing Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!
While the Lords and the Ladies stood stupidly by
And didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.

BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY (REV. R.H. BARHAM).

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop and abbot and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,--
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween, was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cakes, and dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all!
With saucy air, he perch'd on the chair
Where in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peer'd in the face of his Lordship's Grace
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"

The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,
And six little singing-boys,--dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due, two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water and eau de Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more a napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in "permanent ink."
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white;
From his finger he draws his costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight by the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

* * * * *

There's a cry and a shout, and _no end_ of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about
But the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out;
The friars are kneeling, and hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew off each plum-colour'd shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes,--they turn up the plates,--
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
--They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs:--
But, no!--no such thing;--They can't find THE RING!
And the Abbot declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!"

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of evil, and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!--
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise to no little surprise,
Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!

The day was gone, the night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw, on crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw;
No longer gay, as on yesterday;
His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;--
His pinions droop'd--he could hardly stand--
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim, so wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!--
That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"

The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
"Pray be so good as to walk this way!"
Slower and slower, he limp'd on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
When the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
--When those words were heard, that poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd.
He grew sleek, and fat; in addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more Even than before;
But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopp'd now about With a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied,--or if any one swore,--
Or slumber'd in prayer-time and happened to snore,
That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw,"
As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"
He long lived the pride of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint his merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint!
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of. Jim Crow!

TUBAL CAIN.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright
The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers,
As he fashion'd the sword and spear.
And he sang--"Hurra for my handiwork!
Hurra for the Spear and Sword!
Hurra for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be King and Lord!"

To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And spoils of the forest free,
And they sang--"Hurra for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurra for the smith, hurra for the fire,
And hurra for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was fill'd with pain
For the evil he had done;
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage, blind.
And he said--"Alas! that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smoulder'd low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang--"Hurra for my handiwork!"
And the red sparks lit the air;
"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;"
And he fashion'd the First Plough-share!

And men, taught wisdom from the Past,
In friendship join'd their hands,
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And plough'd the willing lands;
And sang--"Hurra for Tubal Cain!
Our staunch good friend is he;
And for the ploughshare and the plough
To him our praise shall be.
But while Oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the Plough,
We'll not forget the Sword!"

THE THREE PREACHERS.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

There are three preachers, ever preaching,
Fill'd with eloquence and power:--
One is old, with locks of white,
Skinny as an anchorite;
And he preaches every hour
With a shrill fanatic voice,
And a bigot's fiery scorn:--
"Backward! ye presumptuous nations;
Man to misery is born!
Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer--
Born to labour and to pray;
Backward!' ye presumptuous nations--
Back!--be humble and obey!"

The second is a milder preacher;
Soft he talks as if he sung;
Sleek and slothful is his look,
And his words, as from a book,
Issue glibly from his tongue.
With an air of self-content,
High he lifts his fair white hands:
"Stand ye still! ye restless nations;
And be happy, all ye lands!
Fate is law, and law is perfect;
If ye meddle, ye will mar;
Change is rash, and ever was so:
We are happy as we are."

Mightier is the younger preacher,
Genius flashes from his eyes:
And the crowds who hear his voice
Give him, while their souls rejoice,
Throbbing bosoms for replies.
Awed they listen, yet elated,
While his stirring accents fall:--
"Forward! ye deluded nations,
Progress is the rule of all:
Man was made for healthful effort;
Tyranny has crush'd him long;
He shall march from good to better,
And do battle with the wrong.

"Standing still is childish folly,
Going backward is a crime:
None should patiently endure
Any ill that he can cure;
Onward! keep the march of Time,
Onward! while a wrong remains
To be conquer'd by the right;
While Oppression lifts a finger
To affront us by his might;
While an error clouds the reason
Of the universal heart,
Or a slave awaits his freedom
Action is the wise man's part.

"Lo! the world is rich in blessings:
Earth and Ocean, flame and wind,
Have unnumber'd secrets still,
To be ransack'd when you will,
For the service of mankind;
Science is a child as yet,
And her power and scope shall grow,
And her triumphs in the future
Shall diminish toil and woe;
Shall extend the bounds of pleasure
With an ever-widening ken,
And of woods and wildernesses
Make the homes of happy men.

"Onward!--there are ills to conquer,
Daily wickedness is wrought,
Tyranny is swoln with Pride,
Bigotry is deified,
Error intertwined with Thought,
Vice and Misery ramp and crawl;--
Root them out, their day has pass'd;
Goodness is alone immortal;
Evil was not made to last:
Onward! and all earth shall aid us
Ere our peaceful flag be furl'd."--
And the preaching of this preacher
Stirs the pulses of the world.

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE.

BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

PATRIOTISM.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Love thou thy land, with love far-brought
From out the storied Past, and used
Within the Present, but transfused
Thro' future time by power of thought.

True love turned round on fixed poles,
Love that endures not sordid ends,
For English natures, freemen, friends,
Thy brothers, and immortal souls.

But pamper not a hasty time,
Nor feed with crude imaginings
The herd, wild hearts, and feeble wings,
That every sophister can lime.

Deliver not the tasks of might
To weakness, neither hide the ray
From those, not blind, who wait for day,
Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light.

Make knowledge circle with the winds;
But let her herald, Reverence, fly
Before her to whatever sky
Bear seed of men and growth of minds.

Watch what main currents draw the years:
Cut Prejudice against the grain:
But gentle words are always gain:
Regard the weakness of thy peers:

Nor toil for title, place, or touch
Of pension, neither count on praise:
It grows to guerdon after-days:
Nor deal in watch-words overmuch:

Not clinging to some ancient saw;
Not master'd by some modern term;
Not swift nor slow to change, but firm;
And in its season bring the law;

That from Discussion's lip may fall
With Life, that, working strongly, binds--
Set in all lights by many minds,
To close the interests of all.

For Nature also, cold and warm,
And moist and dry, devising long,
Thro' many agents making strong,
Matures the individual form.

Meet is it changes should control
Our being, lest we rust in ease.
We all are changed by still degrees,
All but the basis of the soul.

So let the change which comes be free
To ingroove itself with that, which flies,
And work, a joint of state, that plies
Its office, moved with sympathy.

A saying, hard to shape in act;
For all the past of Time reveals
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals,
Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact.

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife
A motion toiling in the gloom--
The Spirit of the years to come
Yearning to mix himself with Life.

A slow-develop'd strength awaits
Completion in a painful school;
Phantoms of other forms of rule,
New Majesties of mighty States--

The warders of the growing hour,
But vague in vapour, hard to mark;
And round them sea and air are dark
With great contrivances of Power.

Of many changes, aptly join'd,
Is bodied forth the second whole.
Regard gradation, lest the soul
Of Discord race the rising wind;

A wind to puff your idol-fires,
And heap their ashes on the head;
To shame the boast so often made,
That we are wiser than our sires.

O yet, if Nature's evil star
Drive men in manhood, as in youth,
To follow flying steps of Truth
Across the brazen bridge of war--

If New and Old, disastrous feud,
Must ever shock, like armed foes,
And this be true, till time shall close,
That Principles are rain'd in blood;

Not yet the wise of heart would cease
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt,
But with his hand against the hilt
Would pace the troubled land, like Peace;

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay,
Would serve his kind in deed and word,
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword,
That knowledge takes the sword away--

Would love the gleams of good that broke
From either side, nor veil his eyes:
And if some dreadful need should rise
Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke:

To-morrow yet would reap to-day,
As we bear blossom of the dead;
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw Haste, half sister to Delay.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

High hopes that burn'd like stars sublime,
Go down i' the heaven of freedom;
And true hearts perish in the time
We bitterliest need 'em!
But never sit we down and say
There's nothing left but sorrow;
We walk the wilderness to-day--
The promised land to-morrow!

Our birds of song are silent now,
Few are the flowers blooming,
Yet life is in the frozen bough,
And freedom's spring is coming;
And freedom's tide creeps up alway,
Though we may strand in sorrow;
And our good bark, aground to-day,
Shall float again to-morrow.

'Tis weary watching wave by wave,
And yet the Tide heaves onward;
We climb, like Corals, grave by grave,
That pave a pathway sunward;
We are driven back, for our next fray
A newer strength to borrow,
And where the Vanguard camps to-day
The Rear shall rest to-morrow!

Through all the long, dark night of years
The people's cry ascendeth,
And earth is wet with blood and tears:
But our meek sufferance endeth!
The few shall not for ever sway--
The many moil in sorrow;
The powers of hell are strong to-day,
The Christ shall rise to-morrow!

Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes
With smiling futures glisten!
For lo! our day bursts up the skies
Lean out your souls and listen!
The world is rolling freedom's way,
And ripening with her sorrow;
Take heart! who bear the Cross to-day,
Shall wear the Crown to-morrow!

O youth! flame-earnest, still aspire
With energies immortal!
To many a heaven of desire
Our yearning opes a portal;
And though age wearies by the way,
And hearts break in the furrow--
Youth sows the golden grain to-day--
The harvest comes to-morrow!

Build up heroic lives, and all
Be like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to flash out at God's call--
O chivalry of labour!
Triumph and toil are twins; though they
Be singly born in sorrow,
And 'tis the martyrdom to-day
Brings victory to-morrow!

RING OUT, WILD BELLS.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Ring out wild bells to the' wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

RULE, BRITANNIA!

BY JAMES THOMSON.

When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang this strain:
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves."

The nations not so blest as thee,
Must in their turns to tyrants fall
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves."

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves."

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame
To work _their_ woe and _thy_ renown.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves."

To thee belongs the rural reign,
Thy cities shall with commerce shine,
All thine shall be the subject main,
And ev'ry shore it circles, thine.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves."

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coasts repair;
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves."

Printed by H. Virtue and Company, Limited, City Road, London.