I own I have a goodly time,
For still it seems the golden prime
Of graphic GEORGE AUGUSTUS.

But many another since my youth
The streets of Babylon hath trod,
With a statistic measuring-rod,
Or philanthropic gauge. In sooth
There was GEORGE SIMS, there is CHARLES BOOTH.
We now search out the Social Truth;
A goodly plan, in the old time
Foreshadowed in the golden prime
Of worthy HENRY MAYHEW.

Now London Labour, London Poor,
Occupy pen and pencil more
Than Pictures in the Passing Show
Of the Immense Metropolis.
And few have knowledge such as his,
(The great Q.C., the worthy Beak!)
Of modern Babylon, high and low;
And so shall I with interest seek
These pages, full of interest,
"_Round London, Down East, and Up West_."
True picture of the present time,
Drawn for us by the pencil prime
Of good MONTAGU WILLIAMS!

* * * * *

[Illustration: "NOT AT HOME."

MISS SARAH SUFFRAGE (_indignantly_). "OH! '_OUT_' IS HE!"

EIGHT-HOURS BILL (_angrily_). "YUS!--AND HE WON'T GET '_IN_,' IF _I_
CAN, HELP IT!!"

(Mr. GLADSTONE has lately published an unsympathetic Pamphlet
on "Female Suffrage," and has declined to receive a Deputation
on the "Eight Hours Day" question.)]

* * * * *

[Illustration: AN OVER-EXTENDED FRANCHISE.

(_The Radical Grocer has just been elected County Councillor._)

_My Lady_ (_to her pet protegee_). "PRAY WHOM DID YOUR HUSBAND VOTE
FOR?"

_Martha Stubbs_. "I DON'T KNOW, MY LADY."

_My Lady_. "BUT SURELY YOUR HUSBAND TOLD YOU?"

_Martha Stubbs_. "HE DOESN'T KNOW HIMSELF, MY LADY. HE'S SUCH A POOR
IGNORANT CREATURE!"]

* * * * *

BURNING WORDS.

(_FROM A WORKING MAN._)

["How many of you men would contribute to a Working Men's Fund
the shilling you put on _Orme_, who, by the way, I am sorry
to see was not poisoned to death."--_Mr. John Burns in the
Park._]

Look 'ere, JOHN, you stow it; you're nuts on the spoutin';
I don't mind a man as can 'oller a bit;
And if shillings are goin', I'd back you for shoutin',
Though your game's an Aunt Sally, all miss and no 'it.
But the blusterin' chap as keeps naggin' the boys on
To fight and get beat all for nothing's an ass.
And I'm certain o' this, that the wust kind o' poison
Is the stuff as you fellers 'ave lots of--that's gas