300 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [November 15, 1862.

“ Come, Tompkins, rou’ve been tittuping up and down the Parade for the last hour and forty minutes. If you 're going

out hunting, you had better go ! ”

HANDS AND HEARTS.

JUDGES’ JUSTICE.

North.

There are hands by hundred thousands
In the crowded North,

Empty, idle, yet for labour,

Not for alms stretched forth.

Hands all thin and white and bloodless,
Free from stain or soil,

Hands struck helpless, yet so willing
If they could to toil!

Hands that failing fitting labour,

Cannot long forbear,

Or to clench in desperation,

Or to fold in prayer.

Whirr of working wheels is silent,
Chimneys smoke no more :

Famine and her sister Fever
Knock at every door.

South.

Here are hearts by hundred thousands
Full of ruth and pain,

Till those hands struck sudden idle,

Are at work again.

Humble hearts whose mite is ready,
Hungrier mouths to feed :

Haughty hearts, brought low by think ing
Oi their brothers’ need.

Hearts that only seek for channels
Wherein best may go,

All these streams of human kindness
Charged to overflow.

Then to work through clay and gravel,
Dull rock, thirsty sands,

From these brimming hearts make passage
To those failing hands.

A Case is tried before Mr. Justice Crompton, and a verdict is
given for the defendant. One of the jurymen thereupon writes to the
lucky defendant, with a “Please to remember the poor jury, your
Honour. They found your Honour a nice, clean verdict.” In other
words, this juryman asks the winner to pay the jury money. The other
jurymen are indignant.

“ The Box impeach him, Serjeant P. harangues,

The Court condemns him, and the juror—

No, not “hangs,” like Sir Balaam, nor was it to be wished, but we
think that he ought not to have been exactly rewarded. It is asked
that his name be mentioned. Mr. Justice Crompton orders that his
name be concealed, thereby leaving the other jurors under the cloud of
suspicion, and, further, Mr. Justice Crompton directs that the juror
in question be not put on a jury any more, an exemption which
hundreds of honest men would gladly give fifty pounds to purchase.
Had the judge who thus rewarded the juror been one of our country
justices, we, in our impartiality, should have felt it our duty to be
down in full gush and in capital letters upon Sir Charles Crompton,
Knight, and to repeat, his name, in that fashion, as often as we pos-
sibly could ; but as Mr. Justice Crompton usually knows what he is
about, we invite him to come and take a weed with Mr. Punch, and
explain.

Good Enough for an Agricultural Dinner.

Richard Cobden’s free-trade services Punches ever joyfully recog-
nised, nay, has immortalised them. But ne sutor. When he compares
our objection to a French invasion to our ancestors’ delusion touching
Dr. Titus Oates, we must say that Richard is not half the farmer he
aflected to be, and that though he knows all about corn he does not
understand oats.

Not a Bad “Nom de Plume.”—Gillott, or Mitchell, or Perry,
—for they are all closely connected with the most flourishing specimens
of the best English writing.