Prophet of o'er-population, your ingenious calculation,
Causeth discombobulation only in the anxious mind
That forecasts exhausted fuel, or the period when the duel
Will have given their final gruel to French journalists; a kind
Of cantankerous, rancorous spitfires, blusterous, braggart, boyish, blind,
Who much mourning scarce would find.

Prophet of o'er-population, when the centuries in rotation
Shall have filled our little planet till it tends to running o'er,
Will this world, with souls o'erladen, be a Hades or an Aidenn?
Will man, woman, boy and maiden, be less civilised, or more?
_That's_ the question, RAVENSTEIN! What boots a billion, less or more,
If Man still is fool or boor?

"Seek not to proticipate" is _Mrs. Gamp's_ wise maxim. Great is
Mankind's number _now_, but "take 'em as they come, and as they go,"
Like the philosophic _Sairey_; and though the sum total vary,
Other things may vary likewise, things we dream not, much less know,
Don't you think, my RAVENSTEIN, our state ten centuries hence or so
We may prudently--let go?

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE QUICKSAND!]

* * * * *

[Illustration: PREPARING FOR BLACK MONDAY.