"And who may you be?" asked the Captain, with some bitterness. "Are
you the Commander-in-Chief?"

"I am one infinitely more powerful," was the reply. And then the
speaker threw off his disguise-cloak, and appeared in morning-dress.
"Behold in me the Editor of an influential Journal!"

A week later the Captain had sent in his papers, and every man in the
Company he had once commanded wore the stripe of a Lance Corporal. And
thus was the power of the Press once again sufficiently vindicated.

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.

[Illustration]

PROEM.

_Tan-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra!_ The trumpets blare!
The rival Bards, wild-eyed, with windblown hair,
And close-hugged harps, advance with fire-winged feet
For the green Laureate Laurels to compete;
The laurels vacant from the brows of him
In whose fine light all lesser lustres dim.
Tourney of Troubadours! The laurels lie
On crimson velvet cushion couched on high,
Whilst _Punch_, Lord-Warden of his country's fame,
Attends the strains to hear, the victor-bard to name.