poetic humour, "it should have been dedicated to His Grace of Canterbury. Would not this distich well favour the title-page? Listen:—

"W. A.," or "The Wisely Appreciative," went into wisely appreciative ecstasies. "Baron," he presently resumed, "you will be graciously pleased to read it." "I will recline on my sofa," returned the Baron, "and, in that position, do my level best." So saying, His Super-Excellency suited the action to the word, and, waving his hand in token that he was not to be disturbed for the space of some forty winks or more, he bent his head in silent study o'er the somewhat bulky volume. "One of the most interesting and instructive chapters in this excellently elaborated book of reference," said the Baron, some time afterwards—"a book full of 'wise saws and modern instances'—is that headed 'Religion and Rum,' whence it appears that, whatever form of worship the Natives from time to time might adopt, it always included the cult of spirits in some form or other. The title of this chapter," observed the Baron, judicially, "instead of 'Religion and Rum,' should rather have been 'Rum Religions, or Spirituous Influences.' Towards the close of the book the author still seems to be In Search of a Climate. But what sort of a climate does he seek? One to suit everybody? Why, like the distinguished individual who was 'terribly disappointed with the Atlantic,' there are people, quoted as testimony above proof by Mr. Nottage, of the Cottage, who were 'all terribly disappointed with the climate of Santa Barbara and Los Angeles.' Well, then," quoth the Baron, "try Margate and Ramsgate." The book, attractively got up, is published by the firm whose name always recalls to the Baron's verse-atile mind that delightful poem set to dulcet music yclept "Soft and Low, Soft and Low," only that the names are Samp-son Low, Low & Co., which, set to the same strain, will "do as well." "And," quoth the Baron, suddenly inspired, "what a series of songs for Publishers and Bookbinders might be written! For example, 'My Mother bids me bind my books!' 'I am inter-leaving thee in sorrow.' Cum multis aliis suggestionibus! But this is délassement. Let our toast be, 'Our noble Shelves!'—'our noble Book-shelves!'" explains the Baron, gaily; and so back to the Brown Study where, as Baron Brown Beard, he disposes of the various heads in his department, and signs himself, The Just and Generous Baron de Book-Worms.

Mrs. Ram says no wonder people are blown out at Christmas, as they do fill themselves with so many "combustibles."

"SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE."

(A Meeting of the Church of England Temperance Society. The Vote of Thanks to the Chairman.)

"And, Ladies and Gentlemen, let me point out to you, in these days where the activity of the Church is so often called into question, that our revered Diocesan could never be called an 'Ornamental Bishop'!"

"THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT."

(Passages from a Political "Christmas Carol" of the Period descriptive of a slumbering Stateman's Yule-Tide Dream.)

Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously sonorous snore, and sitting up on what seemed to be a nightmare-like blend of the Treasury Bench and his own bed, to get his thoughts together, Sadstone (like Scrooge) had no occasion to be told that Big Ben was again upon the stroke of Twelve.

Now, being prepared for almost anything—from J-ss-e C-ll-ngs to a Vote of Censure—he was not by any means prepared for Nothing! Consequently, when the bell boomed its twelfth stroke, and nothing appeared, or happened—not even a nightmare in the shape of T-mmy B-wl-s, or a Motion for Adjournment—he was taken with a fit of the shivers.

At last he began to think that the source and centre of the ghostly light which seemed to gleam on him from nowhere in particular, might be in the adjoining room, his own private Downing Street sanctum. Thence indeed, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly, and shuffled in his slippers to the door.

The moment Sadstone's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.

It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with shamrock green and shillelagh branches that it looked a perfect Grove of Blarney. A lurid blaze, like a blue-tongued snapdragon flare, went hissing up the chimney, revealing in weird glimpses on the heated hearth and chimney tiles spectral figures of impish design and menacing gesture. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were Blue Books, abortive Bills, scrolls on which were inscribed endless questions and unnumbered amendments; bundles of party papers and political pamphlets; pallid sucking-pigs that seemed to demand rather opportune interment than human digestion; long wreaths of sausage-like shackles; resurrection pies of indigestible crust and full of offal scraps and tainted "block ornaments"; pudding-shaped bombs; barrels of explosives and fulminants; red hot (political) "chestnuts" of the most hackneyed partisan sort; Dead-Sea apples of the dustiest kind, savouring of sand and strife; fiery looking Ulster oranges; belated (parliamentary) pairs, and seething bowls of raw and vitriolic party spirit, that made the chamber dim, dank, and malodorous with their heady steam. In uneasy state upon this extraordinary conglomerate couch or throne, there sat an ogreish giant of pantomimic size and bogeyishly menacing expression, portentous to see; who bore a smokily-flaring torch, in shape not unlike an Anarch's beacon or Fury's bale-fire, and held it up, high up, to shed its lurid light on Sadstone, as he came peeping round the door.

"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghoul-Ghost. "Come in, and know me better, (G. O.) Man!"

Sadstone entered timidly, and hung his head before the Spirit. He was hardly the dogged Sadstone he had been, and the Spirit's eyes were so glowering and ungenial, he did not like to meet them.

"I am the Spirit of Christmas Present," said the apparition. "Look upon me!"

Sadstone sorrowfully did so. It was clothed in one simple emerald-green robe or mantle, bordered with buff fur of the dull tint dear to the old Scotch Whig. This garment hung so loosely on the figure that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. On its head it wore no other covering than a wreath of shamrock, set here and there with a thistle. Its dull black curls were long and elf-like and weird; weird as its frowning face, its staring eye, its clenched hand, its raucous voice, its despotic demeanour, and its gloomy air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard, holding a huge two-handed sword; the blade, ready to leap from its sheath, seemed a most unsuitable and unseasonable adjunct to what mankind has been wont to regard as the gentle and genial Spirit of Peace