indiscreet or extravagant insistance—

Master Joe (quickly, though with becoming gravity). Quite so, Ma'am! Very true, Sir! My "conceptions," I may say, have "enlarged" considerably of late, since I have found (as Mrs. S. well says) "how much of my antipathy" (to the powers that be) "was sheer prejudice." And, as to "the general advantage," I am sanguine that I shall find it consonant—if not identical—with my own.

Doctor T. (dubiously). Humph! Suppose you say yours with it, JOSEPH?

Master Joe (airily). As you please, Sir. Things which are equal to the same thing are equal to one another, you know.

Mrs. S. (aside). Smart boy, very! I fancy I should have more confidence in him if he were a little less so.

Doctor T. (gravely). You see, JOSEPH, there are some things in your earlier school career which your well-wishers would fain—forget. You were rather what is called, I think, "a young Radical" once, not to say "a bit of a pickle." You seemed not altogether out of sympathy with such revolutionary proceedings as "revolts" and "barring-outs," and even talked once, if I remember rightly, of putting the Principals "to ransom"—doctrines better worthy of a Calabrian brigand than of a public school-boy. But let bygones be bygones. Now that you are in a position of responsibility and—respectability, you will, of course, abandon all such revolutionary rubbish, and think not of yourself, but others; consider less the wild wishes of your inferiors than the wise commands of your betters.

Master Joe (solemnly). Oh, of course, Sir! And now, if you, Dr. Poloni—ahem!—Dr. T., and Mrs. Pip—I mean Mrs. S., have quite finished your wig—I should say wise counsellings, I think I'll—go out and play! [Does so.

DYNAMITICAL ARGUMENTS.—The Apostles of "the Gospel of Dynamite" would, if they could, speedily convert a whole town—into a ruin.

A STARTLING PROPOSITION.

Seedy Individual (suddenly and with startling vigour)—"AOH? FLOY WITH ME ERCROSS THER SEA, ERCROSS THER DORK LERGOON!!"

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

With a spice of Tristram Shandy, a dash of Ferdinand Count Fathom, and none the worse for the quaint flavouring thus given to the style and manner of the romance, The Blue Pavilions by "Q." is about as good a tale of rapid dramatic and exciting adventure as the Baron remembers to have read,—for some time at least. There is in it little enough of love, though that little is well and prettily told, but there is no lack of fighting at long odds and at short intervals, of hairbreadth escapes, and of such chances by land and sea as keep the reader, all agog, hurrying on from point to point, anxious to see what is to happen next, and how the expected is to eventuate unexpectedly. The story is for the most part told in a humorous devil-may-care-believe-it-or-not-as-you-like sort of way which compels attention, occasionally raises a smile, and always excites curiosity. As a one-barrel novel, this ought to score a gold right in the centre.

The writer of a little leader in the Daily News of last Wednesday seems to have been rather hard-up for a subject when he fell foul of the Messrs. MACMILLAN's cheap re-issue of A Jest-Book, compiled many years ago by Mr. Punch's MARK LEMON, "Uncle MARK," who brought the ancient Joe Miller up to that particular date. It was the last of the jest-books, and they are now quite out of fashion. A quarter of a century hence, no doubt, the fortunate possessor of one of these little books will come out with many a new jest, and be esteemed quite an original wit.

It would have been well for the writer of the above-mentioned leaderette had he referred to the ninth of ELIA's Popular Fallacies, and been thereby reminded how "a pun is a pistol let off at the ear; and not a feather to tickle the intellect." The Baron is prepared to admit that the lesson to be learned from this delightful Essay of CHARLES LAMB's is, that a pun once let off, has fizzled off, and cannot be repeated with its first effect. Now the honest historian of this, or of any pun, must reproduce in his narrative all the circumstances of time, place, and individuality that gave it its point; but the effect of the pun, the Baron ventures to think, it is impossible to convey in print to the reader, read he never so wisely, nor however vividly graphic may be the description. Yet if this same reader possesses the art of reading aloud, with some approach to the dramatic Dickensian manner, then, given an appreciative audience, it is probable that the pun itself would not lose much in recital. At best, however, the crispness of the original salt is impaired, though the flavour is not lost by keeping, and the enjoyment of it must depend on the new seasoning provided by the reciter. Of course, its piquancy may have been staled by too frequent use—but "this is another story." After all, is a jest-book meant to be taken seriously? A question which "nous donne à penser," quoth

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

FOGGED!

Blest if I know where I am in this murkiness made to benight us, Blest if I know what it means, this infernal Impressionist etching;

Surely some WHISTLER renowned in the gibbering realms of Cocytus Drew it—and draws us along through its avenues ghostlily stretching.

Lights flicker out in the gloom, like diminutive goblins that beckon; Onward we stagger and gasp in the grip of this emanence deadly:

How I would curse if I could, but not RABELAIS even I reckon Language could find, or a voice if he wished for the sulphurous medley.

Blest if I know who you are, wicked giant, colossal above me, Pluto perchance or, that fell spirit-ferryman, Charon uprising!

Blest if I know if survives in this demon-land anything of me, Blest!—It's a lamp-post, by George—a reality somewhat surprising!

London, how long shall thy sons rue this Angel of Death with his grim bow, Suffer this nightmare to last by its pestilence mangled and throttled?

Would magic Science could scare the black vista to luridest Limbo, Would that fresh breezes were tinned and the sunshine of Italy bottled!!