omit a few anecdotes about some of our own exalted personages which would not have been received with unmixed satisfaction in every quarter. This is only a surmise on my part, as I am unacquainted with the original work.

Let me recommend everyone who values a powerful study of character more than a merely cleverly-constructed story, to read Marzio's Crucifix, by Marion Crawford. I do not know what special opportunities the author had for the work, but the characters are individually, masterpieces. The scene between Marzio and Don Paolo, when the latter is wrapt in devout contemplation of the artist's chef d'œuvre, is most striking, and would have been more so had Marzio carried out his intention of knocking his brother down, and disposing of him out of hand.

With Mr. Saunders's The Story of some Famous Books (Elliot Stock) I was rather disappointed, in consequence of there not being enough "famous books," and not much more story than the needy knife-grinder had to tell. Still, I thank him for introducing me to a delightful name—"Theopompus of Chios"—whom, for this present, I will take as my godfather, and sign myself, Yours, Theopompus, Baron de Book Worms.

Staff Appointments.—The Specials.

AN EYE FOR "ELECTIVE AFFINITIES."

Sir Edwin. "Hullo, Angy? Stew-pan? Apron? Tripe and Onions? What on earth's up?"

The Lady Angelina. "Yes, Dearest! Since you've become a Special Constable, I'm doing my little utmost to become a Special Cook! I thought it might bind us still closer together!" Sir Edwin. "My own Love!!!"

LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON.

(A Ballad of the Brave Old Sort.)

The Two Canons and Bean-baggers.—The Bean-baggers are likely to come badly off with two such big guns against them as Canons Liddon and McColl. Let the matter be settled amicably by agreeing that whatever it was they did see was a "What-you-McColl-it."

HOW TO ESCAPE THE FOG.

Fogs? Nonsense! Fogs are always mist. And the way to miss them is to go to the Institute of Painters in Oil. That will oil the wheels of life in this atrociously hibernal weather, and make existence in a fog enjoyable. There, in the well-warmed, pleasantly-lighted rooms, will you find countless pleasant pictures—delightful sea-subjects, charming landscapes, and amusing scenes, by accomplished painters, which will infuse a little Summer into the dull, depressing, brumous, filthy atmosphere of a weary London Winter. If you cannot get away to Monte Carlo, Mentone, Nice, or Rome, hasten at once and take one of Sir John Linton's excursion coupons, and personally conduct yourself—if you don't conduct yourself as you ought, you'll probably be turned out—round the well-filled galleries in Piccadilly.

Sir Drummond is ordered off to Teheran. "Well, we're successful in keeping one Wolff from our door," as Sir Gorst, Q.C., observed to Grandolph. "Poor Wolffy!" sighed Grandolph. "I shall write a fable on 'The Wolff and the Shah!'"

Sardou and Sara.—Sara B. has made a hit in what is reported to be a poor play called La Tosca, by Sardou. But in consequence of Sara's acting, it is in for a run. Che Sara sara, i.e. (free translation), "Who has seen Sara once will see Sara again."