library. Aaron is lively, is gay, is witty, a "Jew d'esprit," and, like Mr. Peter Magnus, he amuses a small circle of intimate friends; but his story, and that of his sweet wife Rachel, as related by Mr. Farjeon, will increase this friendly circle to a very considerable extent. The Baron ventures to think that a good deal of the dialogue and of the descriptive writing is unnecessary,—but Mr. Farjeon likes to give everyone plenty for their money,—and, further, that the story would have gained by the loss of what would have reduced the three volumes to two. But altogether, the novel is "recommended" by the interested but disinterested
Baron de Book-Worms.
A VOTE OF THANKS.
By a Hard-up Journalist.
[A strange light has appeared on that part of the surface of Mars not illuminated by the sun. The Westminster Gazette of August 2 asks the question, "Is Mars signalling to us?"]
Oh, men of Mars, we thank you, your behaviour's really kind! (Forgive us if you've lately slipped somewhat out of mind!) For now the silly season's set in with all its "rot," You once more raise the question whether you exist or not.
No doubt the good old topics will trot out yet again:— "Is Flirting on the Increase?" "Is Marriage on the Wane?" Big gooseberries as usual with sea-serpents will compete, To help the British Press-man his columns to complete!
But you, my merry Martians, have opportunely planned A mild but new sensation for the holidays at hand; Your planet's "terminator," it seems, is now ablaze— 'Tis, say the cognoscenti, a signal that you raise!
What is it that you're shewing terrestrial telescopes? Is't pills you're advertising, or booming patent soaps? How on earth can one discover what by this beacon's meant, Whether news of Royal Weddings or Railway Strikes is sent?
Alas! We haven't mastered the transplanetic code; Your canals are yet a riddle, in vain your fires have glowed! Still, do not let your efforts each August-tide abate— You furnish us with "copy," which maintains the Fourth Estate!
Distinguished Visitors to Bournemouth.—The Royal Bath Hotel announces "Private Suites." Is "General Bitters" there also?
Educational Motto. (For Mr. Acland's use.)—"A place for every child, and every child in its place."
ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FOREIGNERS.
He. "Oh, you're from America, are you? People often say to me, 'Don't you dislike Americans?' But I always say 'I believe there are some very nice ones among them.'"
She. "Ah, I dare say there may be Two or Three nice People amongst Sixty Millions!"
"MOWING THEM DOWN!"
["He (Sir William Harcourt) confessed that he was not enamoured of these exceptional measures, and he resorted to them with extreme regret. But if he were asked for a justification of this motion, he would refer hon. gentlemen to the Order Book of the House of Commons."]
Gunner Harcourt, loquitur:—
Exceptional measures I hate, I'd rather not always be battling; The good old "Brown Bess" I prefer, I confess, To a new (Parliamentary) Gatling. To fight in the old-fashioned way, Good temperedly, fairly, politely, Is more to my mind; but these fellows, I find, Will not let a leader be knightly.
If Balfour would only fight fair; And impose that condition on Bartley; If Joe would not ravage and shriek like a savage; Did Tommy talk less, and less tartly; Were Goschen less eager for scalps, And kept a tight rein upon Hanbury; Why then 'twere all right; we'd soon get through our fight And hatred in love's flowing can bury.
But no, they're like Soudanese blacks, All fury and wild ugly rushes. They shriek and they shock, and they hack and they hock, Till chivalry shudders and blushes. And so the machine-gun, I find, Is just the one thing will arrest 'em. They've quite lost their head, but a fair rain of lead Played on them will try 'em and test 'em!
Whir-r-r-r! George! how it's mowing them down, Their Advance-guard,—"Amendments" they dub them! They swarm thick and thicker. The handle turns quicker! 'Tis dreadful; but then we must drub them. As Courtney so gallantly said, 'Tis "deplorable"; troubles me sorely. But if Arthur and Joe won't make terms, why, you know, They really can't blame me and Morley!
AIRS RESUMPTIVE.
II.—The Links of Love.
My heart is like a driver-club, That heaves the pellet hard and straight, That carries every let and rub. The whole performance really great; My heart is like a bulger-head, That whiffles on the wily tee,— Because my love distinctly said She'd halve the round of life with me.
My heart is also like a cleek, Resembling most the mashie sort, That spanks the object, so to speak, Across the sandy bar to port; And hers is like a putting green, The haven where I boast to be,
