the title of a book." "That is another thing," says the Baron, waving
his hand, "proceed!" "It is about Mlle. DE CORDAY, Madame ROLAND,
the Princesse DE LAMBALLE, and Madame DE GENLIS. I recommend it,
Sir. _Tolle, Lege!_ "And with a bow "Co. Junior," withdraws from the
presence.

Quoth the Baron, "I was looking again into _Saint Monica_, just to see
if I might like it any better than I did on the first occasion--which,
"with me hand upon me hearrt," as Doctor O'Q. says, I cannot say
I do,--when I came upon the following misprint,--"_This woman,
nevertheless, worshipped him as the god of her idoltary._" It's a
beautiful word, "idoltary," and so much better than the ordinary way
of spelling it. So, after all, there is more in _Saint Monica_ than
I had expected. In fact, its chief fault is that it is too much spun
out; and, just at this time, _Saint Monica_ mustn't be associated in
any sort of way with the House at Cambridge where they spin.

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

TO A DEBUTANTE.

Fair Maiden of unclouded brow
Who, gaily, 'mid the gay the gayest,
To England, Home, and Duty now
Oblation payest.

Gay seeming,--if the milliner's
Can cheer, the florist's homage sightly;
And yet, unless my fancy errs,
Thou shudderest slightly.

Is it a sigh for childhood's bliss,
A dread of what is coming, come what
May matrimonially--or is
It draughty somewhat?

St. James's corridors are long
As Art, as Life thy raiment brief is
(Except the train, of course)--and strong
Mamma's relief is.

In vulgar phrase, "Your mother knows
You're _out_," at length. Such triumphs too dear
Are sometimes purchased. I suppose
She fidgets you, dear.

"The Countess!--bow, child, to the Earl!--
Those terrible HYDE PARKES! Their posies
Look quite too vulgar; cut them, girl.
How red your nose is!

"Quick! take the powder-puff, my love--
Not on your bouquet or your hair now!--
Don't bungle so; you'll drop that glove--
Please take more care now.

"You stoop like any _bourgeoise_ chit.
Who'd think you educated highly?
No, not so stiff. Do blush a bit,
And simper shyly."

Ah! Maiden fair of cloudless air.
This kind of thing is hardly pleasant.
Indeed, I'm thankful not to wear
Thy shoes at present!

* *