VERY
CHILLEY. If sung at St. James's Hall, admission generally, one shilling.
Freeze-seats, nothing.

"_The Carnival_" is announced, as "MOLLOY'S last hit." We hope not. We
trust that it is only Misther JAMES MOLLOY's _latest_ hit. "Never say
die!"

As a companion to "_Come Dance the Romaika_," will be published, "_Come
Read the Romeike_," set up and composed by the Press Cutting Agency.

* * * * *

RATHER STARTLING.--A Correspondent sends us a cutting from a paper:--

"Mr. MOODY, the Evangelist, who was a passenger on the
_Spree_, ... preached an able discourse."

She says, "I can read no more to-day. Mr. MOODY, as 'a passenger on the
_Spree_,' is too much for my feelings." As _Joe_ said to _Pip_, "What
larks!" Yours truly, SHOCKED!

* * * * *

[Illustration: "THE MISSING WORD." (?)

["The Agricultural Conference unhappily seems to have
made up its mind to defy the recognised laws of
economic science, instead of endeavouring to adapt
their farming methods to them. The first of the two
operative resolutions passed yesterday was an
undisguised proposal for the re-adoption of
Protection."--_The Times._]]

* * * * *

THE MAN WHO WOULD.

IV.--THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A CRITIC.

ST. BARBE, as a literary man and critic, always professed a desire to
live in a quiet neighbourhood. Therefore, as I approached his house, on
the almost inaccessible slopes of Campden Hill, I was amazed to see a
large and increasing crowd assembled in the vicinity. Pushing my way
through, I saw that St. BARBE'S windows were broken, glass was in a weak
minority in the panes, and, what was more singular, the breakage seemed
to be done _from within_! Objects were flying out into the garden, and
those objects were books. I had the curiosity and agility to catch a few
as they fell, and to pick others up. They were mostly volumes of Poetry,
and, in every case, they bore ST. BARBE'S name on the fly-leaf, with a
flattering manuscript inscription by the author. Some of the authors'
names were unknown to me; in others I recognised ladies of title whom I
had read about in the Society Journals. Urging my way through a hot fire
of octavos, I rang the bell. The maid who opened the door said, "You're
not an Interviewer, Sir?"

"Great Heavens, no!" I replied.

"It is lucky for you, Sir; he's got an air-gun, and wing