ves of the people
living their daily life--in the hands of justice, at school, working
at their Arts and Crafts, dining and dancing.

In _The Poet's Audience_ and _Delilah_, CLARA SAVILE CLARKE (whether
Miss or Mrs. the Baron is unaware, and must apologise for stating
the name as it appears _tout court_) has written two interesting but
tragic stories. The Baron does not like being left in doubt as to the
fate of any hero or heroine in whom he may have been interested, and
therefore calls for "part second" to the first story. _Delilah_, short
and dramatic. The Baron shrinks from correcting a lady's grammar, but
to say "_Mrs. Randal Morgan_ lay down the law" is not the best Sunday
English as she is spoke. From _Fin-de-Siecle Stories_, by Messrs
LAWRENCE AND CADETT, the Baron selects "A Wife's Secret" (nothing
to do with the old play of that name), "Mexico," and "Honour is
Satisfied." Try these, and you'll have had a fine specimen of an
interesting _passe-temps_ collection says,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

In an article on the Salvationist disturbances at Eastbourne,
the _Times_ said that after the scuffle, "the Army reformed its
dishevelled battalions, and marched back to its 'citadel' without
molestation." In another sense, the sooner a reformation of the entire
Army is effected in the exercise of Christian charity, which
means consideration for their neighbours' feelings, the better for
themselves and for the non-combatants of every denomination.

* * * * *

"A BAR MESS."--Recent difficulties about latitude of Counsel in
Cross-examination.

* * * * *

[Illustration: OF THE WORLD WORLDLY.

"THERE GO THE SPICER WILCOXES, MAMMA! I'M TOLD THEY'RE DYING TO KNOW
US. HADN'T WE BETTER CALL?"

"CERTAINLY NOT, DEAR. IF THEY'RE DYING TO KNOW US, THEY'RE NOT WORTH
KNOWING. THE ONLY PEOPLE WORTH _OUR_ KNOWING ARE THE PEOPLE WHO
_DON'T_ WANT TO KNOW US!"]

* * * * *

THE BRIDAL WREATH.

IN MEMORIAM

H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE.

BORN, JAN. 8, 1864. DIED, JAN. 14, 1892.

"I thought thy bridal to have deck'd ...
And not have strew'd thy grave."--_Hamlet_.

But yesterday it seems,
That, dreaming loyal dreams,
_Punch_, with the People, genially rejoiced
In that Betrothal Wreath;[1]
And now relentless Death
Silences all the joy our hope