THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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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.

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“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 hopes had voiced.

      The Shadow glides between;
      The garland’s vernal green
  Shrivels to greyness in its spectral hand. 
      Joy-bells are muffled, mute,
      Hushed is the bridal lute,
  And general grief darkens across the land.

      Surely a hapless fate
      For young hearts so elate,
  So fired with promise of approaching bliss! 
      Oh, flowers we hoped to fling! 
      Oh, songs we thought to sing! 
  Prophetic fancy had not pictured this.

      Young, modest, scarce yet tried,
      Later he should have died,
  This gentle youth, loved by our widowed QUEEN! 
      So we are apt to say,
      Who only mark the way,
  Not the great goal by all but Heaven unseen.

       At least our tears may fall
       Upon the untimely pall
  Of so much frustrate promise, unreproved;
      At least our hearts may bear
      In her great grief a share,
  Who bows above the bier of him she loved.

      Princess, whose brightening fate
      We gladly hymned of late,
  Whose nuptial happiness we hoped to hymn
      With the first bursts of spring,
      To you our hearts we bring
  Warm with a sympathy death cannot dim.