ailing; he tells of Suffolk, where a branch of the Great Punchian Family is settled, known as The Suffolk Punches; he prattles of Honeymoon Land, where he met the man with seven wives, each of whom had a cat, and to each cat there was a kit, and to each wife a kit too, it is to be hoped, in the shape otherwise of a trousseau, and of many other pleasant restful places and refreshing jaunts he tells delightfully.  “But of all the pleasant places in which his lines have fallen, commend me,” quoth the Baron,—­“and the lines he has written will send many to these pleasant places—­(But O the Trippers!)—­of all these give me the Flower Farm at Holy Vale and the Valley of Ferns.”  If the reader cannot go to all the sweet resorts herein mentioned, let him be induced by the first article to visit Holy Vale, and he will find CLEMENT SCOTT an admirable guide for “the Scilly Season.”  Of course our NOT-YET-DUN-SCOTUS hath visited the Cyril-Flower-Farm on the Norfolk Coast.  Advice:  Stand not on the money-order of your going, but go at once, and stop there.  As to money, remember your Uncle dwells in Poppy Land, quoth their true friend,

THE TRAVELLED BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

P.S.—­A youthful shootist bought the Poppyland book because he thought that it would tell him all about where to go popping.  Also a bashful suitor was misled by the title, hoping that in Poppy Land he would learn how to “Pop—­the question.”  The Learned Author has not said one word about the “weasels that go pop,” which, of course, are natives of Poppy Land.

* * * * *

“THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE.”

[Illustration]

  It surely sounds a pretty phrase,
    Some poeesy for woe it wins,
  Commemorating roundelays
    And troubadours and mandolins: 
  We seem to view some minstrel-boy
    Beside his shattered music mute,
  The shattered string, the ruined joy—­
    The Rift within the Lute.

  How swift the slip from tune to twang! 
    Sweets bitter grow, as aye they did;
  For e’en the Roman poet sang
    “Surgit amari aliquid.” 
  Our pigmy worries turn us grey;
    And sorrows fierce are less acute;
  Our hearts are riddled every day
    With Rifts within the Lute.

  You envy FORTUNATUS—­rich—­
    A charming bride—­subservient friends. 
  To rival him were something which
    The dream of Avarice transcends. 
  That charming bride a mother owns
    Whom FORTUNATUS brands a brute: 
  She mars his life’s entrancing tones—­
    His Rift within the Lute!

  Then, PEREGRINE—­he journeys far;
    Unshackled, he by toil’s routine: 
  By turns he quaffs a samovar
    Or sherbet, as he shifts his scene. 
  “Strong as a horse!”—­ah! there’s the string
    That snaps asunder—­“to recruit.” 
  He wanders, manufacturing
    A Rift within his Lute.