again breathlessly, wondering where he may be, and what it was all about.  “Story!  God bless you, I haven’t much to tell, Sir!” says the luxuriantly fanciful novel-grinder.  And he hasn’t much, it must be owned, for essenced it would go into half a volume, or less, and all over and above is pot-fuls of rich colour, spilt about almost at haphazard, permutations and combinations, giving the effect of genius.  Which—­genius it is; but a little of it goes a great way, in fact, a very great way, wandering and straying until at length the Baron calls for his Richard Feverel, and says, “This is the best that GEORGE MEREDITH has written, as sure as my name is

“THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.”

* * * * *

BARD V. BARD.

  There was a poor Poet named CLOUGH,
  Poet SWINBURNE declares he wrote stuff. 
      Ah, well, he is dead! 
      ’Tis the living are fed,
  By log-rollers, on butter and puff.

* * * * *

A SUGGESTION.—­In a new poetical play at the Opera Comique there is a good deal of hide-and-seek.  It might have had a second title, and been appropriately called The Queen’s Room; or, Secret Passages in the Life of Mary Stuart.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  STREET IMPROVEMENTS.

["If we really used the Thames Embankment sensibly and liberally, it would abound with handsome shops and cheerful cafes a and volksgartens, with newspaper kiosks and long lines of bookstalls.”—­Daily Telegraph, Oct. 21.]]

* * * * *

BLENDIMUS!

“Water, water everywhere” in the Times recently, except when Messrs. GILBEY wrote their annual, and this time hopeful, account of the Claret vintage, and when subsequently Messrs.  “P. and G.”—­(who on earth are “P. and G."?)—­with a few modest lines at the foot of a page, last Wednesday, enlivened our drooping spirits with a brief but satisfactory account of Champagne Prospects.  If the vintages of ’86 and ’87 are good, and those of ’90 and ’91 poor, why not make a blend? and why not sell it as such?  Let “P. and G.”—­[confound it! who on earth can P. and G. be?  “P. and J.” would be “Punch and Judy”—­and, by the way, in the choice Lingua Tuscana, “P. and G.” would stand for “Poncio e Giulia.”  But, on the other hand, who, unauthorised, would dare to use this signature?  No matter—­where were we?—­ah!—­to resume.] Let “P. and G.,” whoe’er they be—­which is rhyme, though not so intended—­(but why this masquerade in initials?)—­let them exploit a “Blend of ’90-cum-’86 and ’91-cum-’87,” sell it as such—­viz., The “P. and G. Blend,” or “The Punchius and Giulia Blend”—­at a reasonable figure, and thus the Not-quite-up-to-the-mark vintages will be saved.  Have we not seen in City partnerships how a strong house saves a failing one, and then the Blends go on successfully?  Let “P. and G.” give us a first-rate Champagne, call it, say, The “G.B.,” or “Golden Blend,” at a reasonable price, and, to drop once again into poetry, No matter what their name may be, We’ll ever bless our P. and G.![2]