I know that death will seem delight
When in the gondola I'm seated,
For up to sixty Fahrenheit
The Grand Canal is nicely heated;
So--sick of life's incessant storm,
Impatient of its kicks and pinches--
I'll plunge within the water warm,
And drown--in four-and-twenty inches!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

After copious draughts of novels and romances which, the morning
after, leave the literary palate as dry as a lime-kiln, or as Mrs. RAM
would say, "as a lamb-kin," the Baron, thirsting for a more satisfying
beverage, took up a volume, which he may fairly describe as a youthful
quarto, or an imperial pinto, coming from the CHAPMAN AND HALL
cellars, that is, book-sellers, entitled _On Shibboleths_, and written
by W.S. LILLY. In a recent trial it came out that Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH
is the accredited and professional reader for Messrs. CHAPMAN AND
HALL. Is it possible that this eminent philosophical Novelist is
indebted to a quiet perusal of _Shibboleths_ for some of the quaint
philosophical touches not to be read off schoolboywise, with hurried
ellipses, blurting lips, and unintelligent brain, if any, which make
_One of Our Conquerors_ and others, worth perusal? Be this as it may,
which is a convenient shibbolethian formula, the Baron read this book,
and enjoyed it muchly. There is an occasional dig into the Huxleian