well-meaning rector of the little parish of Woodgates, England, and
several of Robert Browning's local admirers have recently busied
themselves in erecting a tablet to the memory of "the first known
forefather of the poet." This lately turned up ancestor, who does not
date very far back, was also named Robert Browning, and is described on
the mural marble as "formerly footman and butler to Sir John Bankes of
Corfe Castle." Now, Robert Browning the poet had as good right as Abou
Ben Adhem himself to ask to be placed on the list of those who love
their fellow men; but if the poet could have been consulted in the
matter he probably would have preferred not to have that particular
footman exhumed. However, it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. Sir
John Bankes would scarcely have been heard of in our young century if
it had not been for his footman. As Robert stood day by day, sleek and
solemn, behind his master's chair in Corfe Castle, how little it entered
into the head of Sir John that his highly respectable name would be
served up to posterity--like a cold relish--by his own butler! By
Robert!

IN the east-side slums of New York, somewhere in the picturesque Bowery
district, stretches a malodorous little street wholly given over to
long-bearded, bird-beaked merchants of ready-made and second-hand
clothing. The contents of the dingy shops seem to have revolted, and
rushed pell-mell out of doors, and taken possession of the sidewalk. One
could fancy that the rebellion had been quelled at this point, and that
those ghastly rows of complete suits strung up on either side of the
doorways were the bodies of the seditious ringleaders. But as you
approach these limp figures, each dangling and gyrating on its cord in a
most suggestive fashion, you notice, pinned to the lapel of a coat here
and there, a strip of paper announcing the very low price at which you
may become the happy possessor. That dissipates the illusion.