ht to score a gold right in the centre.

The writer of a little leader in the _Daily News_ of last Wednesday
seems to have been rather hard-up for a subject when he fell foul of
the Messrs. MACMILLAN's cheap re-issue of _A Jest-Book_, compiled many
years ago by _Mr. Punch's_ MARK LEMON, "Uncle MARK," who brought the
ancient _Joe Miller_ up to that particular date. It was the last of
the jest-books, and they are now quite out of fashion. A quarter of
a century hence, no doubt, the fortunate possessor of one of these
little books will come out with many a new jest, and be esteemed quite
an original wit.

It would have been well for the writer of the above-mentioned
leaderette had he referred to the ninth of ELIA's _Popular Fallacies_,
and been thereby reminded how "a pun is a pistol let off at the ear;
and not a feather to tickle the intellect." The Baron is prepared
to admit that the lesson to be learned from this delightful Essay
of CHARLES LAMB's is, that a pun once let off, has fizzled off, and
cannot be repeated with its first effect. Now the honest historian
of this, or of any pun, must reproduce in his narrative all the
circumstances of time, place, and individuality that gave it its
point; but the effect of the pun, the Baron ventures to think, it is
impossible to convey in print to the reader, read he never so wisely,
nor however vividly graphic may be the description. Yet if this same
reader possesses the art of reading aloud, with some approach to the
dramatic Dickensian manner, then, given an appreciative audience, it
is probable that the pun itself would not lose much in recital. At
best, however, the crispness of the original salt is impaired, though
the flavour is not lost by keeping, and the enjoyment of it must
depend on the new seasoning provided by the reciter. Of course,
its piquancy may have been staled by too frequent use--but "this is
another story." After all, is a jest-book meant to be taken seriously?
A question which "_nous donne a penser_," quoth

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

FOGGED!

Blest if I know where I am in this murkiness made to benight us, Blest
if I know what it means, this infernal Impressionist etching;

Surely some WHISTLER renowned in the gibbering realms of Cocytus Drew
it--and draws us along through its avenues ghostlily stretching.

Lights flicker out in the gloom, like diminutive goblins that beckon;
Onward we stagger and gasp i