in this author's little
holiday-book have appeared at some time or other in the _D.T._, and
do not suffer any D.T.rioration by being bound up together in this
shilling volume. It tells of a visit to Hayling, where he picked up
health, strength, and an aspirate, when he went there 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
Wit