our children. I might have generalised on the ill-effects of those
vices from a special case--my own case. Had I done so, I could have
got it printed. I can get anything printed that I write. I preferred
to take a newer line, and to show you how vile you are when you use
matches. Everything is vile. But you are wondering, perhaps, how a
great novelist becomes a small faddist. You must wait till next month,
and then read my article on the immorality of parting one's hair with
a comb. A common table-fork is the only pure thing with which one can
part one's hair. Combs deaden the conscience. But more of this anon.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

What is this the Baron reads in the _D.T._ of Feb. 9, and in the
_Daily Graphic_ of the same date? Here is a portion of the extract
from the _D.T._:--"The Monthly Meeting of that quaint Literary
Society, 'Ye Odd Volumes,' at Limmer's Hotel, brought together not
merely a goodly show of the Volumes themselves, but an unusually
large array of visitors," and then follows the distinguished list, the
crowning point being reached when we come to the name of "The Baron de
BOOK-WORMS of _Punch_," and in the _Daily Graphic_ the daring reporter
goes a step farther, as, after giving the name of a certain honoured
guest, he parenthetically explains that this academical _convive_
is _the_ "Baron de B.-W.!" _Erreur_! I, the Baron de B.-W., being of
sound mind and body, hereby declare that _the Baron himself was not
present_. And why? Well, do my readers remember the honest milk-maid's
retort to the coxcomb who said he wouldn't marry her? Good. Then,
substituting "me" for "you," and "he" for "she," the Baron can adopt
the maiden's reply. After this, other reasons would be superfluous.

How came the reporter to fall into so great an error? Who misinformed
him? A worthy henchman, as indignant as was _Sam Weller_ when he
found his beloved master's name trifled with, writes to ask me, "Ain't
nobody to be whopped for takin' this here liberty, Sir?" With the
immortal _Mr. Pickwick_, the Baron replies, "Certainly not. Not on any
account." And, whatever that sturdy henchman may murmur to himself, he
at once obeys. "Bring me my books!" cries the Baron, "I am off to the
review."

The Baron's Deputy writes, that he has again been steeping himself in
poetry, and reports as follows:--_Ionica_ (GEORGE ALLEN) is a little
volume, which no admirer of true poetry should fail to