Look into Harper’s for January; among the harpers, listen to M. DE BLOWITZ harping on the journalistic string—­good; and, his talent having served him to a pretty tune, ’tis well he should harp on it in Harper’s.  The Baron hopes that M. DE B. has spent a Harpy Christmas.  Allow the B. DE B.-W. to draw his friends’ attention to “A Military Incident,” and two other short papers, in The Cornhill.  BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

P.S.—­The Baron says he is not going to be let in for a disquisition on the merits of various Pocket-books; but, if asked which he affectionates most as a genuine book of pockets, and for pockets, he puts his finger to the side of his nose, and wisely replies—­“Walker.”

* * * * *

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.

(AT A TRIAL FOR MURDER.)

  Oh, dainty product of the March of Progress,
    Oh, glorious outcome of the Course of Time,—­
  The watchful, well-attired Old Bailey ogress,
    Still finding sweetest stimulus in—­Crime!

* * * * *

SEASONABLE GREETING FOR SPIRITUALISTS.—­I wish you a rappy New Year!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  METROPOLITAN RAILWAY TYPES.

THE PARTY THAT NEVER SAYS, “THANK YOU!”

THE PARTY THAT ALWAYS SAYS, “THANK YOU!”

WHEN YOU OPEN THE DOOR, SHUT THE WINDOW, OR GIVE UP YOUR SEAT FOR
HER.]

* * * * *

BUMBLE AT HOME;

OR, THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT.

“Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish,” said BUMBLE, “we have not been able to—­do anythink.”—­Oliver Twist.

Mr. Bumble, loquitur:—­

  GR-R-R-R!!! Old-fashioned Winter, indeed!  Well, I ’ope them
          as talks on it relishes it! 
  The City seems give up to snow; which I can’t say it greatly
          embellishes it. 
  But, really, of all the dashed imperence,—­s’posing of course as
        they meant it,—­
  The greatest is that of the Papers appealing to Me to pervent it!

  Ah! it’s a hinsolent Hage, and without no respect for Authority. 
  The cry of them demmycrat ’owlers is all for low In-fe-ri-or-ity. 
  Things is about bottom uppards, as far as I judges, already,
  And if the porochial dignity’s floored, what is left to stand
          steady?

  Progressists, indeed!  Ah, I’d “progress” ’em, pack o’
          perposterous hasses,
  A regular pollyglot lot, breeding strife ’twixt the classes and
          masses. 
  The masses is muck; that’s my motter, as who should have learnt
          it more betterer? 
  BUMBLE could hopen the heyes of them BOOTHSES, JOHN BURNSES,