not with this red-Indian picture as a poster.  Of course it may be intended as compliment-terry; it may mean “always entertaining and ever reddy.”  However, the picture is naught, except as a curiosity; but the first instalment of our ELLEN’s reminiscences is delightfully written, because given quite naturally, just as the celebrated actress herself would dictate—­(of course she never has to “dictate,” as her scarcely-breathed wish is a law)—­to her pleasantly-tasked amanuensis.  Next lot, please!

In Macmillan’s for this month, ANDRE HOPE tells a fluttering tale in recounting “A Mystery of Old Gray’s Inn.”  It would have come well from that weird old clerk, to whom Mr. Pickwick listened with interest during the convivialities at the “Magpie and Stump.”  It should take a prominent place in the proposed new issue of Half Hours with Jumpy Authors.

[Illustration]

The Baron has just read a delightful paper on “The Bretons at Home,” by CHARLES G. WOOD, in the Argosy, for this month.  The Baron who has been there, and still would go if he could, but, as he can’t, he is contented to let “WOOD go” without him, and to read the latter’s tales of a traveller.

Turf Celebrities I have Known, by WILLIAM DAY, is a gossipy, snarly sort of book; casting a rather murky or grey Day-light on a considerable number of Celebrities who were once on the turf, and are now under it.  But the Baron not being himself either on the turf or under it, supposes that this DAY is an authority, as was once upon a time, that is, only the other day, the Dey of ALGIERS.  But this DAY is not of Algiers, but of All-gibes.  Ordinarily it is true that “Every dog has his day.”  Exceptions prove the rule, and it would appear from this book—­“not the first ‘book,’ I suppose,” quoth the Baron, “that Mr. DAY has ‘made’ or assisted in ‘making,’”—­that not every dog did not ‘have’ this particular Day, but that some dogs did.  The writer has missed the chance of a good title—­not for himself, but for his book.  He should have it an autobiography, and then call it, “De Die in Diem; or, Day by Day.”

Everyone’s truly, THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

WHAT IT WILL COME TO!

(A FRAGMENT FROM A MILITARY-COMMERCIAL ROMANCE OF THE FUTURE.)

And so Mr. ELLERSDEE approached his proposed recruit, and invited him to lunch to discuss the matter quietly.

“You are very good,” returned the other, “but I can assure you I eat nothing before dinner.  Won’t you have a cigar?”

Mr. ELLERSDEE accepted the proffered kindness, and remarked upon the excellent quality of the tobacco.

“Yes,” assented his companion, “it is not half bad, for we get all our supplies from the Stores; and now what can I do for you?”

Then Mr. ELLERSDEE unfolded his sad story.  England was losing her commercial prosperity, owing to a scarcity of labourers, artisans, nay, even clerks.  The Empire was in as bad a condition as those foreign countries in which forced military service was established.  Like France and Germany, trade was being ruined by the Army.  Would not the young man desert, and become a recruit in the Labour League?