considerate tutor, too, is no effort of imagination; he exists; and, perhaps, such an one may have always existed since the division between Collegers and Oppidans first began.  The Baron in his own time, nigh forty years ago, knew an exceptional species of this rare genus; but there are plenty of witnesses to the truth of the Etonian portion of Tim. “Tolle, lege!” quoth the Baron, and be not ashamed if in reading the latter portion of the story you have to search for your pocket-handkerchief, and, glancing furtively around, murmur to yourself, “But soft!  I am observed!” Then when unobserved, “wipe the other eye!” and thank the unknown author of Tim; at the same time not forgetting your guide, philosopher, and friend,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  DESIGN FOR THE POSTER FOR THE NEXT GERMAN EXHIBITION IN LONDON.]

* * * * *

A FALLEN LEADER.

CHARLES STEWART PARNELL.

BORN, JUNE 27TH, 1846.  DIED, OCTOBER 6TH, 1891.

    “The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
      Can that be haughty MARMION?”

Sir Walter Scott.

Fallen!  And not as leaders love to fall,
In battle’s forefront, loved and mourned by all;
But fiercely fighting, as for his own hand,
With the scant remnant of a broken band;
His chieftainship, well-earned in many a fray,
Rent from him—­by himself! 
None did betray
This sinister strong fighter to his foes;
He fell by his own action, as he rose. 
He had fought all—­himself he could not fight,
Nor rise to the clear air of patient right. 
Somewhere his strenuous soul unsoundly rang,
When closely tested.  Let the laurels hang
About his tomb, for, with whatever fault,
He led with valour cool a fierce assault
Upon a frowning fortress, densely manned
With strong outnumbering enemies.  He planned
Far-seen campaigns apparently forlorn;
He fronted headlong hate and scourging scorn,
Impassively persistent.  But the task
Of coldly keeping up the Stoic mask
O’ertaxed him at the last; it fell, and lo! 
Another face was bared to friend and foe. 
Scarce to his foes will generous judgment lean—­
Foes mean as merciless, and false as mean,
Their poisoned pens, which even softening Death,
Which hate should hush and stifle slander’s breath,
May not deprive of venom, prodding still
The unresponsive corse they helped to kill,
Is an ignoble sight.  Turn, turn away! 
Mean hates pursue the MARMION of our day,
A nobler foe, like DOUGLAS, well may rue
His fall, and sigh, “’Tis pity of him, too!”

* * * * *

MOTTO FOR THE MOMENT.

(BY A MILITANT RADICAL CANDIDATE.)

  Ah!  I must trounce the Tory foe,
    And love my Toiling neighbour. 
  The cry with which to fight I go
    Is “Labour and Belabour!”