[Illustration]

  O Jane, thou jewel of my heart—­
    Thou object of my hopeless passion,
  Though Fate decrees that we must part,
    I’ll leave thee in some novel fashion! 
  I will not do as others do
    When cheated of prospective bridal,
  And quit the Bridge of Waterloo
    With header swift and suicidal.

  I will not seek—­as others seek—­
    Some public-house in mean and low street,
  And drink—­till haled before the Beak
    Who patiently presides at Bow Street. 
  I will not throw—­as others throw—­
    My manly form, without compunction,
  Before the frequent trains that go
    At lightning speed through Clapham Junction.

  For though my spirit seeks escape
    From all the carking cares that vex it,
  I will not plunge thee into crape
    By any ordinary exit: 
  So when—­in slang—­I “take my hook,”
    Detesting all that’s mean and skimpy, a
  Reserved and numbered seat I’ll book,
    And hie to Venice at Olympia.

  I’ll see the Show that draws the town—­
    Its pageantry delight affording—­
  As per the details noted down
    Where posters flame on every hoarding;
  And then the sixpence I will pay,
    Which in my pocket now I’m fondling,
  And try upon the water-way
    The new experience of gondling.

  I know that death will seem delight
    When in the gondola I’m seated,
  For up to sixty Fahrenheit
    The Grand Canal is nicely heated;
  So—­sick of life’s incessant storm,
    Impatient of its kicks and pinches—­
  I’ll plunge within the water warm,
    And drown—­in four-and-twenty inches!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

After copious draughts of novels and romances which, the morning after, leave the literary palate as dry as a lime-kiln, or as Mrs. RAM would say, “as a lamb-kin,” the Baron, thirsting for a more satisfying beverage, took up a volume, which he may fairly describe as a youthful quarto, or an imperial pinto, coming from the CHAPMAN AND HALL cellars, that is, book-sellers, entitled On Shibboleths, and written by W.S.  LILLY.  In a recent trial it came out that Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH is the accredited and professional reader for Messrs. CHAPMAN AND HALL.  Is it possible that this eminent philosophical Novelist is indebted to a quiet perusal of Shibboleths for some of the quaint philosophical touches not to be read off schoolboywise, with hurried ellipses, blurting lips, and unintelligent brain, if any, which make One of Our Conquerors and others, worth perusal?  Be this as it may, which is a convenient shibbolethian formula, the Baron read this book, and enjoyed it muchly.  There is an occasional dig into the Huxleian anatomy, given with all the politeness of a Louis-the-Fifteenthian “M.A.,” otherwise Maitre d’Armes, and a passing reference