explorers, are set out with a painful minuteness which not even
STANLEY could rival. As for Monaco, dear, restful, old-fashioned,
picturesque Monaco, whither the visitor climbs to escape from
the glare and noise of Monte Carlo, the greenhorn dismisses it
scornfully, as having "no interest." How much does this ten-per-center
want? He "waggles along the Condamine;" he mixes with many who
are "pebble-beached;" he speaks of his intimates as "Pa," "The
Coal-Shunter," "Ballyhooly," &c., and declares of the French soldier
that "the short service forty-eight-day men don't have a very
unkyperdoodlum time of it." There's wit for you, there's elegance!
Then he becomes Jeromeky-jeromistically eloquent on the subject of
fleas, throws in such lucid expressions as "chin music," "gives him
biff," "his craft is thusly," and, altogether, proves himself and
his fellow-explorer to be a couple of the slangiest and most foolish
greenhorns who ever put pen to any sort of paper. I can imagine
the readers who enjoy their stuff. Dull, swaggering, blatant,
gin-absorbing, red-faced Cockneys, who masquerade as sportsmen,
and chatter oaths all day. "Ditto to you," says the Baron to his
Extra-Ordinary Reader, and backs his opinion with his signature,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

MORE IBSENITY!

[Illustration]

Dear EDITOR,--Noticing that the author of _The Doll's House_ was to
have another morning, or, to use an equally suitable epithet, mourning