A PARVENU.
(THE COMING ARISTOCRACY OF MIND.)
He. "Charming Youth, that Young Bellamy—such a refined and cultivated Intellect! When you think what he's risen from, poor Fellow, it really does him credit!"
She. "Why, were his People—a—inferiah!"
He. "Well, yes. His Grandfather's an Earl, you know, and his Uncle's a Bishop; and he himself is Heir to an old Baronetcy with Eighty Thousand a year!"
A TALE OF TERROR.
He sat, or rather grovelled, amongst a pile of daily newspapers. His eyes were wilder, much wilder, than the Wild West of Buffalo-Bill, his hair was as dishevelled as that of an infuriated Irish M.P. after an All-night Sitting. He looked as mad as a hatter.
"What ails you?" I inquired, sympathetically, soothingly. For all answer—as the ebulliently sentimental she-novelist saith—he pointed to the pell-mell pile of morning papers.