Whilst the great heart of the people is considering whether it shall throb against the House of Lords or whether it shall forbear, Mr. SWIFT MACNEILL, Q.C., M.P., has delivered at that ancient institution what the _Marchioness_ was accustomed to describe as "a wonner." _Titled Corruption_ is the alluring style of the neatly-bound volume issued by FISHER UNWIN. There is, my Baronite says, a touch of artistic genius in the contrast between the plain, unassuming calico binding of the book and the blood and thunder that rolls through its pages. It is "the sordid origin of some Irish peerages" that Mr. SWIFT MACNEILL undertakes to set forth. Perhaps if he were solely responsible for the work, its startling statements might be dismissed as coloured by fervid fancy. He, however, supports himself with the dictum of Mr. LECKY, "the majority of Irish titles are historically connected with memories not of honour but of shame," and illustrates it by extracts from confidential letters of Lords Lieutenants of Ireland, recommending gentlemen for the peerage. Altogether an interesting withdrawal of the curtain dropped before passages in the history of Ireland on the eve of the Union. Signed and approved in the Baronite Office by THE JUDICIOUS BARON DE BOOK-WORMS. * * * * * [Illustration: BREAKING THE ICE. _He._ "I'VE GOT TO TAKE YOU INTO DINNER, MISS TRAVERS--AND I'M RATHER AFRAID OF YOU, YOU KNOW! MRS. JOLIBOIS TELLS ME YOU'RE VERY CLEVER!" _She (highly amused)._ "HOW ABSURD! I'M NOT A _BIT_ CLEVER!" _He (with sigh of relief)._ "WELL, DO YOU KNOW, I _THOUGHT_ YOU WEREN'T!"] * * * * * UNREST! "The lady sleeps! O, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep." _E. A. Poe's "The Sleeper."_ BELLONA sleeps! If sleep it be That nightmare slumber, restlessly Haunted by dream-world's wizardry. So SISERA slept within the tent, Restless, though way-worn and war-spent, Whilst JAEL'S fierce face above him bent. Wake not, War-Goddess! All the world Dreads now to hear the war-cry skirled, To see the battle-flag unfurled. Our DEBORAHS now invoke not war, And urge not to its shock and jar The princes of our ISSACHAR. An awesome hush is o'er the earth, It checks our joy, it mutes our mirth. Foreboding some prodigious birth,-- Some monstrous issue, that may sweep Earth's plains with red from deep to deep; And thou dost sleep, still thou dost sleep! "Awake! Awake!" So DEBORAH cried To BARAK in her prophet-pride, But earth hath now no prophet-guide. Our bravest BARAKS well may quail At the dread thought of that fierce hail, That shall beat Europe like a flail. We see in dreams War's shrieking scythe Whirl through earth's ranks that fall and writhe, Of our best manhood taking tithe. What dreams are _thine_? That restless hand Stretches, in sleep, to grasp the brand. We watch! What may we understand?