with a whole minute to spare, without any excitement, or more than the usual expenditure of nerve-force required for the undertaking.

"I will, when Monsieur desires it, make up the bed for 'im," volunteers the military officer, towards eleven o'clock; and, as there isn't much going on, we say, "All right—we'll have it now;" and we disport ourselves in the corridor, while he works a sort of transformation in our Gladstone Bag compartment, which seems greatly to diminish its "containing" capacity. Indeed, if it were not for the floor, the ceiling, and the walls, one would hardly know where to stow one's packages. Le train de Luxe I know has come in, of late, for some abuse, and some grumblers have made a dead set at it. I don't know what their experience of a lit de luxe may have been, but, if it was anything like mine, they must have experienced a general feeling of wanting about a foot more room every way, coupled with a strong and morbid inclination to kick off roof, sides, back, and, in fact, everything, so as, somehow, to secure it.

However, the night passed, the unceasing rattle of the train being occasionally changed for the momentary dead stillness, when it stopped, as it did now and then, at some small place on the way, for apparently no better reason than that of pulling the station-master out of bed to report it. Practically I was undisturbed, except at, I think, a place called Delle, where, in the very small hours of the morning, a gentleman opened the door of my bedroom de Luxe, and asked me in a voice, in which melancholy and sleep seemed to be struggling for the mastery, whether "I had any declaration I wished to make to the Swiss Douanes," and on my assuring him that I had "none whatever," he sadly and silently withdrew.

Nothing further till Basle, where we halted at 6 A.M. for breakfast and a change of trains, and where I was much impressed with the carrying power of the local porter, whom I met loaded with the Dilapidated One's effects, apparently surprised that that "was all" he was expected to take charge of. Lucerne in a blaze of stifling heat, with struggling Yankee and British tourists being turned away from the doors of all the hotels, so we were glad to get our telegram from Herr CATTANI announcing that he was able to offer us rooms that he had "disponible;" and at 3 P.M. we commenced our carriage-drive to Engelberg. Towards five we quitted the plain and began the ascent.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

A promising series, so far, is this re-issue by Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS of "The Barber's Chair, Etc.," by DOUGLAS JERROLD; "Gulliver's Travels, by DEAN SWIFT, Etc.;" and SHERIDAN's Plays. "Etc.," in both the first-mentioned books, forms a considerable portion of each volume. "Etc.," in the first includes the Hedgehog Letters, which are very Jerroldian; and in the second it means the immortal Tale of a Tub, the Battle of the Books, and a fragment from the Dean's correspondence.

Bound in Boards.

The Baron begs to return thanks for an odd volume, one of privately printed opuscula of "The Sette of Odd Volumes," which has been presented to him by the Author, Mr. WALTER HAMILTON, F.R.G.S., and F.R.H.S., who has the honour of filling the important post of "Parodist" in the above-mentioned society or "Sette." This little odd volume epitomises the Drama of England within the last three centuries in most interesting fashion, without losing a single important point. Why it should have fallen to the lot of the "Parodist to the Sette" to do this, is only explained by the Sette being made up of Odd, very odd, Volumes. What are their rules? Do they go "odd man out" to decide who shall pay for the banquet? Must they dine in the daytime, because, being an odd lot, they cannot sit down to dinner at eventide?

A list of the Odd members is given in the little book; but who cares what, or who, the Odds are, as long as they each and all are happy? 'Tis a pity that, in this multum in parvo of a book, the author should have spoken disparagingly of "Glorious JOHN." It would be worth while to refer to MACAULAY's Dramatists of the Restoration, and to compare the licence of that age with that of SHAKSPEARE's time, when a Virgin Queen, and not a Merry Monarch, was on the throne. And, when we come to SHERIDAN's time, how about The Duenna, and The Trip to Scarborough, which was supposed to be an improvement on the original? However, puris pura puerisque puellis, as my excellent friend, Miss MAXIMA DE BETUR observes. But one ought not to look a gift pony in the mouth any more than one ought to critically examine a jest which is passed off in good company. The jest was not meant to be criticised, and the pony wasn't given you in order that you might critically express an opinion on its age. If a pony—a very quiet, steady grey pony—were presented as a mark of affection and esteem to the Baron, he most certainly would not inspect its mouth, seeing that he would not be a tooth the wiser for the operation; but, if the Baron had a friendly vet. or a hipposcientist at hand, he would certainly ask him to examine the gift cob before the Baron either drove or rode him.

Quo tendimus? In Latium? Verily, for the next work at hand is Mr. HUTTON's Monograph on Cardinal Newman, which, of all the writings about his Eminence that I've lately read, I can (says the Baron, in one of his more severely sedate moods,) most confidently recommend to general readers of all denominations, and of all shades of opinion, whom Mr. HUTTON may address as "Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" That learned Theban, "JOHN OLDCASTLE," has written an interesting Biography of "The noblest Roman of them all," which forms a special number of the Merry England Magazine.

Margaret Byng, by F.C. PHILLIPS and FENDALL, is a clever sensational story, spun out into two volumes, which can be devoured by the accomplished novel-swallower in any two hours' train journey, and can be highly recommended for this particular purpose. It would have been better, because less expensive and more portable, had it been in one volume; but the Baron strongly recommends it for the above space of time in a train, or whenever you've nothing better to do, which will happen occasionally even to the wisest and best of us. The secret is very well kept to the end; and an expert in novel-reading can do the first volume in three-quarters of an hour, and the next in half an hour easily, and be none the worse for the tour de force, as he will have amused and interested himself for the time being, will forget all about it in an hour or so, and wonder what it was all about if at any future time the name of the book should be mentioned in his hearing. It's the sort of book that ought to be the size of a Tauchnitz edition, in one volume only, and sold for a couple of shillings.

The facsimile of DICKENS's MS. of the Christmas Carol, published by Messrs. ELLIOTT STOCK, is a happy thought for the coming Christmas, and that Christmas is coming is a matter about which publishers within the next six weeks will not allow anyone to entertain the shadow or the ghost of a doubt. What a good subject for a Christmas story, The Ghost of a Doubt; or, The Shadow of a Reason! "Methinks," quoth the Baron, "it would be as well to register these two titles and couple of subjects before anyone seizes them as his own." Most interesting is this facsimile MS., showing how DICKENS wrote it, corrected it, and polished it up. Though, that this was the only MS. of this work, the Baron doubts. It may have been the only complete MS., but where are all the notes, rough or smooth, of the inspirations as they