quite see how this guiding-wheel is to act," remarked Dr. MELCHISIDEC, examining the chair, which was of rather pantomimic proportions, critically; "but suppose you just get in and try it! 'Pon my word it almost looks like a 'trick-chair'!" which indeed it proved itself to be, jerking up in a most unaccountable fashion the moment the Dilapidated One put his foot into it, and unceremoniously sending him flying out on to his head forthwith. "A little awkward at first," he remarked, assisting the Dilapidated One on to his feet. "One has to get accustomed to these things, you see; but, bless you, in a day or two you won't want it at all. You'll find the air here like a continual draught of champagne. 'Pon my word, I believe you feel better already," and with this inspiriting assurance the Dilapidated One, who had not only covered himself with dust, but severely bruised his shins, saying that "he thought, perhaps, he did—just a little," was again assisted to the lift, and safely consigned to his room, where he was comfortably packed away for the night.

"I say," says young JERRYMAN, next morning, "what a place for bells!"

A Peripatetic Peal.

And young JERRYMAN was right, for I was awoke in the small hours of the morning by a loud peal from the Monastery, as if the Prior had suddenly said to himself, "What's the use of the bells if you don't ring 'em? By Jove, I will!" and had then and there jumped from his couch, seized hold of the ropes, and set to work with a right good will. Then the hotels and pensions took it up, and so, what with seven o'clock, eight o'clock, and nine o'clock breakfasts, first and second déjeuners, first and second dinners, interspersed with "Office Hours" sounded by the Monastery, and the sound of the dinner-bells carried by the cattle, Dingle-berg, rather than Engelberg, would be a highly appropriate name for this somewhat noisy, but otherwise delightful health-resort.

"I call this 'fatal dull' after Paris," remarked a fair Americaine to young JERRYMAN; and, perhaps, from a certain point of view, she may have been right; but, fatal dull, or lively, there can be no two opinions about the life-giving properties of the air.

OLD JOE ENCORE.—Last Wednesday in the FARRAR v. Publisher discussion, a Correspondent, signing himself JOHN TAYLOR, of Dagnall Park, Selhurst, wrote to The Times to "quote an anecdote" about DOUGLAS JERROLD and "a Publisher." Rarely has a good old story been so spoilt in the telling as in this instance. The true story is of ALBERT SMITH and DOUGLAS JERROLD, and has been already told in the Times by a Correspondent signing himself "E.Y." It is of the same respectable age as that one of ALBERT SMITH signing his initials "A.S.," and JERROLD observing, "He only tells two-thirds of the truth." Perhaps Mr. JOHN TAYLOR, of Dagnall Park, Selhurst, is going to favour us with a little volume of "new sayings by old worthies" at Christmas time, and we shall hear how SHERIDAN once asked TOM B—— "why a miller wore a white hat?" And how ERSKINE, on hearing a witness's evidence about a door being open, explained to him that his evidence would be worthless, because a door could not be considered as a door "if it were a jar," and several other excellent stories, which, being told for the first time with the verve and local colouring of which the writer of the letter to The Times is evidently a past-master, will secure for the little work an enormous popularity.

A SCOTT AND A LOT.—"Thirty Years at the Play" is the title of Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT's Lecture to be delivered next Saturday at the Garrick Theatre, for the benefit of the Actors' Benevolent Fund. Thirty years of Play-time! All play, and lots of work. Mr. IRVING is to introduce the lecturer to his audience, who, up to that moment, will have been "Strangers Yet," and this CLEMENT will be SCOTT-free to say what he likes, and to tell 'em all about it generally. "SCOTT" will be on the stage, and the "Lot" in the auditorium. Lot's Wife also.

ETHER-DRINKING IN IRELAND.—Mr. ERNEST HART (bless his heart and earnestness!) lectured last week on "Ether-Drinking in Ireland." He lectured "The Society for the Study of Inebriety"—a Society which must be slightly "mixed"—on this bad habit, and no doubt implored them to give it up. The party sang, "How Happy could we be with Ether" and the discussion was continued until there was nothing more to be said.

CLERGY IN PARLIAMENT.—As Bishops "sit" in the Upper House, why should not "the inferior clergy" "stand" for the Lower House? If they get in, why shouldn't they be seated? Surely what's right in the Bishop isn't wrong in the Rector?

LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.—The forthcoming work by the Vulnerable Archdeacon F-RR-R, will be entitled, The Pharrarsee and the Publisher.

"TRAIN UP A CHILD," &c.

Enter Fair Daughter of the House with the Village Carpenter. "MAMMA, YOU ALWAYS TOLD ME THAT KIND HEARTS WERE MORE THAN CORONETS, AND SIMPLE FAITH THAN NORMAN BLOOD, AND ALL THAT?"

Lady Clara Robinson (née Vere de Vere). "CERTAINLY DEAR, MOST CERTAINLY!"

Fair Daughter. "WELL, I'VE ALWAYS BELIEVED YOU; AND JIM BRADAWL HAS ASKED ME TO BE HIS WIFE, AND I'VE ACCEPTED HIM. WE'VE ALWAYS LOVED EACH OTHER SINCE YOU LET US PLAY TOGETHER AS CHILDREN!"

[Her Ladyship forgets, for once, the repose that stamps her caste.

THE McGLADSTONE;

OR, BLOWING THE BUGLE.

(Fragments from the latest (Midlothian) version of "The Lord of the Isles.")