trembling steps, &c., &c." Accidentally, turning from "White" to "Black," the Baron took up the first volume of the excellent re-issue of the Waverley Novels, by Messrs. Adam and Charles Black, called The Dryburgh Edition, and commenced reading the introductory chapter of Waverley, which at that time, gave the death-thrust to the melodramatic horrors of romantic tales, whether evolved from the inner consciousness of English writers, or openly acknowledged as "taken from the German."

In view of the sensational romance of the present day, towards which, when really good, the Baron owns to having a decided leaning—it is interesting to note how brave Sir Walter defied the existing fashion in novels of his own time, spurned the sentimental "Mordaunts," the "Belvilles," and such like played-out names of ancient chivalry, laughed at the heroine "with a profusion of auburn hair and a harp," and, like the Magician of the North that he was, boldly gave to the world his historic novels, in which, where History doesn't suit the requirements of fiction, it is so much the worse for History. Are there very many of the present generation who have not read Sir Walter Scott's novels? If there be any—and there must be, or where would be the demand to occasion this new and admirably devised supply—let them at once put aside modern sensationalism, and commence Walter Scott as a study. The Baron knows personally one man of mature years, who has read neither Waverley nor several others of the series, and him he envies, for, as the student in question has already set himself to the task, he has the greatest literary pleasure of his life yet to come. Type, size of book, excellent as a library edition; and the illustrations, so far as they have gone, are good, and not too distracting. And so, after this unequivocal expression of his sentiments, he signs himself, The Bold Baron de B.-W.

A LESSON IN ALTRUISM.

Always be kind to Dumb Animals—their Lives are short, and should be made Happy and as Comfortable as possible—even at the cost of a little Temporary Discomfort to yourself.

BACK TO SCHOOL;

Or, Doctor Blimber-Gladstone and his "Lit-tle Friends."

(Dombeyish Fragments, with a smack of "The Mikado.")

Whenever a young gentleman was taken in hand by Dr. Blimber-Gladstone, he might consider himself sure of a pretty tight squeeze. The Doctor only undertook the charge of a limited number of young gentlemen at a time, but he had always ready a supply of "cram" for a hundred, on the lowest estimate; and it was at once the business and delight of his life to gorge "his young friends," few or many, to their utmost capacity, and sometimes beyond it.

In fact, Dr. Gladstone's establishment was a great Hothouse, in which there was a forcing apparatus incessantly at work. All the boys blew before their time—or so said the Doctor's rivals and foes. Mental Green Peas were produced in February, and intellectual Scarlet-Runners in March. Mathematical Great Gooseberries were common at untimely seasons, other than the appropriate Silly one.

This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the system of forcing was attended with its usual disadvantage. There was sometimes not the right taste about the premature productions, and they didn't always keep well.

The Doctor's was a mighty fine House, fronting the river. Not always a joyful style of House within; sometimes quite the contrary. The seats were in rows, like figures in a sum. The sitters also were often in rows—with a slight (phonetic) difference. The House was well provided with Hot Water, on the "constant-supply" system. But somehow this seemed rather to conduce to discomfort than to real cleanliness,—like the too frequent and tumultuous "turning-outs" of an over-zealous housewife. A "Spring Clean," at St. Stephen's School, was a thing to remember, and shudder at. It was not a quiet House at the best of times. It seemed ever haunted by the Banshee of Noise, and disturbed by the cacophonous ghosts of dead Echoes. At the peacefulest periods it was pervaded by a baneful Spook called the "Party Spirit," and always by the dull booings of unwilling young gentlemen at their lessons, like the raucous murmurings of an assemblage of melancholy rooks, or of kites and crows cawing and screaming in the intervals of their clamorous scufflings.

Holidays? Oh dear yes! If there was one thing Doctor Gladstone's "young friends" did care for, it was Holidays! The Doctor himself seemed as though he could—and were it possible—would do without them. But the Doctor's "lit-tle friends," however docile, could never be brought to see that. They did not usually commence their Spring "term" until February. And they were rips, even rampant, for a long "Recess" at Easter. When the Doctor, using his well-beloved formula, said, "Gentlemen, we will resume our studies upon——" they hung upon his words, and, if the conclusion of his formula showed any disposition to cut the Holidays short, they howled loudly in chorus, like hungry wolves disappointed of their quarry.

It was a sight to see Doctor Gladstone's little friends returning to School after the Easter Vacation. The Doctor, looking complacently expansive, cheerily anticipative, welcomed them on the doorstep. They did not welcome him. Oh, dear no! Look at them; the five senior pupils in front, headed, of course, by that overgrown and somewhat ungainly Irish boy, Master Patrick Green, cock of the School, and prime favourite of Doctor Gladstone! Can you not fancy them singing—after a famous original—the following quintett?