One of my “Co.” says he always reads anything that comes in his way bearing the trade-mark BLACKWOOD.  His faith has been justified on carrying off with him on a quiet holiday, His Cousin Adair, by GORDON ROY.  The book has all the requisites of a good novel, including the perhaps rarest one of literary style. Cousin Adair is well worth knowing, and her character is skilfully portrayed.  As a foil against this high-minded, pure-souled unselfish girl, there are sketched in two or three of the sort of people, men and women, more frequently met with in this wicked world.  But Cousin Adair is good enough to leaven the lump.  GORDON ROY is evidently a nom de plume that might belong to man or woman.  My “Co.” is inclined to think, from certain subtle touches, that he has been entertained through three volumes by a lady.

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.

[Illustration:  A Puff to swell the Sale.]

* * * * *

WHAT’S IN A TITLE?

(TO THE AUTHOR OF “VIOLET MOSES.")

  With a title so lucky (though luck’s all my eye),
    Your book’s sure of readers I’ll wager my head. 
  For not even a Critic will dare to reply,
    When he’s asked to review it, “I’ll take it as re(a)d.”

* * * * *

FROM THE LATEST COLWELL-HATCHNEY EXAMINATION PAPER IN FOREIGN LANGUAGES FOR THE CAKE SCHOLARSHIP.—­Question.  What is the feminine of Beau temps?  Answer (immediately given).  Belle-Wether.

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO.  VIII.

SCENE—­A Bridge over the Pegnitz, at Nuremberg.  Time, afternoon.  The shadows of the old gabled and balconied houses are thrown sharply on the reddish-yellow water.  Above the steep speckled roofs, the spires of St. Lorenz glitter against the blue sky.  CULCHARD is leaning listlessly upon the parapet of the bridge.

Culchard (to himself).  How mediaeval it all is, and how infinitely restful! (He yawns.) What a blessed relief to be without that fellow PODBURY!  He’s very careful to keep out of my way—­I’ve scarcely seen him since I’ve been here.  He must find it dreadfully dull. (He sighs.) I ought to find material for a colour-sonnet here, with these subdued grey tones, those dull coppery-greens, and the glowing reds of the conical caps of those towers.  I ought—­but I don’t.  I fancy that half-engagement to MAUD TROTTER must have, scared away the Muse.  I wonder if PODBURY has really gone yet? (Here a thump on the back disposes of any doubt as to this.) Er—­so you’re still at Nuremberg? [Awkwardly.

[Illustration:  “Er—­I have brought you the philosophical work I mentioned.”]

Podbury (cheerfully).  Rather!  Regular ripping old place this—­suits me down to the ground.  And how are you getting on?