The volumes of "The Autonym Library" by any other name would be just as handy. "It was a curious coincidence in names," quoth the Baron, "that, when first I took up one of these volumes, I was discoursing with an eminent judge on some mysterious points in the celebrated 'Claimant' trial, a full and detailed report of which would afford matter for an 'Arthur-Ortonym' library of fiction." The particular volume which had attracted the Baron's attention was Mad Sir Uchtred of the Hills, by S. R. Crockett. 'Tis a strange book, and the "kindly reader," so addressed prefatially by the author, may have a kindly word for it, and, "by my troth," quoth the Baron, "the reading of it made pass an hour or so 'twixt meal-times not unpleasantly," the while he sat on the smooth deck of a wave-conquering yacht, in view of the hoary side of the Green Isles of Arrah and Bedad, what time the Sea-any-monies and the coal-scuttle fish shot like blue blazes "through the silver threads of the still and sleepy waters." And that is how the Baron would write were he describing the scene Crockettically. The story of Sir Uchtred was evidently suggested by the Strange Adventures of the Great King Nebuchadnezzar, and indeed the guileless author would so have it understood from the headings prefixed to his chapters. There is much about "Randolph" in it, which is pleasant, seeing that for some time "our only Randolph" is absent from us, going round the world, and getting himself, the Baron hopes, all round again by the process.

Sir Uchtred goes mad, mad as a hatter—("What hatter? But no matter!" quoth the poetical Baron),—and wanders about "with a tile off," just as a hatter would do who was so demented as to forget his business. Then at the critical moment he is suddenly restored to his senses by hearing, in the darkness, far down, a bell ring! Yes, he had heard it before, a sweet church bell, long ago in his infancy.... Just as the wicked character in Nicholas Nickleby's first play written for the Crummles Company, the villain of the piece, when about to commit his greatest piece of villainy, hears a clock strike! He has heard a clock strike in happier times, in the days of his innocency, and he is struck by the striking coincidence, and he weeps—he relents! he is good once more!!! And this is how mad Sir Uchtred is brought back again to his senses, and how all ends happily for everybody except for a certain lame tamed black wild cat, which, after having had a great deal to do with the story, disappears, and is heard of no more. Alas! poor Yorick! Will good Sir R. Crockett of the Pens write another little red book—("such is the colour of the cover in the Autonym Library. But for certain 'tis a much read book," quoth idiotic Sir Bookred of the Swills)—informing us what became of the cat with three legs and eight lives, one of its chances having gone? I haven't met such a cat as this since Mr. Anthony Hope introduced us to the appreciative tail-less one belonging to Mr. Witt's Widow.

And another book in the library is The Upper Berth. It sounds an aristocratic title, doesn't it? Go not by sound save when the cheering dinner-gong or luncheon-bugle may summon thee; and then "stand not on the order of your going," but go and order whatever there may be on the menu. "The Upper Berth," says the Baron, still aboard the gallant vessel, "is the best ghost story I have read for many a day. 'Tis by Marion Crawford, and not written in his well-known modern Roman hand. Then in the same volume, by the same author, is The Waters of Paradise, which is disappointing, certainly, after the sensational Upper Berth. Therefore," quoth the Baron, "my counsel and advice is, read, if you will, The Waters of Paradise, only take them off at a draught first; don't mix the spirit with the waters, but take The Upper Berth afterwards. For choice read it in bed, with the aid of one solitary light, taking care to select a tempestuous night, when boards creak, windows rattle, and doors open of their own accord. In these conditions you will thoroughly enjoy Marion Crawford's Upper Berth, and will gratefully thank the thoughtful and considerate

Baron de Book-Worms."

P.S.—Once more ashore, and abed, convalescenting, in view of the poluphosboytoning thalasses (Yes, my boy O! the Baron knoweth the Greek is not thus, but why not lug in the name of sea-going Boyton on such an appropriate occasion?), the Baron readeth Ships that pass in the Night. A deeply pathetic story in one volume, which the Baron cannot regret not having read long ere this, as it suits his mood so exactly now. He thanks Miss Beatrice Harraden, and would recommend the book everywhere, and to everybody, but that by now no such passport is necessary. Certain personages and localities in the story recall to the Baron's mind a pretty play, and a most successful one, produced at the St. James's Theatre under Mr. Alexander's management. It was Liberty Hall, by Sidney Carton, and the characters were the friendless girl, played, I fancy, by Marion Terry; the somewhat cynical and mysterious lonely man, played by Mr. George Alexander; and, finally, Toddy, the old bookseller and book-collector, a part that suited Mr. Righton down to the ground. Such undesigned coincidences are interesting to reader and playgoer, and in no way detract from the author's originality.

B. de B-W.