Horace N. Pym

"Some of your griefs you have cured,

And the sharpest you still have survived;

But what torments of pain you endured,

From evils that never arrived!"

A few years ago a little inconsequent volume was launched on partial acquaintance, telling of some ordinary books which line our friendly shelves, of some kindly friends who had read and chatted about them, some old stories they had told, and some happy memories they had awakened.

When those acquaintances had read the little book, they asked, like Oliver, for more. A rash request, because, unlike Oliver, they get it in the shape of another "Olla Podrida" of book-chat, picture-gossip, and perchance a stray "chestnut." Their good-nature must be invoked to receive it, like C. S. Calverley's sojourners—