ON SOME PLEASANT BOOKS.

"Oh! you must then!" comes a regular their exercises and enjoyments because he volley of flexible persuasion. "You must! is reduced to one leg, and they are erect Do! It is the nicest thing you can possi- on two; but help him to a leap into that bly imagine! I am longing for the winter! I hope we shall have the frost very severe!"

She is in the water again - seeing a good opportunity for a dive - before any rejoinder can come; and then, because her lips are turning blue, and her teeth are chattering, she condescends to come in. One more exhibition, though, before she disappears. She can do nothing, of course, without as near an approach to a bevy of attendants round herias circumstances afford, and she beckons to the bath-woman of merry girls; and the consolation will en

of their lively plash.

beat high when he other element, and he is superior to them all. His heart must feels his recovered strength. Humiliated upon the shore, he is a king when he is amidst the surge and freedom of the water; and is it not cheering to all of us to think an art exists that the maimed can follow, and that is the same exuberant pleasure to them that it is to others who are whole? The thought was happiness to us, at any rate, who heard the laughter of this dozen to come and bind up her hair. There is a dure till we can recall no longer the picture picturesque way of managing this that is an of their graceful movements, and the sound additional attraction she has no intention of doing without, and she stands with the air of knowing there is something coming that shall make her irresistible indeed. The good woman places a towel low down across her forehead à l'orientale, goes behind her, draws the wide ends of the towel tail, gives this tight, twists them into twirl, and secures the end of it firmly with a pin. The girl is Eastern now. ika, a light of the harem, an Ayesha; and she is well aware of it, and walks consciously to her little closet, and gives a languid look at us as legacy, and then reluctantly shuts the door.

a

a

A Zule

walking

From The Gentleman's Magazine.

ON SOME PLEASANT BOOKS.

No matter to what century they belong, to what period of our literary history, that grand Augustan age of Anne, or the brilliant eighteenth century, our theme is pleasant books, - those pleasant books which most of us know, or ought to know. They belong to all periods: we class them not in our thoughts with this or that time; they are our dear familiar friends.

And

The action of swimming is very pretty, Welcome, grave Knight of Mancha! Doré seen thus clearly as it is in this level quiet hath done thee justice; fuller justice than bath. It is very droll, too. The nearer he hath done to Dante or the Bible. Etchy it imitates the action of the frog, the easier headings to chapters, sketchy tail-pieces, full it is and the more feet. One young wo- of life and spirit and quaint humour. thine own portrait and Sancho's, most worman (a solid, sturdy person, in her clothes) moves all her limbs in such har- thy knight, no magic mirror could reflect ye in drawingmony she is full of grace; every muscle of more truly. But this edition is for highdays her body must be brought into use, as she and holidays, to be glanced at draws her hands and heels in, and then nim- rooms with albums, admired over coffee, bly thrusts them out. She is frog entire. and trifled with during small talk. Turn A rather uncomplimentary verdict, she might we to that petit thumbed record of thy wonthink this. It is not meant so. It is writ- derful exploits, dear, kind, old foolish war

the

ten for unhesitating praise; and, assuredly, rior! And here thou art, ensconced cheek the more Master Frog's movements are im- by jowl with Pepys, quaint old gossip Pepys, itated, the sooner will man or woman learn who finished his last notes just as to swim. And persons need not have all first daily newspaper in London, the Daily their limbs, either, to acquire the art. Courant, began to build up journalistic hisThe gallant Kennington cricketers, who, tory. When will some industrious writer, minus cach an arm, or minus each a leg, who can afford to wait for the reward of "a play a yearly match on the antigeometric grateful posterity," tell the story of England, oval, could swim to the same perfection as during the newspaper period, from those men who have suffered no such amputation. diurnal, weekly, and monthly records? We have been told, indeed, of an uniped What a mine of illustrations of characters

swimming-master; an adept at everything;
able to teach swimming in every branch.
He unscrews his cork-leg before getting in-
to the bath, standing there upon the brink
of it a cripple, a fainéant among active
men, a lameter who must be left out of all

and customs, of local and general laws, of public opinion, of habits, of travel, still lies unworked in those old journals. Macaulay turned over some of the treasures, so did Froude; but what hundreds of files still remain undisturbed in old bookshelves and

they'd taken up the tombstones, to be out of the cows' way, and leaned them against the hedges. I climbed in, and ate my bread and butter, and then I went over John's Green and Cook's Fields, and cut across the Butt Road and Maldon Road, and got to Lexden across the fields behind the hos pital. It's queer how I remember all them places—just as if I was pegging over them now. I had another long rest at Lexden Springs. A ladies' school went by whilst I was sittin' by the half-moon pond at the top, and one of the young ladies said, Poor little object,' and give me a Bath bun out of her muff, and another on 'em give me a penny with a harp on it. But I shall never get done if I go on at this rate, sir. Hows'ever, it's still rainin'.

of the lads on the quay were sad prigs, and time. There was a barrack-field with great they've put me up to steal rope, and copper tarry palings, and this burial-ground, where nails, and things, and slip down into the cabins to prig prog; but if my earthly father didn't look after me, my Heavenly Father did, and, I'm thankful to say, I never was a thief- though a boy's hungry belly is a sore tempter, sir. Perhaps, if I'd have had the use of my pins as they had, I might ha' done it- if so, I thank God for makin' me a cripple - but I hope not. I used to fancy that my mother was a-watchin' of me. Try to be of some good, Bob,' I used to hear her say, and, as well as such a poor little critter could, I made up my mind that I would try. Anyhow, however, I couldn't stand home any longer. I must be off somewhere to fend the best I could for myself. I'd sense enough to guess that father 'ud bring me back if I hung anywheres about Colchester. I wanted to be off to The machine-man took me up at the London. I'd heard that all sorts o' folks milestone, and I came up to London, bumpcould get work there. Not as I thought in' in a sack on the top o' Colchester nathat it was paved with gold -- children - tives. He gave me something to eat on the poor folks' kids, anyhow- ain't green road, and next mornin' he dropped me at enough for that. I had talked about Lon- an early coffee-house in the Mile-En' Road, don sometimes to a man who drove a fish- and give me a shilling, and said Good-bye, machine - it was long before the Eastern Bob; luck go with ye;' and ever since then, Counties' was thought of, the times I'm sir, I thank God, I've been able to earn my speakin' of. Well, Bob,' says he one day, own living-'cept when I've been laid up you couldn't be worse off there than you in hospital, and that's about ten times in are here, and if you can manage to hobble forty years. They're good Christian places out, quite unbeknown to your father, mind those hospitals, when you're once inside; for I shouldn't like him to fancy that I'd and the doctors, and the nurses, and the any hand in it to the third milestone on ladies sisters, they call 'em - there the London road, I'll take you up to-morrow weren't any o' them when I used to be laid evening. I went to bid poor mother good- up first- are as kind as kind can be. The bye that night-her grave somehow makes doctors speak a bit brisk now and then, and me think that Colchester's my home down the nurses make you mind 'em; but then to this very day, though I've never set foot think what a lot they've got to look after! in it since and next mornin', as soon as and the ladies are always so gentle, bless I'd seen father off in his lighter polin' down 'em! It's a pity, though, that the porters the river to Wivenhoc, I slipped back and and such like should be so bumptious: they packed up a few of my clothes that he might have, you'd think, more feeling for hadn't pawned, and my Bible-leaves, and a poor folk. Of course, you understand, sir, Mavor's Spelling book my mother used to I'd rather pay a doctor, if I could; but then learn me out of, in a brown Holland linen- I can't, and besides, how could I keep a bag of hers, and began to hippety-hoppet nurse? So when I'm bad, I go to a kind down Hythe Hill. I went a roundabout gentleman I know, and he always manages way to throw father off the scent. Where to get me an order somewhere or other. I are you goin', Bob?' says a woman. For a walk,' says I, and I shall be hungry before I come back.' She looks hard at me, but then she says, 'Poor little chap,' and goes in and cuts me a slice of bread and butter. I went along the river till I got to the New Quay, but then I turned up by the distillery, and so worked round into the Military Road. I was precious tired by the time I got to the Old Soldier's BurialGround. They've got a camp at Colchester again now, but there were no soldiers in my

-

tarry palings, and this burial-ground, where they'd taken up the tombstones, to be out of the cows' way, and leaned them against the hedges. I climbed in, and ate my bread and butter, and then I went over John's Green and Cook's Fields, and cut across the Butt Road and Maldon Road, and got to Lexden across the fields behind the hospital. It's queer how I remember all them places—just as if I was pegging over them now. I had another long rest at Lexden Springs. A ladies' school went by whilst I was sittin' by the half-moon pond at the top, and one of the young ladies said, Poor little object,' and give me a Bath bun out of her muff, and another on 'em give me a penny with a harp on it. But I shall never get done if I go on at this rate, sir. Hows'ever, it's still rainin'.

of the lads on the quay were sad prigs, and time. There was a barrack-field with great they've put me up to steal rope, and copper nails, and things, and slip down into the cabins to prig prog; but if my earthly father didn't look after me, my Heavenly Father did, and, I'm thankful to say, I never was a thief- though a boy's hungry belly is a sore tempter, sir. Perhaps, if I'd have had the use of my pins as they had, I might ha' done it if so, I thank God for makin' me a cripple but I hope not. I used to fancy that my mother was a-watchin' of me. Try to be of some good, Bob,' I used to hear her say, and, as well as such a poor little critter could, I made up my mind that I would try. Anyhow, however, I couldn't stand home any longer. I must be off somewhere to fend the best I could for myself. I'd sense enough to guess that father 'ud bring me back if I hung anywheres about Colchester. I wanted to be off to "The machine-man took me up at the London. I'd heard that all sorts o' folks milestone, and I came up to London, bumpcould get work there. Not as I thought in' in a sack on the top o' Colchester nathat it was paved with gold--children- tives. He gave me something to eat on the poor folks' kids, anyhow- ain't green road, and next mornin' he dropped me at enough for that. I had talked about Lon- an early coffee-house in the Mile-En' Road, don sometimes to a man who drove a fish- and give me a shilling, and said Good-bye, machine- it was long before the Eastern Bob; luck go with ye;' and ever since then, Counties' was thought of, the times I'm sir, I thank God, I've been able to earn my speakin' of. Well, Bob,' says he one day, own living-'cept when I've been laid up you couldn't be worse off there than you in hospital, and that's about ten times in are here, and if you can manage to hobble forty years. They're good Christian places out, quite unbeknown to your father, mind those hospitals, when you're once inside; - for I shouldn't like him to fancy that I'd and the doctors, and the nurses, and the any hand in it-to the third milestone on ladies sisters, they call 'em - there the London road, I'll take you up to-morrow weren't any o' them when I used to be laid evening. I went to bid poor mother good- up first- are as kind as kind can be. The bye that night her grave somehow makes doctors speak a bit brisk now and then, and me think that Colchester's my home down the nurses make you mind 'em; but then to this very day, though I've never set foot think what a lot they've got to look after! in it since and next mornin', as soon as and the ladies are always so gentle, bless I'd seen father off in his lighter polin' down 'em! It's a pity, though, that the porters the river to Wivenhoe, I slipped back and and such like should be so bumptious: they packed up a few of my clothes that he might have, you'd think, more feeling for hadn't pawned, and my Bible-leaves, and a poor folk. Of course, you understand, sir. Mavor's Spelling book my mother used to I'd rather pay a doctor, if I could; but then learn me out of, in a brown Holland linen- I can't, and besides, how could I keep a bag of hers, and began to bippety-hoppet nurse? So when I'm bad, I go to a kind down Hythe Hill. I went a roundabout gentleman I know, and he always manages way to throw father off the scent. Where to get me an order somewhere or other. I are you goin', Bob?' says a woman. For declare to you, sir, I've been downright a walk, says I, and I shall be hungry be- happy in hospital when I've been gettin' a fore I come back.' She looks hard at me, bit well again. So clean and quiet, no bad but then she says, 'Poor little chap,' and smells, and no bad language, and time to goes in and cuts me a slice of bread and think good thoughts-it's like a week o' butter. I went along the river till I got to Sundays very different from the Sundays the New Quay, but then I turned up by the here, sir. It was in Guy's sir, that poor distillery, and so worked round into the mother's words first really come home to me. Military Road. I was precious tired by Just before I was laid up, I'd been getting the time I got to the Old Soldier's Burial- cocky-sacrificin' unto my net, and burnin' Ground. They've got a camp at Colchester incense to my drag. I'd been thinking that, again now, but there were no soldiers in my cripple as I was, I'd managed to get my