lends to me,—seeing, I think, the covetous looks I cast in its direction,—and which I find gives as vivid and startling a picture of high life as one could reasonably expect for a penny. Should I fail to provide myself with one of these popular journals at the book-stall, another chance is generally afforded me before the train moves off; and I am startled out of a sleepy reverie by a small boy's thrusting "A Black Business" alarmingly into my face, while a second diminutive lad on the platform holds out to me enticingly "Fettered for Life," "Neranya's Revenge," and "Ruby." The last has on the cover an alluring picture of a circus girl jumping through a hoop, which tempts me to the rashness of a purchase, circus riders being my literary weakness. I remember, myself, trying to write a story about one, when I was fourteen, and experiencing great difficulty from a comprehensive and all-embracing ignorance of my subject. It is but fair to the author of "Ruby" to say that he was too practiced a workman to be disconcerted or turned from his course by any such trivial disadvantage.
I should hardly like to confess how many
