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 in serious lectures and flippant after-dinner speeches. We can, if we are adroit borrowers, set up intellectual shop-keeping on Mr. Adams's stock-in-trade. We can deal out over our own counters his essentially marketable wares.

The simpler delight afforded us by such a charming book as Frederick Locker's "Confidences," which is not confidential at all; or by John Murray's well-bred "Memoirs of a Publisher"; or by Lord Broughton's "Recollections of a Long Life," is easy to estimate. We could ill spare Lord Broughton's volumes, both because he tells us things we do not learn elsewhere, and because of his illuminating common sense. The world of authorship has of late years so occupied itself with Lord Byron that we wince at the sound of his name. But if we really want to know him, we must still turn to Broughton for the knowledge. The account of Byron's wedding