It is not pretended that the Bric-à-bracial pursuit is along a path of roses from which the thorns have been extracted. Some excoriations will be felt, but they are honourable wounds, and should no more cool noble ardour than should the " duck's egg," the "miss," or the "purler" that will happen to the best bat, gun, or rider in the world. As the American General profoundly remarked, "You can't win battles every day," and you would not think much of them if you could. The history of defeats, moreover, is valuable, and pregnant with teachings which, if taken to heart, may be a safeguard to others; therefore will I publish my shame. Once upon a time, I bought a bargain-a Cuckooclock, which ingenious combination of amusement and instruction had been long and ardently desired by me. Owing to its being a bargain, perhaps, it was in a rather disorganised condition, though the solemn assurance was given that all the necessary parts were there. It was, of course, requisite to place them in their proper positions before any entertainment or instruction could be acquired, and owing to my imperfect knowledge of ornithological horology, I found this a matter of some little difficulty. The first question was,-which of the two should get the upper hand, the hour or the minute? After mature reflection and evolution this was tentatively arranged. A similar process of trial was used with the weights. Then the pendulum had to be adjusted, the back of the clock replaced, and two buttons turned to secure it while the instrument was held up, for fear of disarranging the hands. I think I had to support it with one hand, keep the pendulum in its place with the other, put in the back with my teeth and turn the buttons with my eyelids. However, it was hung up, set going-going. Ha! ha! ha!

It behaved in the most scandalous way; the pendulum dashed to and fro with frantic speed, as if it had a lot of time to make up; and one weight ran upwards violently, while hideous sounds emanated from the interior. I stopped the awful thing, just as I believe it was going to blow up. Some time elapsed before I could muster courage sufficient to touch it, but at last, after much shuffling of hands and weights, it condescended to go in a most irritating way, stopping for a rest, and suddenly resuming its duties with startling effect; but no inducement could make the Cuckoo articulate. It was evidently a case for professional treatment, so the machine was despatched to a clockmaker, who returned it warranted steady and methodical. As the time approached for this Memnon to become vocal, the bird emerged from his retirement, observed "Cuc!" then seeing he was no longer in the control of the expert, retreated into his privacy without completing the remark. But the worst was to come. One night, on the giddy elevation of a box placed upon a chair, with a lamp in my hand, I bitterly apostrophised the wretched creature, when suddenly dashing open the door, he sprang out, yelled "Cuckoo!" defiantly in my face, and shot back into his lair, chuckling. I was never so frightened in my life, and barely escaped falling backwards into the fireplace. After that he made spasmodic appearances, cuckooing out of all rhyme or reason, and always at the most unseasonable times. But even to that I got used, when he presently took to prolonging his duosyllabic utterance into a perfect chorus, which, a country friend informs me, is the custom of the bird previous to certain interesting. events. So, perhaps, I may be able to present some of my admirers with cuckoo watches. The

value of the ingenious piece of mechanism as an indicator of time is affected by the circumstance that it cuckoos five times in advance of the hour, and strikes three behind it; while the hands at present point twenty minutes short. Yet even with this knowledge as a guide, I would not trust too implicitly to it, as it varies a good deal from day to day. But mistakes such as this are of no great consequence. They only inspire to fresh effort, as the initiated know full well. And I cannot imagine any lot more blest than that of a life well spent in seeking Bric-à-Brac, with the eventual hope of residence hereafter in a happy hunting-ground consisting of interminable streets of curiosity-shops, filled with undoubted bargains.

LONDON PILGRIMAGES.

E have it on the unimpeachable authority of his sapient Majesty King Solomon, that in

his day there was no new thing under the sun. If at that comparatively early period novelty was utterly exhausted, what hope is left us of anything of the sort now? We certainly congratulate ourselves with tolerable frequency and complacency on our wonderful discoveries, but can we be always sure that somebody has not derived the same satisfaction from them centuries before we first saw the light? The history of every invention goes back and back, until at last it is shrouded from our gaze in the impenetrable mists of eld, for as the French neatly express it, "There is nothing new but what is old." creatures of the human type at a certain and some times an uncertain age evince a remarkable partiality for the other sex. They marry beings who are given in marriage, they eat and drink, they sleep and wake, they sleep and don't wake, very much, it is believed, as was their practice before the Flood. Ladies generally give themselves a great deal of trouble, and men, it is hoped, as much gratification, by plans for the artificial enhancement of their natural attractions, but this they do in no greater degree now than was their

Male

As for the

pleasing wont when Time was young. gentlemen, they are presumably no keener to take a reasonable advantage of each other nowadays than they were accustomed to be in the primal morn of life. There were heroes before Agamemnon, and there must have been philosophers before Zoroaster, even as there were unquestionably sages before Darwin, Huxley, and Tyndall. Indeed, it may be reserved for some future Layard to unearth a slab whereon ladies and gentlemen are depicted gyrating upon wheeled contrivances akin to our bicycles; and who knows but that some unborn Smith may yet decipher upon a mystic tile, aged sixty centuries, the laws of cricket, as sanctioned by the Marylebone Club of the period, a testimonial to the efficacy of an all-powerful pill, or an advertisement of a sewing machine, with an accurate fac-simile of trade-mark, to counterfeit which was felony? The kernels of all the plots of our plays and novels were contained in shells which mouldered to dust thousands of years ago; and that curious, often discordant, instrument, the human soul, has so few strings, that every possible tune must have been played upon it long before any historical musician had the opportunity of trying his skill. If we could only add another chord to it, if we could only discover or invent a new emotion, how great would be our triumph! How the eyes of dramatists and novelists would sparkle! With what frantic haste would they rush to their desks, and set us-not dancing, laughing, singing, weeping, groaning, or shrieking, for of such proceedings we are heartily tired, but doing something perfectly fresh, novel, and surprising.

Pleasure, like history and some wives, repeats. itself; and still, as of yore, we move in circles.