favourite amusements consisted in
scribbling verses, usually of a satirical kind,
on the panes with which a wooden partition
dividing two offices was liberally
furnished, and which, deprived of
transparency by a coat of whitening, could be
conveniently used as tablets. Now, our
old friend, who was not a votary of the
Muses, was of opinion that the flowers of
poetry, which cropped up so luxuriously
on his panes, rather disfigured than adorned
them, and emphatically declared one day
that he would have no more "buckrams."
We were less awed than puzzled. Why,
in the name of wonder, were our verses
called "buckrams"? They were doubtless
replete with faults, but certainly these did
not comprise stiffness, of which buckram is
the accepted symbol. We generally had
recourse to the "gay science" for the
purpose of abusing each other, thinking that
rhyme gave a special sting to satire; and
when a boy in his teens wishes to bestow
ill names on his associates, we may be
sure that, if he invokes the Muse, she
will accord to him the gift of ready
utterance. Then why "buckrams"? After
mature deliberation I arrived at the
conclusion that the word "buckram" was a
corruption of "epigram." That this
corruption does not belong to London I am
convinced, and I should be obliged if some
north-country reader would inform me
whether it is a product of Yorkshire.

Let me drop the wide-awake days of
my youth, and the philological lucubrations
therewith connected, and return to
the subject of dreams. Of what material is
that huge unreal world, in which we
apparently pass so many hours, and which,
while it lasts, so strongly resembles reality
—of what material is it actually composed?
In my case, when I am in a normal state,
it is not made up of fragments collected
from the immediate past, nor among all my
visions have I ever found one that in the
slightest degree pointed to the future.
Some of them looked portentous enough,
and inspired me with a superstitious fear
that " something" was going to happen.
But nothing ever did happen that could
be tortured into an event predicted by the
dream. And how in my sleep do I
construct houses, and gardens, and streets, that
I have never seen at all? Platonising
enthusiasts will perhaps argue that in this
case, I recal a previous state of existence.
I don't believe it; there never was a past
state of existence, in which there was a
vast region between Fleet Street and
Holborn, built as they are, which did not
include Gough Square. I ask again, whence
is the material of our dreams obtained?
Shakespeare talks of the stuff that dreams
are made of; but of what does the stuff
consist?

DAISY'S TRIALS.

IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER V.

IT seemed to Daisy that Myrrha grew
lovelier every day. Daisy would sit and
watch her, till the girl would look up from
book or drawing to ask, "What is it, Aunt
Daisy?"

"It is that you are so lovely, Myrrha,
and that I wish, I wish I could be sure
you are even half as good and true as you
are lovely."

Flattered by this admiration, Myrrha
answered affectionately:

"At any rate, auntie, I hope I'm not,
as times go, and girls, very bad."

It did not seem to Daisy possible but
that this loveliness should exercise at least
as strong a fascination over Mr. Stewart as
it did over her. Mr. Stewart was quite ready
to admit it would be difficult to find a fairer
creature than the girl who rode beside him.
The soft spring wind, and the exercise in
which she delighted, brought an ethereal
bloom upon her young face, made her
gleesome eyes shine crystal-clear, gave her
fresh lips a more vivid red, and lent even
her hair a brighter gloss, so that the netted-up
mass looked like imprisoned sunshine.

Those rides together had come to be an
all-but daily institution. It was long now
since Myrrha had been spoken of between
Mr. Stewart and Daisy. Mr. Stewart had
left off talking of the probability that
"business" might call him away.

It was towards the end of June that
Myrrha went, prettily and appropriately,
through the farce of "discovering" (what
she had some time known) that Mr. Stewart
and the owner of Redcombe were one and
the same person. About this time Mr.
Stewart announced to her that the owner of
Redcombe, having heard of a strange and
lovely princess in the neighbourhood, who
had a passion' for croquet, and for
garden-parties, had determined, on a certain day,
to give a fête in honour of the fair unknown,
and had had a croquet-lawn, pronounced by
competent judges to be admirable, prepared
for the occasion. Myrrha at this lifted to
Mr. Stewart a face so radiant with surprise
and delight, that Mr. Stewart felt