A scientific writer asks us to believe that on placing a decapitated frog at the bottom of a vessel filled with water, the animal rises to the surface, and keeps itself there, with its head in the air; or if the frog be placed in the same vessel, under an inverted glass, filled with water, it behaves in the same manner. Some folks hold novel-reading in contempt, but it is astonishing what a deal of information may be gathered from novels. For instance, we have learned that Scylla was a dandy; that Miss Hardcastle was the heroine of Sheridan’s best comedy; that a haggis is a dish peculiar to Ireland; that it usually snows upon the Derby Day; that lilacs and violets bloom amid the hues of ripening fruit; that heather blooms on the Scottish hills in the month of May; that the drones of the hive are given to toiling overmuch; that ibis-shooting is the favourite pastime of Tyrolese sportsmen; that rising barristers shrug their shoulders under rustling silk gowns; that the Victoria Cross is won by a hundred deeds of disciplined valour; that an officer can draw half-pay after selling out; and that our best bred Englishwomen are very rarely of the same name as the men they have married. One would not care to make the acquaintance of an Olympian girl with pagan eyes full of nocturnal mysteries; or desire the company of a lady ‘only a simulacrum of femininity,’ or of a gentleman deserving to be described as a small Vesuvius tabernacling in corporalities; while a lip that owes no man anything and only bows to its maker, and a castle in the air overstepping all difficulties and all rancour, are altogether beyond appreciation or comprehension. Perhaps the ladies and gentlemen who delight in mystifying such readers as they may have, are urged to it as Balzac was. Asked to explain an abstruse passage in one of his books, he frankly owned it had no meaning at all. ‘You see,’ said he, ‘for the average reader all that is clear seems easy; and if I did not sometimes give him a complicated and meaningless sentence, he would think he knew as much as myself. But when he comes upon something he cannot comprehend, he re-reads it, puzzles over it, takes his head between his hands, and glares at it; and finding it impossible to make head or tail of it, says—“Great man, Balzac; he knows more than I do!”’ CHEWTON-ABBOT. IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION. Frank laughed at the idea of Mrs Abbot kneeling at his feet; and had not the least intention of sending Millicent’s address. He saw little of any one for the next few days except Millicent. His poor friend Mr John Jones called several times, but each time found him absent. ‘Your master is neglecting his business,’ he said sternly to Frank’s small clerk. ‘Got something pleasanter to attend to,’ said the youth with a wink. He was a sharp lad, and able to form his own opinions.