the rest in a great passion, kicking the others out of the way, and swearing like a trooper; till at length, apparently exhausted with its efforts, it sunk down to rise no more. “Ah ha!” exclaimed my little diabolical friend, “here is a new comer; let’s see who he is;” and coming up, he turned it over with his foot so that we could see the back of it, upon which was printed “_The Monikins_, by the Author of, &c. &c.” I noticed that the book had several marks across it, as if some one had been flogging the unfortunate work. “It is only the marks of the scourge,” said my companion, “which the critics have used rather more severely, I think, than was necessary.” I expected, after all the passion I had seen, and the great importance of feeling, arrogance, and vanity the little work had manifested, that it would have some pert remarks to make to us; but it was so much exhausted that it could not say a word. At the bottom of the valley was a small pond of a milky hue, from which there issued a perfume very much like the smell of bread and butter. An immense number of thin, prettily bound manuscript books were soaking in this pond of milk, all of which, I was informed, were _Young Ladies’ Albums_, which it was necessary to souse in the slough, to prevent them from stealing passages from the various works about them. As soon as I heard what they were, I ran away with all my speed, having a mortal dread of these books. We had now traversed the valley, and, approaching the barrier of mountains, we found a passage cut through, which greatly resembled the Pausilipo, near Naples; it was closed on the side towards the valley, only with a curtain of white paper, upon which were printed the names of the principal reviews, which my conductor assured me were enough to prevent any of the unhappy works we had seen from coming near the passage.