"_The Gentle Art of making Enemies, as pleasantly exemplified in many instances," &c., &c._ (for full title see the book itself) is, whatever "_Messieurs les Ennemis_" may think of it, a work of rare humour. Of course you must first of all be interested in King JAMES and his subjects,--his principal subject being himself, (and lucky the man who can _command himself_)--and you must wish to know the story of his rights and wrongs; then this interest and desire being taken for granted, the book of the butterfly is a thing of beauty and a joy for now and ever. The heads are epigrammatic and the tails sprightly, and both eminently characteristic, for the heads tell their own tales, and the tails in tadpolian scheme are the outcome of the heads. Most of the waggery is in these tailpieces, which, one and all of them, represent the real Whistlerian spirit, "the Familiar" of ETCHER JAMES, that is the Demoniacal Butterfly "in various aspics," as Mrs. MALAPROP might say. Does the Butterfly's Master address "_Messieurs les Ennemis_," the Familiar Spirit is all politeness, with head down and wings outstretched saluting before coming to "on guard." Does Master "rid himself of the friendship of the many?"--the little Demon shakes a reef out of his tail and flies upwards, to return after a short flight of fancy. On occasions when Master has been reflecting comically and satirically on some of his attackers, or on his detractors, the volatile Imp literally shakes his sides with uncontrollable laughter, and can't stand upright for very mirth. The famous "Ten o'clock" which has been immortalised by _Mr. Punch_ as the "Ten-and-sixpenny o'clock," in consequence of the tickets being half-a-guinea apiece, is here reprinted. PROSPERO WHISTLER packs up his bag of tricks, buries his wand, makes his bow with a little speech at a testimonial dinner given to him by his friends, and the Familiar Demon Butterfly, free at last, darts into space, leaves "Finis" below,--then, you turn over the page, all is blank,--Magician and Familiar have vanished! DAVID STOTT, not of Oldham, but of Oxford Street, publishes dainty little pocket volumes, and here is one yclept _Essays or Counsels of Francis Bacon_. "Put it in the bag!" says the Baron, "and let it be my travelling companion, so that, whenever I want refreshment I may feed on BACON, that many-sided philosopher." It is a wonderfully handy volume, tastefully and substantially bound, and its type of the very clearest. Much-occupied men, who can only snatch here a moment and there a moment for reading, ought to be grateful to the inventors and the publishers of all handy books, meaning, says the Baron, books which are really handy, and which, without destroying the natural elegance of your figure or the set of your garments, you can carry comfortably and imperceptibly in your tail coat pocket.