abilities, as he said, he thought he could not do better than write to me at once. He regretted that business would prevent him from being at the Hall on my arrival, but he hoped to return home sometime the next day. In the meantime, he had told his housekeeper to make up a bed for me at the Hall and had left open his bookcase, lest the time might hang heavy on my hands. Glad of an excuse to leave town, as it was getting very hot and I had nothing to do, I took the stage, and towards the middle of the next day found myself in front of the Baron's country seat. It was a fine, stately mansion, surrounded by a moat. I crossed the drawbridge and inquired whether the Baron was at home. A respectable matron answered the door. She replied in the negative to my question. Then, asking if I were Mr. Hardcase, the lawyer, and learning that I was, she said, "The Baron left word that he would be at home sometime tomorrow, or the day after for certain; that in the meantime, you were to make yourself quite at home, sir."

"Oh, very well," said I; "I am rather tired just at present. Leave me here among the Baron's books. When I have sufficiently rested I should like to look over the house. It seems a curious old place."

"Yes, sir, it is a very old place," said the housekeeper. "But wouldn't you like to take a little refreshment first?"

Being then past one o'clock, and having had but a hurried breakfast, I thanked her and said I thought I could manage a little light refreshment. She then left me alone, but soon returned with a tray containing what seemed to be the fag end of a sumptuous banquet. There was venison pasty, a boiled leg of turkey, some ham, vegetables, bread and cheese, salad, raspberry and currant tart, a bottle of good old crusted port, some sherry, Burgundy, etc. Having done justice to this light repast, I rang the bell for the things to be cleared away; after which I took down a great number of volumes from the bookcase, and throwing myself into an easy-chair, I deposited the books in a heap upon the floor, and began examining their titles, and occasionally reading a passage here and there when it interested me. The first book I laid hands on was "Fox's Book of Martyrs," with plates showing the various modes of torture by which the early Christians were put to death. I passed on to the next.

This was a book of Chinese punishments, with Chinese illustrations. I opened the book at a plate of a man being skinned alive. Having little taste for these sorts of horrors, I closed the book and passed on to the next. The third book was a description of 

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