Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. Let—it—fall. She was for ever scanning luggage and finding her way about the world, via these miniature pictures. And, lastly, there's Mr. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. ” Mrs.
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