SEASIDE ASIDES.
(Paterfamilias in North Cornwall.)

OH! how delightful now at last to come
Away from town-its dirt, its degradation,
Its never-ending whirl, its ceaseless hum.
(A long chalks better, though, than sheer
stagnation.)

For what could mortal man or maid want more Than breezy downs to stroll on, rocks to climb up,

Weird labyrinthine caverns to explore?

(There's nothing else to do to fill the time up.)

Your honest face here earns an honest brown, You ramble on for miles 'mid gorse and heather,

Sheep hold athletic sports upon the down (Which makes the mutton taste as tough as leather).

The place is guiltless, too, of horrid piers, And likewise is not Christy-Minstrel tooney; No soul-distressing strains disturb your ears. (A German band has just played "Annie Rooney.")

The eggs as fresh as paint, the Cornish cream The boys from school all say is "simply ripping,"

The butter, so the girls declare, "a dream." (The only baccy you can buy quite dripping.) A happiness of resting after strife,

Where one forgets all worldly pain and sorrow,

And one contentedly could pass one's life. (A telegram will take me home to-morrow.)

CANINE SAGACITY.-Numerous instances of this have been quoted in the Spectator and other papers. Our Toby would like to be informed how one clever dog would communicate with another clever dog, if the former were in a great hurry? The reply from a great authority in the K 9 Division, signing himself "DOGBERRY," is that "the clever dog would either tailegraph or tailephone; but that, anyhow, in the strictest confidence, he would tell his own tail."

THE MANNERS OF OUR CHILDREN! (Fragment from a Tragic Farce, suggested by a

Correspondence in a Daily Paper.) SCENE- The Sanctum of Paterfamilias. Enter to him JACKY, his eldest born. Pater. (cordially). How are you, old chap? Jacky. Very well, thank you, Father. And will you forgive me-is not " chap" a trifle slangy?

Pater. (astonished). Eh! what? Jacky. You were good enough to write to my Form Master after the Easter Vacation. complaining of my style. Consequently that worthy pedagogue has given more than usual attention to that part of my education.

Pater. Well, now you are home for the holidays! As for your Form Master-hang

him and all his works!

Jacky. Are you quite sure that you are quoting correctly? To the best of my belief the line goes, "hang him with his pen and

ink-horn."

Pater. Eh! what? I don't understand you. Jacky. Why, my dear Father, I naturally

Pater. Well I never! Jacky. Never what? You have not completed the sentence.

Pater. Sir, you are an insolent young puppy! Jacky. I am forced to contradict you-in justice to yourself. You cannot be willing to let me regard you as a dog?

Pater. (after a pause). Well, the sooner you get back to the school the better.

Jacky (promptly). I have no doubt you are right, my dear Father; and, as I take a sincere interest in your welfare, I would respectfully suggest that you should accompany me. It must be patent to us both that you are lacking in polish.

Pater. (losing his patience). You young cub! I will give you the soundest thrashing you ever had in your life'

Materfamilias (interposing). Oh, you cruel man! What has the poor child done?

Jacky (with ready tact). Nothing, dearest Mamma, except to take after his kind, clever and accomplished Mother!

[Scene closes in upon a family group not entirely free from domestic complications.

concluded that you were quoting from the G Immortal Bard. You will find the passage in The Second Part of King Henry the Sixth, scene iv., line 2.

Pater. What are you talking about?

Jacky. Why your misquotation. And will you forgive me but do you not think it would sound better if you were to ask me about I what I was talking"? I might add that my Form Master and I

Pater. Your "Form Master and you." Rot and bosh! I should sayJacky (with a twitch of pain). Oh, my dear Father, more slang, more slang!

Pater. (getting very red). And what if there is? What's that to you? You don't pay for my education, do you?

Jacky (quickly). No. If I did, I could not declare that I was satisfied with your progress! Pater. (indignantly). You little prig, IJacky (calmly interrupting), Pray do not excite yourself. I am only doing my duty. polished than myself. Surely I may regard I am merely attempting to instruct those less

such an action with satisfaction?

Pater. furious). You shall go back to

school at once!

Jacky. I am afraid that that is scarcely practicable. If you will refer to the slip that accompanied my school-bill, you will notice that the Vacation does not cease until the 20th of September.

Pater. And a nice school-bill! Why they charged everything as an extra!

Jacky. Surely such a matter is scarcely within my province? According to statute, my dear Father, you are bound to provide for me until (if my memory does not betray me) I reach the age of sixteen. As I am now five years younger than that limit, it is clearly your duty to support me.

Pater. Why, Sir, you are insupportable! Jacky (smiling). I see a joke-very good! But, my dear Sir, do you think it quite dignified to make so small a jest in my presence? It is calculated to lessen my respect for you.

stands for

GEORGEour only GEORGE LOHMANN;

H for young HENDERSON, valiant young

foeman.

is the Innings, beloved of the gapers;

is the Jargon they put in the papers.

K

is for LOCKWOOD, who bowls a bit too; is for KEY, the accomplished Dark Blue;

M is for MAURICE, his other name READ;
N poor old Nottingham, beaten indeed.
the Pavilion, the seat of the proud.
O is the Oval, the home of the crowd;

P

is the Question, "Oh, Umpire, how's that?" stands for SHARPE, it will pay you to R is for Gentleman READ, who can bat.

mind him;

T is the Trouble they were put to to find him;
U their United attempts-hard, to beat them;
V the Vain efforts oft made to defeat them.
X is the Xcellent style of their cricket.
W represents WOOD at the wicket;
stands for Zero, a stranger to Surrey!
Y ends the county, not played out in a hurry.

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER III.

Reims-Night-Streets-Arrival-Lion d'Or-Depression-LandIr is just ten o'clock. Reims seems to be in bed and fast asleep, except for the presence in the streets of a very few persons, official and unofficial, of whom the former are evidently on the alert as to the movements, slouching and uncertain, of the latter.

lady-Boots-Cathedral-Loneliness-Bed.

We drive under ancient Roman Arch; DAUBINET tells me its history in a vague kind of way, breaking off suddenly to say that I shall see it to-morrow, when, so he evidently wishes me to infer, the Roman Arch will speak for itself. Then we drive past a desolatelooking Museum. I believe it is a Museum, though DAUBINET's information is a trifle uncertain on this point.

We pass a theatre, brilliantly illuminated. I see posters on the wall advertising the performance. A gendarme, in full uniform, as if he had come out after playing Sergeant Lupy in Robert Macaire, is pensively airing himself under the façade, but there is no one else within sight, no one; not a cocher with whom Sergeant Lupy can chat, nor even a gamin to be ordered off; and though, from one point of view, this exterior desolation may argue well for the business the theatre is doing, yet, as there is no logical certainty that the people, who do not appear outside a show, should therefore necessarily be inside it, the temple of the Drama may, after all, be as empty as was Mr. Crummles' Theatre, when somebody, looking through a hole in the curtain, announced, in a state of great excitement, the advent of another boy to the pit.

And now we rattle over the stones joltingly, along a fairly welllighted street. All the shops fast asleep, with their eyelids closed, that is, their shutters up, all except one establishment, garishly lighted and of defiantly rakish appearance, with the words Café Chantant written up in jets of gas; and within this Café, as we jolt along, I espy a dame du comptoir, a weary waiter, and two or three second-class, flashy-looking customers, drinking, smoking, perhaps arguing, at all events, gesticulating, which, with the low-class Frenchmen, comes to much the same thing in the end, the end probably being their expulsion from the drinking-saloon. Where is the chantant portion of the café? I cannot see,-perhaps in some inner recess. With this flash of brilliancy, all sign of life in Reims disappears. We drive on, jolted and rattled over the cobble stones (if not cobble, what are they? Wobble ?)-and so up to the Lion d'Or.

I am depressed. I can't help it. It is depressing to be the only prisoners in a black van; I should have said "passengers," but the sombre character of the omnibus suggests "Black Maria;" it is depressing (I repeat to myself), to be the only two passengers driving through a dead town at night-time, as if we were the very personification of "the dead of night" being taken out in a hearse to the nearest cemetery. Even DAUBINET feels it, for he is silent, except when he tries to rouse himself by exclaiming "Caramba!" Only twice does he make the attempt, and then, meeting with no response from me, he collapses. Nor does it relieve depression to be set down in a solemn courtyard, lighted by a solitary gaslamp. This in itself would be quite sufficient to make a weary traveller melancholy, without the tolling of a gruesome bell to

candlestick," to show the gentleman his room." And, at length, when a hostess, amiable but shivering, does appear, there is still an absence of all geniality; no questions are asked as to what we might like to take in the way of refreshment, there is no fire to cheer us, no warm drinks are suggested, no apparent probability of getting food or liquor, even if we wanted it, which, thank Heaven, we don't, not having recovered from the last hurriedly-swallowed meal at the railway buffet en route. Yes, at the "Lion d'Or" at Reims, on this occasion, hic et nunc, is a combination of melancholy circumstances which would have delighted Mark Tapley, and, as far as I know, Mark Tapley only. "On an occasion like this," I murmur to myself, having no one else to whom I can murmur it confidentially, for DAUBINET, having a knowledge of the house, has disappeared down some mysterious passage in order to examine and choose our rooms,-"there is, indeed, some merit in being jolly."

DAUBINET returns. He has found the rooms. The somnolent boots will carry our things upstairs. Which of the two rooms will I have? They are en suite. I make no choice. It is, I protest, a matter of perfect indifference to me; but one room being infinitely superior to the other, I select it, apologetically. DAUBINET, being more of a Mark Tapley than I am, is quite satisfied with the arrangement, and has almost entirely recovered his wonted high spirits.

Very good. Très bien! Da! Petzikoff! Pedadjoi! I shall sleep like a top. Bon soir! Buono notte! Karascho! Blass the Prince of

WAILES!" and he has disappeared into his bedroom. I never knew a man so quick in unpacking, getting into bed, and going to sleep. He hasn't far to go, or else Morpheus must have caught him up, en route, and hypnotised him. I hear him singing and humming for two minutes; I hear him calling out to me, All right? Are you all right ?" and, once again invoking the spirit of Mark Tapley, I throw all the joviality I can into my reply as I say, through the wall, "Quite, thanks. Jolly! Good-night!" But my reply is wasted on him; he has turned a deaf ear to me, the other being on the pillow, and gives no sign. If he is asleep, the suddenness of the collapse is almost alarming. Once again I address him. No answer. I continue my unpacking. All my portmanteau arrangements seem to have become unaccountably complicated. I pause and look round. Cheerless. The room is bare and lofty, the bed is small, the window is large, and the one solitary bougie sheds a gloom around which makes unpacking a difficulty. I pull up the blind. A lovely moonlight night. In front of me, as if it had had the politeness to put itself out of the way to walk up here, and pay me a visit, stands the Cathedral, that is some of it; but what I can see of it, au clair de la lune, fascinates me. It is company, it is friendly. But it is chilly all the same, and the sooner I close the window and retire the better. Usual difficulty, of course, in closing French window. After a violent struggle, it is done. The bed looks chilly, and I feel sure that that stuffed, pillow-like thing, which is to do duty for blanket and coverlet, can't be warm enough.

Hark! a gentle snore. A very gentle one. It is the first time I ever knew a snore exercise a soothing effect on the listener. This is decidedly soporific. It is an invitation to sleep. I accept. The Cathedral clock sounds a carillon. It plays half a tune, too, as if this was all it had learnt up to the present, or perhaps to intimate that there is more where that comes from, only I must wait for to-morrow, and be contented with this instalment. I am. Half a tune is better than no tune at all, or vice versa: it doesn't matter. When the tune breaks off I murmur to myself, "To be continued in our next;" and so-as I believe, for I remember nothing after this-I doze off to sleep on this my first night in the ancient town of Reims.