tendencies. Lord Salisbury was here last year, and my friend Monsieur Ondit, who is in everybody's confidence, tells me that his Lordship will revisit a place where the traitement did him so much good. I believe he underwent the "Cherry-cure," at all events his Lordship was seen in public constantly eating them out of a paper-bag. What did he do with the bag? My answer is, "he popped it." Down went the cherries, and bang went the bag and fifty centimes. Well, did not Royat effect some change in his conservatism? What has been the result? But I am not here to talk politics.

Everybody is talking of the Boulanger-Ferry incident. This is Aug. 4, and nothing has happened.

I haven't time to proceed with this, but, so far, the idea is at any poet's disposition to continue as he pleases, my only stipulation being that the air to which it is to be sung shall be "Marlbrook."

My other friend, Benjamin Trovato, of Italian extraction, tells me that Boulanger is half English, and had an English education. Ben informs me that the General has never forgotten the rhythms he learnt in his happy English nursery; and that, when he read that M. Ferry had called him a "St. Arnaud de Café-Concert," he sang out, recollecting the old catch,—

in which his friends were unable to join, owing to their ignorance of the words and tune.

When driving through Clermont-Ferrand from the Station up to Royat, we (three of us) had a small omnibus to ourselves. One of the party (a wag, of whom, and of the circumstances of our meeting, more "in my next") insisted on our calling out, "Vive Boulanger!" We did this several times in the most crowded parts, but the cry obtained no response, and aroused no excitement, as, being uttered with the greatest caution (at my instance), nobody heard it.

But what a thing to fight about! If duelling were an English fashion, how fruitful of "incidents" this Session would have been. How often would Mr. Tim Healy have been "out"? And Mr. De Lisle's life would have hung upon a Lisle thread!

Note for strangers about to visit Royat.—The Continental Hotel has lost a little territory, as half of what was its terrace has been returned to the present proprietor of the hotel next door, with whom we Continentals have no connection, not even "on business," it not being "the same concern" and under one management as it was last year. But what the Continental Hotel has sacrificed in domain, Monsieur Hall, our obliging landlord, has more than made up in comfort and cooking. Dr. Brandt sees his patients in a charming Villa of Flowers. The weather is lovely.

We are all surprised at seeing one another here. Each person (or each couple or party) seems to think that he alone (or they alone) possess the secret of Royat's existence. We certainly are not a mutual admiration society at Royat. When we come upon one another suddenly, each exclaims, "Hallo! what are you here for?" is if the other were a convict "doing his time." Everyone thinks he knows what he is here for, but very few tell what he thinks he knows. And, by the way, the best-informed among us doesn't know very much about it.

In the Reading-room of the Cercle there ought to be (as advertised in a local journal) at least three English newspapers daily. I have not seen them as yet. The only London paper arriving here regularly, and to be purchased every day early at the Newsvendor's, is the Morning Post. Vive Sir Algernon! Can this be the attraction for Lord Salisbury? Why come out so far afield to read the Morning Post? Or wasn't it here, during Lord Salisbury's visit last year, and is he still ignorant of its having been subsequently demanded and supplied this season? And when he comes and finds it—"O what a surprise!"—no, thank goodness, we have escaped from this song—for a time, at least.

Too hot to write any more journal. The hundredth bell is sounding for the fiftieth déjeuner. My déjeuner is finished. There are bells here perpetually. All day and all night. In vain would Mr. Irving as Mathias, put his hands to his ears and close the windows. The bells! The bells! Distant bells, near bells, sheep-bells, goat-bells, a man with pipe (not tobacco but tune, or what he and the goats consider a tune), dinner-bells, guests'-bells, servants'-bells, church-bells (not much), chapel-bells (early and occasionally), horse-bells, donkey-bells, breakfast-bells, supper-bells, arrival-bells, departure-bells, tramway bells, crier's-bells, with variations on drum or trumpet, and several other bells that I shall notice in the course of the twenty-four hours, but have forgotten just now.

The "petits chevaux" have not been stopped by the Government; they are running as fast as ever. There are two bands, playing morning, afternoon, and evening. The Casino Samie is as lively as ever, or, as my waggish acquaintance at once expressed it, in that vein of humour for which he is so specially distinguished, "The Samie old game," and to sit out in the garden, with a fragrant cigar and coffee, before retiring for the night, is indeed a calm pleasure, or would be but for the aforesaid waggishness, of which more anon.

Soldiers about everywhere, Boulangering. Up in the hills is a splendid echo. This morning, having caught the very slightest cold, I went up into the mountains to get it blown away. Suddenly I sneezed. Such a sneeze! It reverberated all over the mountain like the firing of a battery. Again! again! These sneezes nearly shook me off the rock, and sent me staggering on to the plateau below. The effect must have been alarming, as the third sneeze fetched out the military, horse and foot, at full gallop, and the double. L'ennemi? C'était moi! They scoured the mountain sides, but I did not sneeze again. I have a sort of idea that my sneeze upset the entire preconcerted arrangements for a review. The Boulangerers retired—so did I.

'Tis the hour of douche. Richard, the attendant, will be there to give it me. Douche-ment, douche-ment. Gently does it! O Richard, O Mon Roy-at!... Au revoir!

Mrs. R. went to see the première of a new piece about which there had been considerable excitement in the theatrical world. "It was quite a novelty for me," said the good lady to a friend; "every literal person was there of any imminence, and my nephew, who is connected with papers himself, told me that the stalls were full of crickets. He pointed them all out to me. Most interesting."

"LE MONDE OÙ L'ON S'AMUSE."

Miss Ponsonby de Tomkyns (just out). "Oh, Papa! such an exquisite Concert it was at Lady Midas's! The Duchess was there, and the Mowbray-Mashams, and Lord and