The one duke in our company was an interesting personage. He was stout and about fifty. Far from communicative as a rule, he seemed, like my spinster friend, to find his pleasure mainly in calm contemplation of his neighbors. However, one evening he and I smoked cigarettes together on a lounge, and he confided to me that "these English are a bizarre nation!" He took me for a Frenchman. I did not undeceive him, and coaxed him to continue. And then, after a while, he amazed me by hinting that he thought a certain one of my country women in the pension a sufficiently handsome lady. Fat and fifty though he was, and possessed of a large dark duchess with a moustache, he had proved susceptible to the charms of the wife of one of the clergymen. But he was philosophic withal, and nourished himself on no delusions. "She appeals to me," he said, “like a portrait I saw in one of the galleries this morning. Nothing more, parole d'honneur," and then he laughed a short dry laugh and puffed blue smoke into the air.

There was also an Oxford gentleman who was wont, for his accent's sake, to talk with the countrypeople beyond the Santa Croce district of the city. He declared that the purest Tuscan was to be heard there, and that they used pretty much the same phraseology as Boccaccio wrote. He kept himself serenely above the transient bickerings and drama of the pension, and what time he did not give to the galleries and churches he gave to a very big book. It was edifying to see him thus engrossed

not know what to make of that kind of man. But for my part I fancied he might be right to hedge himself about with his intellectuality. There was a certain grand duke here who, when he travelled, always carried about with him Raphael's "Madonna del Cardinello," now in the Uffizi Gallery. That, too, was perhaps an ennobling, or at least a protective, proceeding.

The pension served its turn with me, as well as with the kindly signora who owned it. At any rate it was never tedious, and it was always a notable contrast to such places of pilgrimage as. the monastery of S. Marco and Michael Angelo's tombs of the Medici. The past. is so very dead in Florence that one is. apt the more therefore to enjoy even the vibrating sense of actuality in its present. On the rare occasions when I yearned for an evening soporific in contrast with the pension's drama, I had but to go to the theatre or to my favorite humble café, the Antica Rosa, where Giovanni the waiter passed his spare minutes in playing cards with the gentle lady who sat at the counter and smiled on her clients as they came and went.

From The Gentleman's Magazine.

A LIGHTNING TOUR. The current of our life, especially in travelling, is nowadays conventional enough. Welcome, therefore, anything in the form of adventure, anything out of the common, and “out of the way," and different from the humdrum rails on which we roll along so smoothly every day. Perhaps it is not life, but ourself, that is monotonous; life is full of turns, changes, and surprises. We can find the dramatic if we look for it. It has been justly said that nowadays we do not travel, but we "arrive." In the old times the enjoyment was found in the journey itself, in the sort of panorama that greeted the traveller's eyes as he posted along.

the intervening space, and join the two points as speedily as we can.

And again: Our daily life has now become so crammed full of things and doings that the day seems scarcely long enough to contain them all. While the measure of things to be done is enlarging hourly, the measure of time remains the same. No Procrustean method has been discovered to stretch it. Being thus compelled to take it as it is, we must only make of it what we can, and make the most. Johnson's advice to take "short views" of things may be extended to travel, and one method of expanding the hours may be to concentrate our view. It was some reflections of this kind, over the friendly, ever-soothing pipe, that led me to take my "lightning tour," and thus prove to my fellow-creatures how much, can be made of a single "difficult" day, as Alice Meynell has it.

A pleasant walk to the station in the steel-blue morning brought me to Victoria Street, with some minutes to spare. The train was to start at 5.45. Wandering down a short way, I had a glimpse of the Abbey, the first of the many cathedrals I was to see in the course of my long day.

This departing by an early morning train is always a new experience. There is a bleakness in the incidents; you have the place nearly entirely to yourself. The ticket-taker or "snipper" gazes at you with but a doubtful air. On this occasion a single porter was my fellow-passenger. As we went along the day seemed gradually to get life and warmth. It is always dramatic and scenic to find Rochester approaching, with the passage across the silvery, open river, the noble castle rising so sad and forlorn and abject on the other bank. For a draught of genuine old fashion, commend us to Rochester, and that first promenade up its ancient High Street. It was close on seven o'clock. Nothing as yet was open, or, indeed, stirring. A most picturesque stroll that was; all the objects were brought together within small compass -the cathedral just behind the High

ings broken here and there; an old gate-house or two, with an arch through which could be seen the Close. Here was the richly-colored, rubicund old Guild Hall; the fine old Clock House, the statue of Sir Cloudesley Shovel, and good old framed houses in profusion, overhanging the causeway. Nothing can be imagined more piquant than this High Street, which stands "exactly as it did" a hundred or a hundred and fifty years ago, all its color faded and mellowed and harmonized. "Feelings" of any kind in these shrewd, practical days of ours are precious, and it is not an expensive thing to nourish and cultivate them. Long after they will return to us again and again, and supply renewed pleasure. Thus I shall always look back to that early morn in the Rochester High Street.

Near the entrance to the town I found myself pausing before the inn, "The Bull Inn," a long, sad-colored building with an archway and courtyard and perhaps a mouldy tone, like an old piece of furniture. We could imagine that, in the old pre-railway days, this was a stately establishment enough, and, indeed, Boz's tone is that of respect almost reverential. What associations of another time, suggested by his name, come back on me! with the image of the bright, genial, and energetic novelist striding along the High Street, and doing the honors of the place. The spirit of Boz, indeed, pervades every corner of the place. Every building and notable spot has been quickened into life by his magic pen. It is extraordinary the vivifying and general interest this gives, for those who are deeply read in his books. A sort of "hallucination," against which you vainly struggle, seems to convey that all the incidents of the fiction have actually occurred in these places. With this feeling, then, I entered "The Bull," passing under its spacious archway, and began to think of Mr. Pickwick and his friends, and of all the quaint, merry doings that occurred-it must be so under its roof. Everything seemed in tone and in keeping-the

great courtyard where the posting carriages used to lie up in ordinary-the queer little offices and hutches. That row of long windows on the left, with a sort of arcade which spoke for itself, signified the ball-room. Like the morning after the ball itself, the whole had a sort of "shut-up" air. The boy Dickens, living at Chatham, close by, had seen the inn in its palmy days, when the balls and assemblies were given and the post carriages were passing through. It seemed to him very imposing. We have heard him tell of his disappointment, when he returned in later years, at the small size and general poorness of everything.

We often stayed with him at Gadshill, and well recall the first walk into Rochester, when he introduced us to all the lions. The snow was on the ground, and he tramped along with his favorite energy. There was something piquant in hearing him talk to the matron of “The Seven Poor Travellers,” who took it easily enough; though it was he who has raised it from obscurity, and has made it celebrated all the world over.

In "The Bull," while waiting breakfast, I almost expected to see some of the old characters walk in. There was a little bar, all framed and glazed, and a little kitchen in the corner of the yard. Only one or two retainers were to be seen. I wandered into the faded coffee-room, and an amiable maid cheerfully undertook breakfast, though "things were not quite ready." Carrying out the whimsical realization of the book, I realized that it was in this room that Captain Tappleton was left to wait, and was looking out as I was doing into the street, after he had sent up the challenge to Mr. Winkle. It was a long, low chamber, with the usual feeble framed prints, that seem painted, engraved, framed, and sold to adorn coffee-rooms. I expected to find the face of Boz himself, who has made the inn immortal. The paper was dingy enough to have been on the wall in the days of the Pickwickian party. I could see the ham and eggs frying merrily in the little kitchen off the yard; it was

like a "caboose" on a yacht, and to fill up the time I begged to be shown the ball-room. Ardent Pickwickian as I am, I never can bring myself, at these various inns, to ask to see "Mr. Pickwick's room," though it is always ready, and there is a perfect willingness to show it.

But the ball-room! How strange the feeling of ascending the stair, with its three short flights, exactly as in the picture. I only wanted Jingle leaning jauntily against the balusters and gibing the doctor below. The door was thrown open, and there it was, not a very large ball-room certainly, to modern ideas; more of a large diningroom. It might have been last night! I could follow the guests up-stairs, see the great folk standing at the top. There was the little balcony at the bottom, some six feet above the floor; a little room or closet behind for the musicians, which Boz has taken care to note. This room is used still for dances, assemblies, dinners, etc.

It was now eight o'clock. I despatched the breakfast, paid the moderate bill, and went forth again. A day might be comfortably spent in Rochester, for there is much to see, but, like all such picturesque things, they are not to be seen within a measured period. We must live with them-grow familiar -then we begin to be interested and learn their particular charm. It is impossible to know or understand, say, a cathedral such as Canterbury or Antwerp, any more than we know any living person by a mere single visit. These monuments do not give up their charm to the first careless comer. There must be the feeling, too, that we can return and see it again and yet again. There should be the sense of residence. Rochester, it need not be said, lives again in the stories of Dickens, "Pickwick," "Great Expectations," "Edwin Drood," and "The Seven Poor Travellers." Between them all there is scarcely left a corner undescribed. He has perfectly caught the sentimental side of the place. In one of the Pickwick episodes there is a sketch of the castle from the bridge,

which leaves a sort of sad impression. The cathedral is interesting and worthy a sight-seer's attention; but it is only after reading "Edwin Drood" that we look at it with a sort of tragic feeling and curiosity. I wandered in, finding the doors open even at that hour. It seemed bald, but was pleasing. Round it and from off it meandered away delightful little old-fashioned lanes and streets, with a charming row of cheerful little brick houses, with white sashes and carved doors, "Minor Canon Row," like its sister at Richmond, the "Maid of Honor Row."

There are various gate-houses about the cathedral, and I make out an imposing Restoration House in the distance. Best of all, and perhaps the finest thing of the kind in the way of "wattle and daub," framed timbers, high roof and overhanging stories, was the imposing and gloomy-looking Eastgate House in the High Street. The proper house for a story, I thought-it is so sombre, and the garden round it so dismal.

All this time I was wending along Chatham-way, through the cosy High Street, which it has been truly said "has quite an air of bag-wig and ruffles." Here at No. 47 you are told that James II., escaping from his son-in-law, was hidden, and made his way out at the back to the river, where he embarked. All the red houses are dingy enough: the pathways are raised high, here and there with railings, the road lying far below. Here we come to "the Lines," and see, on the right, slightly swelling downs with corners of bastions, forts, etc.-in short, where was the review attended by the Pickwickians. One of these is Fort Pitt, where Mr. Winkle "met" Dr. Slammer. The whole tone of the scene seems to have been exactly caught by the novelist. Here is the row in which he lived during his hard childhood, Ordnance Row, a poorish sort of terrace, the houses small enough. But time was shortening, and I had to quicken my pace, for the morning express which I had anticipated was nearly due.

It was 8.45. Now we whirled down

to good old Dover. Here we find the same "show" that is renewed morning, noon, and night in sempiterna; the embarkation, ever dramatic and picturesque, which has been going on for some hundreds of years.

Ten o'clock. It was a delightful travelling morning. There were not many passengers. Always fresh and novel is the Bay of Dover, with its amphitheatre and crested cliffs crowned by the castle. It would need a Ruskin to interpret the feelings the scene inspires, which no doubt rest on a sense that here is the grand entrancegate to old England-secure place of shelter and reception for the traveller. There is always the air of movement with one, too, of patronage and protection, different, perhaps, from the open, low-lying French ports, where you seem to intrude on some scenic gala going on, and feel you had better get out of the way.

By half past eleven we were at Calais, that ever picturesque port, though now altered out of its old shape. I can never lose my interest in the scene at landing: the strange faces, uniforms, etc., have always a novelty. I dare swear no traveller, no matter how often he passes to and fro, gets over this first surprise. A landing in foreign parts to me is always new. With Sterne, one pities the folk that go from Dan to Beersheba, finding all things the same and monotonous. In this fashion of being pleased with little things, we not only keep from "rusting," but have a perpetual feast of entertainment. What you look for you will find. I found a piquancy which wiled away the moments in watching the French sailors, gay, good-looking gaillards, and in noticing their relation to the three or four English "salts" who were among them. The forced good-humor, the attempts to be sympathetic on the side of the "Britishers," showed that the relations were delicate enough. Thus puss and the fox terrier are sometimes compelled to be harmonious at the fireside, and nothing is more comical than their wary, distrustful looks.

At Calais I had time to see my second

新

cathedral: a fine old church which Ruskin has interpreted and almost sung. It is grimness itself, and, as he has pointed out, its old English steeple has become blanched and dried by the blasts and storms of centuries. As we wind slowly round the town in the circuit taken by the railway, the little place looks quite brilliant-with its clustered houses afar off the ever charming and piquant steeple of the Town Hall, now hiding, now showing itself among the tiled roofs. This notion of a central object, spire, belfry, etc., belongs to the foreign town. Ours are all crowded, piled-up masses. The cathedral turning its back to us, I noted the fine bastion-like masonry that rose from the ground, the buttresses, etc. We came at last to "Calais-Ville," the fine, new, and spacious station, which really belongs to the new semiEnglish town of S. Pierre, and to make which Richelieu's fine gate was levelled.

We now set off merrily-at 12.15through the French country-the day bright, the fields "laughing." The look of those spreading fields is a sort of surprise, with the women in glazed hats standing at the level crossings, carrying their flag to "the present."

Boz's little paper, "A Flight," is one of the most perfect photographs of the journey from London to Paris. He has missed notning. The reader feels as though he were being whirled along, and notes the changes in the day, the weary drawing on to evening, the look of the towns, etc. In about an hour's time we were passing those enormous cement factories which line the railway as we near Boulogne; the chimneys, houses, factory, and warehouses, all seemed smirched and splashed with this rich compost. We do not descend into Boulogne, and halt at the bright little Tintilleries Station far up the hill, so well known to the English. Many a pleasant dance we have looked on there, the lights sparkling among the trees. Here is my third cathedral -the strange fantastic pile in the High Town, so extravagant and ignorant in its design and details; and yet, as Mr.

Fergusson has said, so full of honesty of purpose, that it carries off these gross defects. That High Town, hackneyed as it is, is ever charming from it antique tranquillity and simplicity. It is a curious feeling, passing into such an enclosure. Once in the old days I came by a diligence from Boulogne to Calais an ancient "ramshackle" three horse thing. We were walking up and down hills all the time, and were the whole day on the march. We pass Wimmille and Wimereux, those curious little ragged places by the sea which are striving hard to become wateringplaces. They seem merely a number of sheds and boxes, with a few villas inland yclept, or miscalled, châlets. About two o'clock the ground round us begins to grow leafy and luxuriant; we are drawing near to what seems an important town. Looking up, I see rising above the gay-looking houses some cream-colored, rich-looking cathedral towers, that seem lacework, and recognize that we are at Abbeville.

I "descend" at the busy station, which is full of modern life, from which I walk away towards the pleasantly oldfashioned town in the distance. I wonder that people do not oftener give themselves such pleasant little treats as this. That seemed a perfect rural avenue, half a mile long, with fields and trees on each side and a few houses. The avenue continued till it came to the entrance of the street of the town, which invited from afar off. The road was crossed twice, once by one of the pretty canals of the Flemish sort, and, farther on, by the river. Houses rose at the edge of the water like those at Bruges. This walk was a foretaste, for there were constant glimpses of the soft, fairy-like towers inviting you on. The little town which we now enter was a surprise-Samuel Prout all over. We do not find such places on the beaten track. It has stood where it did, and is of the old Provincial pattern, bringing back to me the French towns of childhood-say, the hill over Havre, where everything was in a sort of torpid, old-world condition. The entrance to the High Street, or "Great