there and three miles back is six; but he can rest after seeing the rooms, so he will be economical and walk. He is cautious; he continues to inquire his way; he is on the right road, but he completes one mile, two miles, three miles, and yet no sign of his farm-house. He enters the first house he sees, and asks for information, and learns that he is three miles still from this possible summer residence. It is true that by the fields it is little more than three miles; but that is a road no stranger could find, being through woods and over commons, and by the high road it is six or more.

́ And a nasty, onconvenient place when you get there,' continues his informant. The baker don't call more nor twice a week, or the butcher nor once; and everything else you must send for fra' Bromley.'

This dreadful prospect decides our hero; tired, hot, and hungry, he retraces his steps. We will not attempt to describe his feelings: those who have suffered likewise can realize them. But one more incident, and his cup was full.

As he approached the station his eyes fell upon a most attractivelooking abode, of modest proportions, it is true, but shaded by trees and buried in flowers, conveying at once the impression of coolness, airiness, and cheerfulness with retirement. His heart beat high as he noticed the ticket announcing 'Apartments to let,' and rang the bell in consequence. The very place!' thought he, as he entered the pretty garden. 'How came I to miss it on my way to that infernal farm?'

A gentleman came out as he went in. The interior justified his expectations: it was fresh, clean, prettily furnished-exactly what he wanted. The owners had but recently come, they were anxious to let, so the terms they asked were moderatebut there was a bedroom short. By no contrivance in the world could two nurses and three children be got into the one small room proposed for them.

Are you sure you have nothing else? Can't you spare a room your

selves?' he inquired, seeing the woman of the house look vexed, and as unwilling to give up the negotiation as he himself was. 'What have you here?' he exclaimed, opening a door near him, and discovering a spacious bedroom he had not seen before. Why cannot I have this?'

'Oh! I'm so sorry; but we have just let that; the gentleman went out as you came in.'

'But can't you get off? Won't he give it up?'

'No! I am sure he won't, for he is an artist come to paint the neighbourhood, and he has taken it for six months, and is to board with us. We didn't wish to let the room to him,' continued the woman, hurriedly, seeing her auditor's dreadful looks of despair, but he gave us an hour to think about it, that there might be no going back, he said. He came down by the same train you did, sir. Oh! if you had only come here first you should have had all the house!'

This announcement that he had lost this desirable place by his own blind hurry was too much for our friend; he seized his hat, rushed out of the house, just caught the train to London Bridge, rushed frantically down the steps, and just caught the boat ere it pushed off.

The heat and fatigue he had undergone produced exhaustion, the worry and disappointment fevered his blood, the foul smell of the water finished the business by causing excessive nausea; so on reaching home he had only strength to stagger up to his bed-room and stretch himself upon his bed in a sort of faint, to the excessive alarm of his Julia, who administered brandy, and then sent for the doctor, who, after three days of attendance, declared he had warded off an attack of low fever, and now the sooner his patient left town the better.' These words fell like a heavy weight on the poor man's heart, but his courageous wife (had she not married on 500l. a year?) replied, Certainly; we will go tomorrow.' And forthwith, after a profound study of the map of England, she discovered, within

thirty miles of London, three country towns that were as yet unvisited by a railroad. She selected one: it happened to be Sevenoaks. Arguing that there must be either lodgings, or houses, or inns for forlorn summer pilgrims, probably less in request for there being no railroad, than elsewhere, she packed up only what, as she told her husband, was strictly necessary, and was therefore contained in seven large trunks of modern dimensions. She announced her intention of proceeding thither the next day with him, leaving children and servants to follow after, fully determined to be provided with accommodation for their reception by the time they should arrive.

This bold course of conduct met with the reward it deserved. They found their summer quarters there; and in the delicious shades of Knoll, Benedict forgot all, even the luggage-all but the pure happiness of wandering through the woods and glades of that delightful country with one he loved, and seeing the rosy hues of health revisit the pale cheeks of his little children.

And

'All's well that ends well.' following Julia's example, there is no better plan than for those in search of country or seaside quarters to go down to the place itself at once, and secure the best thing vacant; if inconvenient, or too expensive, it may be endured for a week, and during that time something more suitable may be found; for, unless previously acquainted with a locality, writing is of little service.

One reason for the steady popularity of Brighton is, that the great demand for accommodation having been met by increasing building, those who are disappointed of quarters elsewhere, or those obliged to make a move suddenly, have a certainty of finding at all times and all seasons something to suit their requirements there-small rooms and moderate, large rooms and dear, whole houses or half, near the sea or far away. In winter its keen air is tempered by its brilliant sun, in summer its heat and glare modified by its fresh breezes, and the light

ness of the atmosphere is peculiarly reviving after the heavy warmth of London in July and August; and thus, despite its expense, Brighton retains its prominent position amongst the watering-places frequented by London society. Unfurnished houses are, perhaps, on the whole, not more expensive than at many other places, and every gradation of size and rent may be found there; neither are furnished houses or apartments in the winter season much, if anything, above the same kind of accommodation at St. Leonard's, Scarborough, and Dover during their best seasons. These are the conveniences of Brighton, and few other watering-places can offer them. Let us take a hasty glance of those nearest the metropolis, and see what they do towards accommodating the population ejected by London in August and September, and which endeavours, if possible, to refresh itself within two or three hours' reach of the great Babylon.

We do not so much allude to the very wealthy or to those who, taking their establishments with them, live much the same life in a house in the country or by the sea, as in town. They have perhaps less difficulty in procuring summer quarters than would be supposed. With them it is a question of price only; the demand for detached countryhouses with grounds, &c., being nothing compared to the demand for a few weeks' lodging in a pure air by those who intend to leave their household comforts or cares, whichever they may be, behind them.

It has been remarked that if all the landed gentry owning residences in London, and all the people deriving incomes from hereditary property, stood closely packed together, they would not do much more than fill two or three of the new squares occupied by people who derive their incomes from trade or business. The labyrinths of streets and terraces that perplex the old Londoner about Tyburnia, Belgravia, Kensington, and Kilburn, are peopled by those who have been the architects of their own fortunes, or, at most, inherited a business from their fathers.

Every appliance of luxury and comfort is theirs. The only thing they cannot afford is to be long absent, or very far away from the mine out of which they dig their wealth. But the holiday, short as it is, must be had at any price; and as every one takes it about the same time, it follows that much inconvenient crowding, and much increase in prices in places near London, is the result; and the more circumscribed professional man, or the younger son, finds it difficult to give his young family a change when a long expensive journey is out of the question. Let us consider his case. Where shall he go? The river is convenient, and time in the transit is of no importance to him. Southend, Gravesend, and Margate he considers as resigned to the London tradesman. Ramsgate? Could he be there in June he might enjoy the fine clear air, the delightful sea view, and the good bathing, from rooms facing the sea, at three guineas a week (nay, sometimes lower) and upwards. But it is late in July, and everything desirable is taken; far from the sea a few expensive lodgings may, perhaps, be had, but there is nothing in Ramsgate to compensate for the loss of the sea view. An ugly country, hot, bare, dusty, dangerous cliffs for children, crowded streets, still more crowded sands.

Broadstairs? A quiet place, with little external pretension; but the houses are so small that if his family is numerous he is driven to take an entire one, which involves, of course, servants and trouble. If not blessed with olive branches, he may be accommodated with nice pleasant rooms at a guinea or two less per week than in a larger place. But Broadstairs, it must be confessed, is not an interesting place; inland the country does not attract; there is Ramsgate and Margate on either side, but the walks along the cliffs, pleasant in the evening, are hot and glaring by day. The bathing is indifferent: at high tide the water is apt to be muddy, and the sands, always circumscribed, are then so much contracted that for those who have no children of their own for whose especial enjoyment they can

consent to any annoyance, they become disagreeably crowded and noisy. The class of people who frequent Broadstairs, however, are (to use a vulgar expression) 'eminently genteel;' and the consciousness of being select is a great comfort to an Englishman, even when such trifling incidents occur as no fresh butter, or some other needful provision, being forthcoming for his late dinner or early supper, and he is quietly told there is none to be had in the town. The fact is, that poor little Broadstairs comes badly off between these two monster consumers, Margate and Ramsgate. Living is consequently dear, without being especially good; and many a family has found it cheaper to pay six guineas a week for a lodging at Dover than four at Broadstairs.

Not so at another equally quiet, but far more attractive place to those who like a little rural scenery, namely, Walmer. Its proximity to Deal, of which, indeed, it may be said to form a part, gives it the advantage of a town whilst enjoying the retirement of the country.

The village of Upper Walmer, about a mile from the sea, is well wooded, stands high, and contains many charming villas, private residences, and a few good lodgings, delightful quarters for those who have a carriage; for those who have not, the beach, with its row of pretty villas in gardens, is more attractive. The long flat extent of shingle has, it is true, no beauty in itself, but the sea at full tide is clear and deep. One can sit close to it, and children find almost as much amusement in playing with the many-coloured stones as in digging in the sands. Between the round tower of Walmer Castle, where the Duke breathed his last, on the right hand, and Deal's sister building on the left, the eye may range and count hundreds of vessels of different sizes, from the tiny pleasure-boat to the eighty-gun frigate, anchored in the Downs.

If the visitor is disappointed of accommodation here, he can drive back to the other side of Deal, and perhaps find it in the new terrace called Sandown, not far from the castle of that name, familiar to those

who have read Mrs. Hutchinson's Memoirs, as having been many months her husband's prison. The sea is fast wearing away the outer walls of this once strong fortress, and at low water the large fallen masses of stone can be seen bedded in the sand, which we meet with again here. A high belt of shingle separates it and the sea from a sort of common formed by sand-hills, covered with herbaceous plants, grass, and wild flowers, the delight of the children of Deal. They come here and dig in sand-pits whilst their parents or nurses sit on the shingle at high tide, at the very edge of the sea, as it were getting thus nearer to water than it seems possible to do at any other place, even at Walmer, without wet feet. If Deal itself had only better accommodation it would be a popular place, more so than Walmer; for the barracks and soldiers there are a far greater objection than the brave honest boatmen and fishermen of Deal. Upper Deal, with the parish church, is, like Upper Walmer, a mile and a half. away from the sea. Lower Deal consists of two long streets, running parallel to each other, connected by smaller ones at right angles.

The Esplanade, a small part of Beach Street, is occupied by shops, above which are furnished apartments. They are small and not over good, but to be opposite the sea is a necessity at Deal, to watch the busy life and movement on the water in wet weather or fine, the vessels arriving or departing from the Downs, the steamers that pass, the busy little tugs that come and go, the boats plying to and from the ships; otherwise at the back of the town somewhat better accommodation is to be had at prices from two to five guineas a week, seldom more.

Deal is a homely, not a vulgar place. The magnificent toilets of Margate are not seen here; her habitués are of the dowdy school decidedly, preferring the substantial comforts they meet with to outside show, and enjoying, with an appetite given by the bracing air, the good things with which no watering-place is better supplied. A market is created by the demand from the

ships touching here, quite independent of summer visitors; there is no failure, consequently, in the supplies, and the long, quaint, oldfashioned street has, despite the humble exterior of many of its shops, a lively, thriving air. The inhabitants seem too busy to think of modernizing their dwellings, and find the more solid advantages they can offer appreciated by the oldfashioned quiet tradespeople, who chiefly make it their summer quarters.

It has, like Walmer, its objects of interest for drives and excursions. The railway takes those who have an antiquarian taste to Sandwich, that dull but little altered and ancient town, still surrounded by its moat, now turfed over and planted, with its town gates and old houses, in one of which Queen Elizabeth was lodged; its custom-house when a port; its leper-house; and last, not least, within a pleasant walk, the remains of the old Roman station of Richborough. Then the drive to Dover is delightful. Dover, one of the most interesting of our near seaside resorts, with its recollections of the past, its evidences of present advancement, in its wondrous harbour and pier now constructing-a Cyclopean labour, costing a Cyclopean price-its fortifications, its railroads, its busy life, and natural beauties.

There is perhaps no place where in the winter one may be more moderately or comfortably lodged, no place where in the summer, or rather autumn season one may pay so dear, or be more uncomfortable.

The accommodation, owing to its position between two hills, and the military works occupying all available building space, is limited; the present hotels can do little more than lodge the travellers to and from the Continent, so that every house is arranged to hold two and even three families. The proprietors find short lets under this system answer better than letting the whole house; and as visitors in the summer do not seem to remain much beyond a month or six weeks at a time, small houses might not answer even if there were many to be met with. The houses are good, well furnished,

and the attendance wonderful, when one reflects that two maidservants often perform their multifarious duties for three families at once,-a party in the dining-room paying four guineas a week; a party in the drawing-room giving eight; and a truly unfortunate family up stairs paying two or three guineas a week -unfortunate, because their wants and necessities come nowhere in the domestic arrangements. They must make their dinner hours suit the views of the drawing and diningroom floor, and accept the bedrooms rejected by them.

The principle, however, upon which the Dover landlords proceed, when apportioning their sleeping apartments, is that of mixing up their various inmates together as much as possible, so that it is impossible for the most retiring and reserved of his or her sex to avoid constant rencontres with their fellow-lodgers. To the family in the dining-room is given a bedroom adjoining; sometimes one on the drawing-room floor, a third above, whilst the maid or man is stowed away in an attic. The party in the drawing-room are disposed of in the same divided fashion, and the occupants of the sitting-room upstairs may, if very fortunate, as in some of the larger houses in Waterloo Crescent, get a slip of a room adjoining, curtailed from their sitting-room, the rest of the bedrooms being in the attics. It does not seem to occur to the owners, that many a person would pay as good a price almost for his sitting-room upstairs, as for one below, if all the bedrooms on the same floor were given up to him with it; whilst the family in the drawing-room, if accommodated with the whole of the extra floor, would be so placed together, that they would gladly resign the larger rooms below. No! to make their lodgers as much acquainted with each other's habits, tempers, hours, &c., seems to be, in the summer, their aim; in the winter they are more reasonable. Fancy the feelings of the amiable and modest Miss Singles, sisters of a certain age who last year with their maid occupied two or three rooms in a spa

cious house in. A large family were in possession of the drawingrooms, under the charge of a mother, governess, and two nurses. Where they all sleep,' observed Miss Amelia Jane, 'I dare not inquire! it is wonderful they like such crowding, as Susan tells me they have a fine place of their own in Sussex, and, what is more extraordinary, the gentleman who is engaged to the eldest daughter is coming to-day.'

'Well, my dear,' replied her sister, that is their business, not ours; it cannot affect us who they have, or have not, to visit them.'

At

But Miss Single soon found that it did affect her in some degree. The young gentleman and lady in question, desirous, perhaps, of a little private conversation away from papa and mamma, governess and sisters, resorted to the landing outside the drawing-room as the most convenient place for the same. More than once it occurred to the Miss Singles to interrupt this interesting téte-à-téte on their return home from their evening walk. first the sisters felt for the young people whom they thus unavoidably disturbed; at last they felt for themselves, when they saw that these promessi sposi were as unabashed by their momentary presence, as if they had been blind and deaf; and when they transferred their meetingplace to the landing outside Miss Single's sitting-room, and kept Miss Amelia Jane quite a prisoner one evening, she not knowing what she might witness if she ventured out, Miss Single was forced to allow that it did signify something, whether the inmates of the house were people of gentlemanlike feeling or not; and that it made all the difference in the world in these warren-like habitations whether they showed due respect to the feelings of others, or were utterly careless about being observed or observing!

Again, Mrs. Plantagenet Price, do what she would, could not prevent her son and heir from making acquaintance with those good-natured but vulgar Browns in dining-rooms. They met on the stairs, and this sensible child, aged three, finding the mount up fatiguing, invariably