requested Miss Brown to carry him up, which she invariably did-no small exertion in hot weather, and for which Mrs. Plantagenet P. could not avoid thanking her. This led to bowing when they met; ' And what would have followed had I not been ordered to Homburg for my health, I cannot say,' observed Mrs. Price to a friend.

But nonsense apart, the objections that apply to two or more families in a house at any place, seem aggravated at Dover; for, restricted in its walks, people are perpetually meeting each other, and constitute a considerable drawback to this pleasant place, where something is always going on to amuse and interest the visitor. Folkestone, within half an hour by rail, has nothing but its more bracing air to recommend it above Dover. Sandgate, adjoining it, is a pretty quiet little place, which after having been at the height of favour at one time, like Eastbourne, suddenly lost its popularity, owing to a visitation by fever, and has never quite regained the same position, although the cause has long since been removed. Hastings and St. Leonard's have been too fully described in this magazine to make it necessary for us to do more than mention them now; but with all these-with Bognor, quiet, healthy, cheap, and dull; and Worthing, a nice place now it has been well drained, for those who like a mild air, with fine sands, a pretty country, charming drives, and a house or lodgings moderate and good with all these, one would think there was choice enough for the Londoner near home. Yet everyone of these places is full to overflowing.

Even Harwich and the still unfinished Dovercourt; quiet little Walton-on-the-Naze, with its golden-coloured sands; ugly, bracing Aldborough, enjoying the roll and swell of the German Ocean; even the more distant Lowestoft may be considered as near enough for the Londoner's summer quarters, and are literally taken possession of by him at certain seasons.

Those, however, who can go to a distance, and who wish to avoid the high prices, and close packing of

watering-places near London, may, in these days of railroads, be transported to many a pleasant spot east, south, or west. Such places as Scarborough or Blackpool are, of course, as dear and as frequented as Brighton; the large northern towns send forth their hundreds and thousands to them; but they do not so entirely fill up the smaller places as the population of the metropolis does in Kent and Sussex. The races, regattas, and such watering-place amusements have so much attraction for them, that they care less for the quieter Gilsland, Filey, or Cromer, and thus leave some room for the tired-out Londoner who wants little more than rest and fresh air.

What charming summer quarters, too, on the north coast of Devon, or in Wales-preserved by their very remoteness from being vulgarized, over built, or over frequented! Certainly 285 miles is a long distance to go for a few weeks, and 2l. 98. 6d. a long fare to pay for more than two people; but if these two considerations can be made light of, then, dear reader, go to Tenby-not, of course, if you want German bands, and promenades, or to read the last new novel in your last new costume, but if you love nature, and simple, kindly people, a delicious air and climate at once mild and bracing, a bright-looking little place, clean, inviting, and, with all, moderate as yet in expense, with a fine expanse of sand, and yet a bold rugged outline of rocky cliffs rich in the loveliest colouring that Nature can paint her rocks in, and rich, too, in those wondrous productions that delight the naturalists and excite the interest of the most ordinary observer -if you want all this, we repeat, go to Tenby. The length of the journey from London is a drawback, we must allow; but the latter part of it is full of interest or beauty from the moment you leave grim old Chepstow to the moment the broad waters of Milford Haven are reached. Old castles, ruins, mountains, towns are passed, and more than once glimpses of the ocean itself vary the scene, till you are cheated into forgetting the hours as they come and go, and make up your mind not

to shorten the railroad journey by stopping at Narberth Road Station, and thence to Tenby; but to proceed to Milford-the better plan-as the drive is shorter, over a good road and more interesting country. This may involve sleeping at Milford; but then if time allows next day, the Pembroke Docks can be visited; if not, a tiny steamer ferries you across the haven to Pater, rather a miserable-looking place, where the landlord of the good hotel at Milford has ordered you a carriage for Tenby. In a very short time after your arrival there, you may have walked all over the town, decided which situation you prefer, even seen and taken your rooms; or arranged to remain at one of the good hotels, which you can do without being ruined.

Tenby has no architectural beauty to boast of; but several good houses have been built within the last few years, and many comfortable lodgings are to be had, according to the accommodation required, at prices ranging from thirty shillings a week to three and four guineas. Provisions are good and moderate, fish abundant, the bathing good. One can have a sheltered walk on the north sands when a south-west gale prevails, or a pleasant, sunny stroll on the south sands in those early months when the sun has hardly warmed the sea breezes to their summer heat. Charming, too, are the views from one's window of the sunny bay, the ruined castle on the height, the rocky isle beyond; and charming, too, the walks inland, over heathery and moss-grown moors to an old Norman castle, or ancient church, or rude cross, or still ruder habitation of some ancient Briton, which the uninitiated mistake for a heap of stones.

Those who love such expeditions, such objects for a long walk, may add that pleasure to the other charms of seaside life at Tenby, and will find their paths, too, strewn with flowers: for wild roses in some places carpet the ground, and masses of bright colour seen on some distant cliff will be found, on approaching, to be only another of Flora's gay mantles spread out to delight one.

'But oh! the long, expensive journey!' sighed Julia to Benedict. We shall never be able to go to Tenby now, for, with the nurses, we

are seven

'Never mind, my love,' responds Benedict, bravely (before his hunting-season begins); think of all the places near London, to which you have never been! There is Richmond, Barnes, or Putney.' 'Suburban,' retorts Julia. 'But pretty.' 'And dear.' 'Surbiton?' 'A town.' 'Well, Esher?'

'Delicious! but nothing to be had there, or at Hampton Court, beyond a house or two; and the hotels, as you know

'Then take another line. Bromley,-Blackheath?'

Too near London.' 'Reigate?'

Julia paused. She once spent some pleasant days at the capital inn, the White Hart,' at Reigate. Villas and houses of every kind have since sprung up there, with marvellous rapidity, but increase of building has brought increased prices. Reigate is a dear place, both in living and rent: it is becoming the permanent residence of many City men; and thus the lovely country, and healthful air of the hills and commons around, are difficult now to be had for such as would enjoy them in the summer months only.

Farther on there is Betchworth, half-way to Dorking, and pretty little Brockham Green, where two or three small houses are sometimes to be met with; and then Betchworth Park, with its magnificent beeches-studies for artists; and here, in the very park itself, are two houses, not far from the ruins of the old mansion, that can offer very fair quarters, for those who want a shady, cool retreat in July or August. As we go on to Dorking, both in and all round the town one can discover apartments to let— none of them remarkably good, and dear at two guineas a week: three, and four, and five being the price often in summer; but gladly occu

pied by those who in fine weather do little more than sleep in them. So varied are Nature's charms here, that visitors spend their lives in the open air. If lodged in, or very near Dorking, there are walks and drives in every direction. You can mount the steep hill to Denbies, past the princely mansion built by Mr. Cubitt, and emerge on the wild and picturesque common of Ranmore. A walk over this heath, through a wood, past Sir Walter Farquhar's charming place, brings you to Great Bookham-high ground, from which fine views over Surrey may be had. From Bookham it is not far to one of the most beautiful spots in England -Norbury Park. Here the eye, enchanted with the woodland scenery, the variety of foliage around, wanders, delighted, to the happy-looking village of Mickleham, below; but the stranger need not linger there, for, unless at the nice clean little inn, or in some private house that may chance to be to let, he will find no quarters; but as he takes the high road again to Dorking, he can explore Westhumble on his right, not far from Camilla Cottage, Madame D'Arblay's loved retreat; or inquire at the pretty little inn, at the foot of Box Hill, just where the bridge crosses that odd little river the Mole.

On the Holmwood Common, a mile or two on the other side of Dorking, on the Horsham road, he can have a greater choice. There are a few good houses, several small ones, scattered over the common, and plenty of indifferent apartments around it. The country is less attractive, but being more open is, perhaps, healthier; and to compensate for the woods of Norbury, the beeches of Betchworth, or green slopes of Box Hill, you have charming bits of broken ground, distant views of Leith Hill, as a feature in your landscape. In fine weather the air on the common is delicious. It is a safe and happy playground for children; but for those who have no carriage of their own with them, it has inconveniences in being so far from the town. You are then dependent on the tradespeople of Dorking for your supplies, your newspaper,

your letters. If they fail you, there is little or no resource in the neighbourhood: the farms around may supply butter, milk, eggs, but the bread and meat must come from the town. Nevertheless, in spite of drawbacks, these little abodes are generally well filled.

Tired of seaside lodgings, small country-houses, or expensive hotels, hundreds of people go abroad. In the character of travellers, we have nothing to do with them. But, as brief sojourners in summer quarters, we may glance slightly at the difficulties they have to encounter. The larger towns in Brittany and Normandy, as well as those on the coast of France, are so much frequented by the English, that English prices as well as English habits have crept in; and although the old difficulties about accommodation may no longer exist, the newer one as to expense does. Boulogne, Dieppe, or Havre, are as dear and crowded as our own coast towns; but let those who hope by going to an unfrequented place to escape these objections, understand what they undertake when they start with a family on such an expedition.

In the first place, it is rare, except in Anglicised towns, to find any apartment let by the week,-by the month, perhaps; but more generally a sum is asked for the season: " La belle saison,' as the French term that undefined period, which may mean six weeks or six months.

In some of the pretty regions round Paris, Meudon, Enghien, Montmorenci, Andilly, a villa could be had, a few years ago, for a thousand francs (40l.), or fifteen hundred francs (60l.) for the summer, or the year. These prices, cheap enough for the year, or six months, are dear if the house is only required for a few weeks; and few people like to bind themselves, nor would it be prudent to do so, for longer, in a strange place. At Versailles, and St. Germains, and places of that kind, apartments by the month are to be had; but even here, linen, plate, knives, and brushes must be found by the lodger, who, not having encumbered himself, perhaps, with all these extras, must hire them, at much expense.

These are the difficulties at places where plenty of accommodation is to be found. They are, of course, not insurmountable; but in going to an unfrequented place, you may find yourself compelled to choose between remaining at an hotel, leaving the place again, or at best taking an unfurnished house, and hiring furniture for a few months,-a plan more often adopted and more easily managed abroad than at home.

'Let us go to a French wateringplace!' said a rash family, one day. 'Well, then, where shall it be? Dieppe is dear; Boulogne, dangerous from scarlet-fever, and Calais is dirty. Try Dunkirk.'

'Dunkirk une très belle ville,' said M. le Maistre, their French master, encouragingly; but more Flemish than French.'

To Dunkirk they went, via Mouscron, passing the (according to French authorities) magnificent mountain of Cassel, and seeming to be in a land of endless canals and poplar-trees.

They alighted at the excellent 'Hôtel de Flandres,' now no longer existing, and their party of twelve, including servants, were to be lodged, fed, and lighted for five francs a-head.

The first glance at this clean, well-built town, with its large houses, and lively streets busy with the life of a commercial town, not a watering-place, was reassuring; but its distance from the sea was dispiriting. Here and there 'Appartements garnis à louer' met their eyes; but persuaded of the existence of a terrace, English fashion, near the sea, they wended their way thither. Like the proud young porter, in the ballad of Lord Bateman'

'Away and away went those ladies,

Away and away went they,'

down to the quay, over the most agonizing stones, under one archway, over one drawbridge, then another archway, then another bridge-for Dunkirk is a fortified town-and miles on, it seemed to them, by the long sea canal, to find themselves, at last, arrived at a lighthouse, a small restauration for eating oysters, and a solitary house, which proved

to be the 'Etablissement des Bains.' It contained an elegant reading-room, it is true, and there were plenty of bathing-machines on the splendid sands, over which blows the finest air in the world; but as a party of twelve could not live in a readingroom, they retraced their steps, and sought out the houses they had seen ticketed; but, alas! these tickets were perennial announcements, as far as present time was concerned, a lie. Nothing to be let, for months to come. In vain they walked round the handsome market-place, and surveyed Jean Bart's statue; in vain they ordered a carriage, and, to the surprise of the inhabitants, drove about, in a machine of the age of Queen Anne, with a pair of Flemish cart horses, as steeds; in vain they strove to resign themselves to the bustle and noise of the hotel: to take an unfurnished house for three months, and allow the enterprising upholsterer M. Boutel to furnish it, or to leave, were their alternatives. They chose the former. Boutel was summoned to a consultation,—requested to give a list; but overwhelmed at the requirements of this nombreuse famille,' he could never get beyond the chimney ornaments: une pendule, deux flambeaux, deux'

something else; but whilst thus engaged with some members of the family, another rushed in, exclaiming, 'We've found a house, and taken it-so good bye, M. Boutel!'

'Well, let us be thankful!' replied the rest, as they hurried to take possession of their cool, airy abodeliterally the only vacant one in the town, and make acquaintance with the lively Flemish cook, whose husband was gone to the cod-fishery off Iceland, and who soon won their good opinion by her excellent cooking of the vegetables, especially potatoes, for which Dunkirk is famous. Certainly, its vegetables and pastry compensate for much. N'est ce pas?' as the Dunkerquoise invariably asks.

This is a specimen of the risks that large families would be wise not to incur. Amongst French towns, we may mention Avranches, in Normandy, and Dinan, in Brittany, as pleasant summer quarters for those

who like to combine the advantages of education with change of scene. Masters, at both places, are good, as well as moderate; the country about both, very pretty-for France, remarkably so; and the cost of living, and house rent, is moderate enough to compensate for the length of the journey. Amongst smaller French watering-places, Tréport is one of the nicest. The row of pretty-looking houses, with their gay verandahs, opposite the sea, remind one of an English town. The line of coast is bold and picturesque; there are fair sands, charming country walks and drives to the town, and Château d'Eu, in its immediate vicinity, and more distant excursions, as to St. Valéry-sur-Somme, Dieppe, &c. Last, but not least, although lively as a French town must ever be during the season, it is always respectable, and the French families who frequent it are inclined to be Sociable: the English, at present, have not overrun the place, to their exclusion, as at Boulogne. House rent is, however, dear at Tréport, and the French engage the best quarters, months before the season begins.

If the custom we have alluded to in France of having a ticket always displayed on a furnished house, whether vacant or not, be inconvenient, the German plan of having none, or some ill-written hieroglyphic at the corner of a street, where one would never dream of looking for it, is worse. The only way to proceed, therefore, in the Vaterland, is to knock boldly at the door of any house you fancy, and inquire for quarters. Little as the Englishman may like such a proceeding, he need not be afraid of offending, by so doing, in any recognized place of resort. Having learnt this lesson, his next experience will be that a German requires time to negotiate. First, he must have till Uebermorgen (the day after to-morrow) to make up his mind; then Lebermorgen to consult his wife; then till Uebermorgen to settle terms, and so on, till sometimes days, weeks, nay even months elapse, and the patient Englishman is fairly beat. Having mastered this fact, he is no

longer surprised at the Germans engaging their summer quarters a year beforehand. This is possible in Germany; one lives so slow there, events don't seem to come tumbling in, in the harassing, upsetting way they do in dear old England.

The

Of course, rather more caution is requisite in unfrequented places, and a little local information is easily obtained, and then such mistakes as the following need not occur:-An English family, pleased with the scenery around a certain bright-looking little Austrian town, conceived the idea of spending part of the summer there, and as the first step towards accomplishing their wish, boldly proceeded to the handsomest-looking house in the neighbourhood, and inquired whether it, or any part of it, was to be let. They were scarcely surprised when they were told perhaps-it might be-by an individual who looked very much like a respectable English butler, and who offered to show them over the house. unusual comfort, nay even, elegance of the interior, puzzled them-the bed-rooms, too, had more the air of those in an English country-house, with their baths, and other appliances, than the meagre fittings of a German sleeping-room. And when their guide finally showed them into a billiard-room containing a capital table, they expressed their alarm to each other that they had made some mistake, and prudently declined giving their names, in order, as their guide said, that the 'Herr Baron might write to them about terms.' On inquiring in the town, they found this respectable-looking individual, who had so gravely listened to all their remarks, was the Herr Baron himself, a man of fortune, who had married an Englishwoman, and had no more idea of letting his house than the king, but who quietly enjoyed the joke and their bewilderment.

This was not the only trouble these worthy people got into that year. After a long journey in the Tyrol, they came over the Vorarlberg to Lake Constance, a convenient halting-place for the rest of the summer. Despite its large gar