ating and drinking. And you
require such a very interesting "taker-in" to make it bearable at all.

The river is the nicest way of spending a holiday, in my opinion; you
are so free and untrammeled. Mrs. Grundy even waives some of her laws
on the river. The smaller the cottage, the more primitive the place,
the more enjoyable it is. You can spend your time on the water, and
when you are tired of that, you can hire a pony and trap and drive
through some of the loveliest bits of English scenery, to your heart's
content.

Only be careful before engaging your pony to find out its previous
occupations. It is a necessary caution, I assure you. It once took me
nearly an hour to drive out of one of the smallest villages
imaginable. And why? Because my pony had formerly belonged to the
butcher, and insisted on first going his rounds! I coaxed, I
persuaded, I lashed him, but it was all of no avail. On he trotted
until he reached the familiar doors of his late customers, and then he
stopped and _would_ not go on for at least five minutes. One place
was worse than any. I could not get him away for over a
quarter-of-an-hour. This rather mystified me until I was told later
that the butcher was on "walking out" terms with the cook residing
there!

CHAPTER VIII.

ON TOWN.

There is not much difference of opinion as to when Town is at its
best. Perhaps a few misanthropists, wrapped up in their little selves
and their narrow thoughts, would shut themselves up during the season,
in order to escape the pain of witnessing us all in our ungodly
career. Shallow butterflies they call us. And what do they know about
our lives? They judge from appearances; and because we wear a cheerful
expression, shutting down our cares and struggles in our inmost
hearts, and not burdening other people with them, we are called
shallow and worldly. No, you good and godly people, what do you know
about us? You are no more capable of judging than the ephemera, which
lives but for a day, and so must consider the world all sunshine, all
light. How can it imagine the night which closes round later on, when
neither it nor any of its ancestors have ever lived to see it?

You ought to be punished for your ignorant mutterings. You complain of
the well-dressed happy throng. You should be turned out in the streets
in August and September, and if the utter destitution does not shortly
turn your brains back in the right direction I am afraid your case is
ho