But in order to practice what we preach, we must revert to Liège, so as to journey leisurely; and being once more at the railway station, we introduce the reader to Mr. and Mrs. Graham's luggage (I saw their name on Bradshaw's adhesive labels). It consisted of four large-sized trunks, three portmanteaus of decent dimensions, two mystic-looking wooden boxes, five carpet-bags, two brown-paper parcels, and a hat-box.

"Mille tonneres ! Dix-sept colis!! C'est impossible!!!" cried out the clerk, from his pigeon-hole, in amazement, as the officials were employed endeavouring to pile the luggage on the machine; but as it was not equal to it, en gros," the effects had at last to be weighed détail." The English are proverbial for travelling with an infinity of luggage, providing themselves with every requisite, from a medicine chest to a patent registered-stove, inclusive.

en

"But never did I dream," said my travelling companion, "that a fellow like Graham there [in the first-class], would come abroad, saddled with a marquee, forty volumes of 'Rees' Cyclopædia,' a slipper-bath, and a complete set of gardening implements! The former he brought to encamp under, lest the hotels might prove inconveniently crowded; and the two latter, not so much that he wanted them, but merely to convince foreigners how remarkably portable they make these things in England."

"They entered into the entire spirit of it," remarked I, "in the baggage bureau of Liège, by charging him forty-three francs for luggage to Cologne. I find the first-class fare is only sixteen."

"What, the doose, do you want?" said my friend Bruffles, "but your dozen shirts, a hair and tooth brush, a comb, 'Murray's Handbook,' and a lump of soap?" By the way I may remark, what is perhaps unknown to the editor of "Notes and Queries," that the rather vulgar interrogation "How are you off for soap?" is obviously of continental origin, in fact, 't is a question frequent amongst the English, in these countries, and a very natural one, as they never provide you with this article, at any of the hotels.

On board the Calais boat, about a year ago, I met a King's College man, the identical Tom Greenfinch of whom you spoke in a former number, bound for Paris, where he said he intended spending eight or ten days.

"And why are you bringing those three large trunks and the carpetbag with you?" I enquired.

"Why," responded the academic, with beautiful naïvete, "Paris is a gay place, I hear, and I may be asked out to a good many parties: so

"You have letters of introduction, of course?"

"Oh dear, no! I suppose they are not requisite. I believe the English always get into the top society abroad. Don't you think so?"

When Mr. Greenfinch reads this, perhaps he may remember the person who very gravely told that experienced Grecian — but very verdant traveller-that he, a member of such a seat of learning, was infallibly certain to be asked to all the Faubourg St. Germain balls, and likewise that it was very possible he would be receiving invitations to most of the réunions in the Tuileries.

GYMNASTICS, an essential branch of National Education, both public and private. By Captain Chiosso. London: Walton and Maberly.

Education has become quite a fashionable subject. It is discussed everywhere, from the House of Commons to the tap-room. Everyone, too, has his own theory on the subject; and is firmly convinced that to carry out a system of National Education is easy enough, if you will only follow his plan. Religion is the great stumbling-block with most people: how are the various sects to combine, and little boys and girls to be saved from doctrinal heresies? Some cry out for Secular Education, alone; and others will be content with nothing less than the Church Catechism in all its integrity and incomprehensibility; while the more reasonable majority prefer a middle course, and, without throwing religion overboard, suggest the teaching of simply its greatest truths, which all sects acknowledge.

The religious difficulty settled, they see no other. What will you teach? A chorus exclaims, on all sides, "Reading, Writing, Arithmetic, Geography, &c., &c." Is this all? Ask this question of any hundred people, and ninety-nine will answer "Yes," or look puzzled. Now we perfectly agree with Captain Chiosso, the author of the little book before us, that this is not all. We have bodies as well as minds, and they stand quite as much in need of exercise; for, as a general rule, you will not find the mens sana anywhere but in the corpore sano. Anyone who has read the works of Andrew and George Combe will be fully impressed with the importance of cultivating our bodily powers as well as those of the intellect. George Combe boldly asserts it to be a duty towards God to do so; and certainly if we consider that He gave us nothing in vain, and that we are not justified in neglecting any of His gifts, the truth of the argument will be apparent.

Captain Chiosso's book is both an argument in favour of Physical Education, a history of gymnastics from the earliest times, and an explanation of the system he recommends. His arguments are sound; his history displays reading and scholarship; while of his system we are enabled to speak warmly, from having personally experienced the benefits of a similar one, in our younger days. The perusal of the Captain's book makes us long again for the Gymnasium.

We recommend it to parents and instructors of all classes; and if they should be disposed to imagine the subject beneath their notice, we would ask them whether the attainment of health, strength, and long life is to be despised by the most intellectual?

TOM SUFFRAGE'S VOTE:

A TALE.

BY A SITTING MEMBER.

(Continued from page 158.)

CHAPTER V.

Meeting of Mr. Scampton and the Miller-Tom's eligibility as a husband for Ada is discussed-Miss Dovecote, 66 a friend in need”—Plotting.

As Ada and her father were at breakfast, the following morningAda in a pretty demi-toilet, and the old man in his morning coat and slippers, with the "Muckborough Old Englishman" (tory paper), by his side-came a double knock at the door.

"Bless my soul," said the old man, "who can that be, Ada?"

Ada knew well enough that it must be the old Indian, but she would not lose the treat of " a scene," by telling him.

"Master's in, sir, at breakfast," said the servant-girl to someone, after opening the door. "Is he, then I'll go in to him," the somebody was heard to reply.

"Who in the world is it?" Mr. Brancrust said: "he's coming in here that stupid girl-"

"Hollo, Ned, old boy, how are you?"

Really, and I-I-very well, thankye-but-but who may I be speaking to, I—”

"Not know me!" broke in the Indian: "look in my face, Ned-not know Charlie!"

66

'What-what-you do n't mean to say it's you!"

"Don't I though?"

"Oh, Lord, Charlie, give me your hand again, I'm so glad to see you, but you took me so by surprise-sit down. How are you, when did you come, who have you got with you-Ada, my dear, your uncle— let's look at you; rather altered, eh, and a little browner. Egad, I'm glad to see you-ring the bell, Ada, another cup and saucer-you look quite hearty," and so went on old Mr. Brancrust (the whole of whose morning stiffness seemed to have melted out of him), his face as red as fire.

LL

Ada and the Indian, in the meanwhile, watched the old miller's hearty reception with great satisfaction.

66

But, Ada, don't you hear, I say it's your uncle!" cried Mr. Brancrust, again.

"I know, papa!" said that young lady, laying her hand on the sleeve of the traveller.

"Yes, Ada and I have had our meeting over," said he.

"Why, when did you come?" asked the astonished Mr Brancrust. Here followed one of those explanations which, as every play-goer knows, are invariably the most stale and unprofitable parts of every play, and are usually spoken by a muff of a serving-man, in a green jerkin and yellow hose, with a bad voice and no action.

Then the old friends got back to their youth, and wandered among old loves and old scrapes, and ancient pleasures, to the immense delight of Ada. Imagine the fat, pursy, thick-winded Mr. Brancrust talking of his youthful loves and hair-breadth 'scapes.

The traveller inquired after an old flame of his, who, he learned, had only died the previous Christmas-and unmarried too. The wayfarer looked, for a moment, serious and reflective; and then, sipping his coffee, and helping himself to another slice of the fragrant ham, he started off again into some laughing recollection of the tricks they played old Jones, or crusty old Stubbs, or how they used to pull the grey hairs out of Wilkins's pony's tail-to make fishing lines-and such like. Suddenly, he said,

"So poor Mary's left us !

All were solemn then-it was Ada's mother! After a pause, of a few minutes, the Indian, with a merry nod towards Ada, went on :— "The young ones are the same as they ever were, Charlie-she has a lover!"

Humph!" grunted Mr. Brancrust.

"And I hope you approve of him!" pursued the Indian-whilst Ada had found out that something was wrong with the coffee-pot, and was busy examining it—" a modest young fellow, and the right sort to make a good husband!”

"Well, the lad was well enough, but-but-well, never mind-Ada knows!"

"But what?" asked the Indian, "there ought not to be any 'buts,' for I can tell you they love one another 'like turtle doves,' old friend."

"Why," answered Mr. Brancrust, in spite of Ada's imploring looks across the table, "why, you see, we have got a lot of those skulking scoundrels, the Chartists, in the town, and I'll be hanged if Tom has n't been fool enough to go and join 'em!"

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the old Indian, looking on Ada with a horrified expression in his countenance.

Poor girl, she thought he would take her part; but she might have known better, for an old Anglo-Indian used for the best part of his life to despotism in the state and in families, and to the broken-down subservience of the unfortunate natives, could not be expected to sympathize with Chartism.

"You don't say so!" he repeated.

"Yes, but I do though," said Mr. Brancrust: "they have a club, at the Cat and Trumpet.' I was afraid Tom liked 'em too well, so I told him if he did not keep clear of 'em he should never have my girl."

"Very proper too!" exclaimed the traveller. Poor Ada!

"Ah," continued Mr. Brancrust, "but what do you think? he promised me he'd leave 'em; and the very next night, where was he?—at the Cat and Trumpet,' and what's worse he'd joined 'em, and what's worse still he was taken home stupidly drunk-that's who he is!" Mr. Brancrust's hand came down upon the table, with a fierce crash. "Impossible!" cried the appalled Mr. Scampton.

"Fact,” said Mr. Brancrust.

The Indian made that particularly disagreeable noise, with his mouth, which is used by genteel drivers hurrying lazy horses.

There was a dead and unpleasant silence, which was broken by the old traveller: raising his head, suddenly, with the air of a man that has made up his mind to say something, and beginning

Then as if a

added "and

"That will never do-that will not do by any means!" thought crossed him that he was too stern in his words, he I'm sure my little niece will see at once that it won't do." (Ada did not seem to see it at all.) "The fact is," he went on I've saved a lac or two of rupees. It sounds odd that a man with a lac of rupees should have plenty of money, does it not? And laughing at his own pun, he proceeded, "I've saved a bit of money-got nobody to leave it to but Ada —should n't like to let anyone but Ada have it—but I'd sooner throw it in the sea than for a Chartist even to touch it. King and Constitution, is my rule : none of your sham liberty for me-no-no. Ada will think better of it. You must forget him, niece-you must forget him."

Now some young ladies in Ada's position would, doubtless, on the suggestion of these lacs of rupees, have entertained certain new ideas on the subject of matrimony. A miller's daughter with a handsome fortune and a pretty face might look higher, surely, than a small tradesman and the member of a club at the "Cat and Trumpet?" Might not the aristocratic Cavendish waive the consideration of birth for the more important consideration-even among aristocracy itself--of money?