provoked seems hardly less ridiculous than the Big-endian controversy of Liliput. Still, it threw an instructive light on the value and origin of the minor social ordinances. The great people hardly knew of the existence of reversing, and probably never troubled their heads about it. The imitators of the great went further, and positively condemned it. The imitators of the imitators, whose social position was less firmly established, opposed it vehemently and bitterly, and bore the brunt of the battle which has resulted in the rout of reversing and its advocates.

However, to leave the abstract for the concrete. There is the little Scotch girl whom you took down to dinner, with sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks, enjoying herself as only the young can. Her national reserve is rapidly thawing under the wholesome influence of honest amusement. She has forgiven all your disrespectful criticisms of Scotch weather, and grants you the next dance with a bright smile. Dancing being merely an ineffectual struggle, it will be your duty to explain to her that the higher purpose for which stairs were designed is to act as seats for people in their best frocks. Perhaps, if you are very engaging, you will be introduced to mamma, who will probably ask you to call, but with a caution which betrays her suspicion that you may be a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Three or four more dances have been disposed of in much the same way, and a still small voice within you begins to whisper, "Champagne," when another voice from behind you says, "You're a base deceiver." Turning round, you confront your accuser, and a very charming accuser it is.

"Did you not soothly swear that you would be here by half-past twelve at the latest? And now look at the time, sir! However, take me down to supper, and perhaps I'll forgive you.'

This seems to be the right way out of the difficulty so down you go, and in all probability the ball-room will see you no more, for half-way up the stairs there is a recess, which by the garish light

of day is a landing, but is now transformed into a fairy bower, decked with the waving foliage of tropical plants and furnished with just two seats. It offers a tempting retreat as you ascend from the dining-room, and under its shade you will while away a very pleasant half-hour. Love-making! says sweet eighteen, with a thrill of half-conscious delight. Not so, maiden fair. Love-making is not the business of life, except in novels; and, though proper enough on certain occasions, it would be an intolerable nuisance if universally practised. Flirting says the young married woman, with the easy air of worldly wisdom which marriage is always supposed to confer. No, madam, not flirting either. Nor do your mutual feelings claim kinship with the mystical rubbish of Platonic affection. They simply go to form a friendship which the merest suspicion of conscious love would shatter, but which just gathers a touch of hidden warmth, a tiny vein of half-realized tenderness, a magic something which gives it its delicate charm, from the fact that she is a woman and you are a man. Very young people cannot apprehend this. They either keep aloof from shyness or plunge headlong into love. It is a possession which belongs to slightly maturer years; and though some who find it lose it,"-by marriage, or what not,— yet "all have found it fair." However, all things must end, and perhaps this is a wholesome necessity.

"I think you must take me up-stairs now. Poor mamma has been out every night this week, and she will be getting so dreadfully tired. We shall see you on Tuesday, of course. Good-night."

And so, after handing your charge over to her chaperon, you prepare to depart yourself, and emerge with a cigar from the blaze and glitter into the cool light of the early morning and make your home.

way

Of course there is another side to all this, as you speedily discover if you are a busy man. Once or twice a week late hours may not make much difference to your working capacity during the day. But after several nights in succession it

begins to tell. There is an inevitable "next-morning" frame of mind and body which robs both of their spring. Editors suddenly seem to grow hypercritical about the quality of your "copy." Lawbooks and papers strike you as more than usually repulsive. The hustle of the city becomes ineffably disgusting. Perhaps even your appetite fails. Then, indeed, be advised, and take a rest. In these experiences there is, of course, nothing new, nothing that has not fallen in all probability to the lot of most men and women. Their chief claim to interest in the present connection lies in the influence which they exercise on the constitution of London society. There are always, as there must be in a large city, a certain number of well-to-do men who are disinclined to or incapable of regular work. These, of course, are invaluable when they can be got; but, after all, we are, on the whole, an industrial community, and the available number of loafers is insufficient. On the other hand, in London, men who are still quite young-between five-andtwenty and thirty-will, as a rule, retire almost completely from the more exacting kinds of festivity, such as balls, afternoon-parties, and so forth, the moment they begin to make any progress in their profession. Whether this is altogether wise may perhaps be questioned: it is only needful here to state it as a fact, of which the result is that in so far as loafers fail society is compelled to draw for its "men" upon the ranks of boyhood. This tendency has increased very much during the last few years, and it is frequently observed how very young many of the society "men" are.

As spring melts into summer, the grounds of Hurlingham become a favorite resort, where rank, fashion, and not unfrequently royalty, are to be seen. The grounds lie on the banks of the Thames, opposite Putney, and are extremely pretty. They belong to a private club, every member of which has a certain number of free tickets for ladies and vouchers for the unworthier sex at his disposal. Polo, pigeon-shooting, and lawn-tennis are the nominal attractions,

but it is really the spectacle and the social merits of the Hurlingham meetings which allure the world thither.

The

Clubs form an important element in London life, and in the season particularly they are largely resorted to. principal political clubs, such as the Reform, Carlton, Junior Carlton, and Conservative, naturally become during the session of Parliament the recognized centres of unofficial political activity. But besides this the social value of clubs comes out into prominence. During the season there is a perpetual influx of the country members,―a most useful body of individuals, who during the greater part of the year support the club by their subscriptions without encumbering it by their presence. Human nature, however, is apt to be ungrateful, and the habitual Londoner, oblivious of the country member's unobtrusive merits, is wont to grumble at the interference with his comfort occasioned by this influx of parsons and squires.

Up to the end of May the season will wax in vigor, bustle, and festivity; but the first week of June brings a short breathing-space. The Ascot races, lasting four days, are a fashionable event at which it is assumed that the whole fashionable world will be present. To a great extent this is actually the case. All the houses in the neighborhood are taken for the week, it need hardly be added, at fancy prices, and the cream of London society betakes itself thither. Those who are left behind shrink from proclaiming the fact by entertaining in town, and consequently there is a marked decrease in the number of parties till the races are over. Turn we now to a different scene. Up in the northwest of London a broad green expanse of perfect turf is embedded like an oasis in the midst of bricks and mortar. Round this is ranged an immense multitude, to be numbered by thousands, seated in carriages, crowded into "stands," lying on the grass at the edge of the enclosure, or wandering round the roped circle, talking, laughing, or looking for lunch. In the middle a game of cricket is going on, the varying fortunes of which are watched with in

After Henley" the season rolls on apparently in full splendor, but the beginning of the end is nigh. Wearied out with the dissipations of the preceding weeks, society is beginning to get pale in the cheeks and black under the eyes; and the heat of midsummer comes as the last straw. After the Eton-andHarrow match a few of the strongminded, who have also wealth and leisure, depart for the cool of the country forthwith. But the general run of people grumble and stay on, relieving their fatigues by constant picnics and water-parties or snug little dinners at Greenwich.

Once more, however, society collects itself for a supreme effort. "Goodwood," the race-meeting par excellence of high life, takes place at the end of July. And here, under the pine-trees and on the lawn, is gathered together perhaps the most brilliant assemblage of the kind which English society can display. But when "Goodwood" is over, the dream collapses. A strong contingent of the fashionable world wanders off to the Cowes regatta, but after this society may be said to disperse. Ladies want rest and change. Men are beginning to turn their thoughts to the grouse, and an exodus to the north begins with August.

On the 8th of August the Law Courts

rise, and one of the great ties which keep people in town is forthwith relaxed. London gets rapidly deserted, and its houses are swathed in holland and brown paper. In the city, indeed, the great heart of London still throbs, but if the pulse is steady it is somewhat slower. In fact, it is recognized that a holiday is a necessity which no busy man can afford to forego, and, consequently, taking a holiday presents the somewhat rare combination of pleasure and duty.

As for the dead season which we have revelled in, endured, and execrated in turn, a holiday will enable us to do justice to its memory. It may have brought us some ennui, some weariness, some anxieties, but it has brought us some pleasures also, and many of its evils were of our own making. In any case it can hardly have failed to teach us something, and that in itself is no mean gain. All its strange medley of work and play comes back to us, with colors softened perhaps, but more truly proportioned, as we recall it to memory amid the mountains of Switzerland, the rugged grandeur of the lonely sea, or the purple blossom of the "loch"-side in the land of

The lake and the stream and the heather brown And the double-barrelled gun.

NORMAN PEARSON.

SUSAN MARR SPALDING.