are speaking in general terms, and not of the
occasional seasons of heavy rains, find
consequent close muggy atmosphere, which visit
Madeira in common with all semi-tropical
climates) there is none of the danger and discomfort
of damp; dampness does not cling to us or to
our clothes.

A friend of my own (not an invalid) wrote
from the island: "I feel as if I were floating
in liquid velvet." Dr. Mason himself says: " It
would be difficult to persuade many of the
residents that the climate is damp, notwithstanding
the instrumental indications of a considerable
per-centage of humidity." To this I can bear
witness, as I was rather obstinate on this
point for some time, and was always feeling my
own silk gown or my own hair to corroborate my
assertions. Also my own experience goes to
prove that in all the various materials of silk,
linen, woollen, and velvet that go to furnish a
woman's wardrobe, the least sign of damp was
never detected; nor was one particle of rust—- the
medical friend who resided under the same roof,
assures me—- ever detected on his surgical
instruments; although in our respective apartments
were no fire-places, and the windows were
left open day and night for five months, with the
exception of one or two nights during some
heavy rains.

A word more, and we have done. One of the
concluding paragraphs in the article speaks in
such favourable terms of the hygienic properties
of Iceland and Greenland, that we cannot but
fancy the writer may be induced to escape " the
dangers" of a winter in Madeira, by a visit to
one of these countries. If so, we sincerely
trust he will favour us with his new experiences,
written in a more genial and less hypochondriacal
spirit, than that which characterises his
notes on the Flower of the Atlantic!

COLONEL AND MRS. CHUTNEY.

IN FIVE CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.

"IT won't do, Wilson," said Mrs. Chutney;
"five and nine are fourteen, and seven are
twenty-one; the currie powder three shillings,
and the chillies three and fourpence. You are
eightpence short." And she looked up into the
severe functionary's face anxiously.

"Well, 'm," returned the injured cook, " I
have lived in the best of families, and kep' the
books, and I must say it's discouraging to have
insinuations——-"

"I am sure, Wilson," interrupted Mrs.
Chutney, timidly, "I have no intention of
insinuating anything. I am rather nervous this
morning. I cannot count up coolly now, for
Colonel Chutney will be down directly. I will
try again after breakfast. And oh, Wilson, do
make the toast crisp."

"The toast!" repeated Wilson, in a high key.
"Well, 'm, I did think you knew as that's the
page's business."

"Oh! it is the page's business? I didn't
know," said Mrs. Chutney, slightly humiliated.

"You may go now, Wilson, and take those
books with you."

But before Wilson could obey, Colonel
Chutney entered and cut off her retreat.

The colonel was accurately attired in a morning
suit of dark brown; a fresh-looking, dark-haired,
dark-eyed man, with broad shoulders and a
powerful frame. A quick frown came and went
habitually on his brow, against which was often
balanced a smile of some sweetness. A superficial
observer would say he was a very energetic
person. A deeper insight suggested irritability
and preciseness.

He walked silently to the breakfast-table,
while Mrs. Chutney rang the bell, and then
hastily regulated her writing materials.

"Louisa," began the colonel, portentously,
"whose duty is it to attend to my dressing-
things, hey?"

"Why, Sophia's, dear. Nothing wrong, I
hope?"

""Wrong! When is anything right in this
house? There are my boot-hooks on the wrong
side of the table again—- a second time, by Jove!
If I had these lazy vagabonds in the East, egad,
I'd give them stick enough. But I was a fool
to leave Rudnuggadhar for the misery and
neglect of this wretched rat-hole!"

"But, my love, I am sure everyone tries all
they can to make you comfortable. Do not
talk of that horrid hot place. See how nice and
cool——-"

"Cool?" repeated the colonel. " I tell you,
I never suffered so much from, heat in all my
life, as I endure in England. Everything is
arranged here for winter, and, when a few hot
days come, phew! you are melted, scorched,
burnt up. Hot clothes, hot streets, hot houses,
and, confound it, worse than all, hot beer!"

Disgusted, he seated himself at the breakfast-
table.

"Where is that confounded boy? And"
(pointing to cook) "what is she doing here?"

Mrs. Wilson, who had been waiting for her
turn to come, hastily retreated.

"You see," began Mrs. Chutney, hesitatingly,
"I thought I should have time to go over the
books with her before you came down, dear."

"Ha! Just your usual way. Everything
out of place; everything out of time. There
you are, hurrying over your books that require
the utmost deliberation, keeping Wilson here
while the hall is in disgraceful confusion."

The page entered and set on the breakfast,
while the irate colonel continued: " I stumbled
over a broom and a mat! a mat and a broom,
by Jove! as I came down. Lift this," pointing
to the cover, and addressing the page. " Ha!
bloaters again!"

"But you said you liked bloaters," urged
Mrs. Chutney.

"Who said I didn't?" returned her husband,
"but the next time I get them twice
in the same week, I'll go and breakfast at the
club."

The repast now proceeded in peace—- that is,
silence—- for a while, when the page re-entered,