taken aback in a hurricane. And crossing the
"duldul, " or quicksands, of the Gunduck river
has made stout-hearted men turn as white as this
paper. The tiger is now almost eradicated from
the borders of Goruckpoor, Pïrhoot, and
Poorneea, where in my boyish days he abounded.
May the same fate await him by-and-by in
Rengrapeer! But calling to mind the grave
advice of the old mankee, to the end that I may
have my wish, let me whisper in secret. I
breathe no more the name of the dweller in the
"Bun Mahál"—the palace in the wood—but
with reverent farewell say, "Maharâj, Salâm!"

     OUR SUBURBAN RESIDENCE.

THE suburban village in which our suburban
residence stands, is a very convenient spot
to live in. With a little economising of the
truth, an inhabitant of the place may give out
either that he inhabits the town or the country.
Thus, when we are down in Leeds or Manchester,
among the north-country manufacturers, we
talk largely about our house in London. On
the other hand, in conversation with our
next-door neighbour in the City (Higgins, of Smith
and Higgins, Manchester warehousemen), we
speak with modest pride of our "little place
down the country," and, without telling a falsehood,
make Higgins believe that we are owner
of at least a freehold lodge, with two or three
freehold acres round about the house.

Our suburban village is neither town nor
country, and yet is both. We go to it either
by railway or bus, the former with a first-class
season ticket being considered the correct thing,
and leading those who journey thither for the first
time to conclude that they are really going into
the far country, as for some miles along the line
no houses are to be seen save here and there
a solitary one; while horses ploughing, corn
growing, and half rustic-looking labourers are
visible at intervals. But if you proceed by the
road—by the bus—it is different. True, you
leave London and its thickly inhabited quarters
behind you, but still all along the route
there is London more or less diluted, and you
never lose sight of houses, gardens, here and
there a group of shops, detached and semi-detached
villas. Thus, although by rail we are
ten miles, and by road twelve, from the General
Post-office: when we travel by the former we
seem to be. twenty, and by the latter not three
miles, from the capital of England.

There are not many streets in our suburban
village. We have the high road that passes
through it from London, and which we call the
High-street in that portion of it which traverses
our village. From this there are several lanes
which project right and left off the High-street,
and which are inhabited exclusively by poor
people. But we have plenty of "roads," and
in these it is that the aristocracy of our
suburban village reside. There are Park-road,
Bedford-road, Derby-road, and many others, all
with more or less sounding names. In none
of these roads do we number our houses. That
would be too town-like. Every habitation—villa
we say in our suburban village—has its own
particular name, or has a name that is shared
in common by a couple of habitations; our own
house is in sober truth a semi-detached
eight-roomed "villa," for which we pay thirty pounds
a year, the rates and taxes not exceeding six
pounds additional. In London, this very
unpretending habitation would be known, say, as
number sixty-six, Park-road; but, in our
suburban village, it and its next neighbour are
designated "Windsor Villas." Opposite us in
the same road are a couple of houses named
"Wellington Villas," and higher up, on the
same side, are "Northumberland Villas;" to
the right are the "Morton Villas," and to
the left a "detached" house called "Norfolk
Villa," besides many other aristocratic
designations too numerous to mention.

We are all—or at any rate there are so few
exceptions that they are not worth
noticing—men of business, in our suburban village. By
the eight, the half-past eight, and the nine
o'clock morning trains, there is every day,
except Sunday, a general exodus of the whole
male population, all bound for their respective
places of business in the City. On no account
whatever would we personally remain in our
suburban village after the nine, or at most the
half-past nine, o'clock train had left. If we did so,
our neighbours would be certain to imagine
that there was "something wrong" with the
firm of Buggins, Smelt, and Co., Manchester
warehousemen, of Salt-lane, Cheapside: the
house in which we form part and portion of
the Co. When our opposite neighbour, Smeedle,
of the firm of Smeedle and Smedge, silk-dealers
in Green-street, E.C., stayed at home for two
days in succession, because he had a bad cold,
the consequence was that on the following week,
when the name of another Mr. Smeedle appeared
in the list of bankrupts, every one in our
suburban village believed that our Smeedle was
the man.

Being absent from our wigwams from half-past
eight in the morning until the same hour
in the evening, we the warriors of our
suburban village do not see much of our squaws
or the papooses. It follows, as a natural
consequence, that we never dine at home except
on Sundays. In fact, by the time we have
jumped out of bed, shaved clean—it is not
deemed business-like to wear the beard, in our
suburban village—are dressed, and have managed
to swallow a little breakfast, it is time to be off
to the train. Either from a quarter to five-and-twenty
minutes past eight, or again from a quarter
until two minutes to nine, every house in
our suburban village is seen to open its door and
allow the head of the family to make his exit,
which he invariably does in a terrible hurry, with
a black bag in his hand, and running as if for
life towards the station.

We, the male inhabitants of our suburban
village, don't care much for dinner; it is a meal
we eat in the City how and when we can,