A FLIGHT.

WHEN Don Diego de—I forget his name—
the inventor of the last new Flying Machines,
price so many francs for ladies, so many more
for gentlemen—when Don Diego, by permission
of Deputy Chaff Wax and his noble band,
shall have taken out a Patent for the Queen's
dominions, and shall have opened a
commodious Warehouse in an airy situation; and
when all persons of any gentility will keep at
least a pair of wings, and be seen skimming
about in every direction; I shall take a flight
to Paris (as I soar round the world) in a cheap
and independent manner. At present, my
reliance is on the South Eastern Railway
Company, in whose Express Train here I sit,
at eight of the clock on a very hot morning,
under the very hot roof of the Terminus at
London Bridge, in danger of being "forced"
like a cucumber or a melon, or a pine-apple—
And talking of pine-apples, I suppose there
never were so many pine-apples in a Train as
there appear to be in this Train.

Whew! The hot-house air is faint with
pine-apples. Every French citizen or citizeness
is carrying pine-apples home. The compact
little Enchantress in the corner of my carriage
(French actress, to whom I yielded up my
heart under the auspices of that brave
child, "MEAT-CHELL," at the Saint James's
Theatre the night before last) has a pine-
apple in her lap. Compact Enchantress's
friend, confidante, mother, mystery, Heaven
knows what, has two pine-apples in her lap,
and a bundle of them under the seat.
Tobacco-smoky Frenchman in Algerine wrapper,
with peaked hood behind, who might be
Abd-el-Kader dyed rifle-green, and who
seems to be dressed entirely in dirt and
braid, carries pine-apples in a covered basket.
Tall, grave, melancholy Frenchman, with
black Vandyke beard, arid hair close-cropped,
with expansive chest to waistcoat, and
compressive waist to coat: saturnine as to his
pantaloons, calm as to his feminine boots,
precious as to his jewellery, smooth and
white as to his linen: dark-eyed, high–
fore-headed, hawk-nosed—got up, one thinks, like
Lucifer or Mephistopheles, or Zamiel,
transformed into a highly genteel Parisian—has the
green end of a pine-apple sticking out of his
neat valise.

Whew! If I were to be kept here long,
under this forcing-frame, I wonder what
would become of me—whether I should be
forced into a giant, or should sprout or blow
into some other phenomenon! Compact
Enchantress is not ruffled by the heat—she
is always composed, always compact. O look
at her little ribbons, frills, and edges, at her
shawl, at her gloves, at her hair, at her bracelets,
at her bonnet, at everything about her!
How is it accomplished? What does she do
to be so neat? How is it that every trifle
she wears, belongs to her, and cannot choose
but be a part of her? And even Mystery,
look at her! A model. Mystery is not
young, not pretty, though still of an average
candle-light passability; but she does such
miracles in her own behalf, that, one of these
days, when she dies, they'll be amazed to
find an old woman in her bed, distantly like
her. She was an actress once, I shouldn't
wonder, and had a Mystery attendant on
herself. Perhaps, Compact Enchantress will live
to be a Mystery, and to wait with a shawl at
the side scenes, and to sit opposite to
Mademoiselle in railway carriages, and smile and
talk subserviently, as Mystery does now.
That's hard to believe!

Two Englishmen, and now our carriage is
full. First Englishman, in the monied interest
—flushed—highly respectable—Stock
Exchange, perhaps—City, certainly. Faculties of
second Englishman entirely absorbed in
hurry. Plunges into the carriage, blind.
Calls out of window concerning his luggage,
deaf. Suffocates himself under pillows of
great coats, for no reason, and in a demented
manner. Will receive no assurance from any
porter whatsoever. Is stout and hot, and
wipes his head, and makes himself hotter by
breathing so hard. Is totally incredulous
respecting assurance of Collected Guard that
"there's no hurry." No hurry! And a
Flight to Paris in eleven hours!

It is all one to me in this drowsy corner,
hurry, or no hurry. Until Don Diego shall
send home my wings, my flight is with the
South Eastern Company. I can fly with the
South Eastern, more lazily, at all events, than
in the upper air. I have but to sit here
thinking as idly as I please, and be whisked
away. I am not accountable to anybody for
the idleness of my thoughts in such an idle