steps, and descried beneath it, an ancient lady
of an iron-bound presence, in whom (for my
Susannah has an eye), she instantly recognised
the lineaments of the Commissioner! Eagerly
pursuing this discovery, she, that very afternoon,
tracked down an ancient gentleman in
one of the Commissioner's hats. Next day
she came upon the trail of four stony
maidens, decorated with artificial flowers out
of the Commissioner's epergne; and thus we
dug up the Commissioner's father and
mother and four sisters, who had been for
some years secreted in lodgings round the
corner and never entered the Commissioner's
house save in the dawn of morning and
the shades of evening. From that time forth,
whenever my Susannah made a call at the
Commissioner's, she always listened on the
doorstep for any slight preliminary scuffling
in the hall, and, hearing it, was delighted to
remark, "The family are here, and they are
hiding them!"

I have never been personally acquainted
with any gentleman who kept his mother-in-
law in the kitchen, in the useful capacity of
Cook; but I have heard of such a case on
good authority. I once lodged in the house
of a genteel lady claiming to be a widow, who
had four pretty children, and might be
occasionally overheard coercing an obscure man
in a sleeved waistcoat, who appeared to be
confined in some Pit below the foundations of
the house, where he was condemned to be
always cleaning knives. One day, the smallest
of the children crept into my room, said,
pointing downward with a little chubby
linger, "Don't tell! It's Pa!" and vanished
on tiptoe.

One other branch of the smuggling trade
demands a word of mention before I conclude.
My friend of friends in my bachelor days,
became the friend of the house when I got
married. He is our Amelia's godfather;
Amelia being the eldest of our cherubs.
Through upwards of ten years he was
backwards and forwards at our house three or
four times a week, and always found his
knife and fork ready for him. What was my
astonishment on coming home one day to find
Susannah sunk upon the oil-cloth in the hall,
holding her brow with both hands, and
meeting my gaze, when I admitted myself with
my latch-key, in a distracted manner!
"Susannah," I exclaimed "what has happened?"
She merely ejaculated, "Larver"—that being
the name of the friend in question.
"Susannah!" said I, "what of Larver? Speak!
Has he met with any accident? Is he ill?"
Susannah replied faintly, "Married—married
before we were!" and would have gone
into hysterics but that I make a rule of
never permitting that disorder under my
roof.

For upwards of ten years, my bosom friend
Larver, in close communication with me
every day, had smuggled a wife! He had at
last confided the truth to Susannah, and had
presented Mrs. Larver. There was no kind
of reason for this, that we could ever find
out. Even Susannah had not a doubt of
things being all correct. He had "run"
Mrs. Larver into a little cottage in
Hertfordshire, and nobody ever knew why, or
ever will know. In fact, I believe there
was no why in it.

The most astonishing part of the matter is,
that I have known other men do exactly the
same thing. I could give the names of a
dozen in a footnote, if I thought it right.

      FRENCH SOLDIERS IN CAMP.

I HAVE paid two visits to the Camp of
Honvault, near Boulogne; one in the
summer, another in the winter. The sandhills
in that neighbourhood are diversified by stray
patches of verdure and cultivation. I don't
think Mr. Mechi, Mr. Philip Pusey, or the
author of Talpa would bestow much
commendation upon what the French farmers
have here laid out for public inspection.
Whatever seed first came to hand seems to
have been sown; the worthy agriculturists
appear to have been rather desultory and
capricious in their operations; wandering
from turnips to cabbage, and from artichokes
to cereals, much as the bee wanders from
flower to flower. Sometimes they throw in a
patch of mangel-wurzel as a makeweight;
sometimes they do a bit of lazy ploughing, as
a young lady would take up a morsel of
crochet work pending the arrival of her
Adolphus; more frequently they appear to
be convinced of the futility of farming
altogether, and throw themselves into marigolds
and other unprofitably gay flowers with a
curious zeal.

As I proceed, various phases of camp life
begin to break upon me. Little boy soldiers
with sunburnt faces and atrociously-made
trousers pass me, carrying baskets of charcoal
between them, huge loads of bread, tin rang
called gamelles, holding the mysterious but
savoury-smelling stews with which French
soldiers sustain nature; bunches of carrots
(our neighbours can't get on in any state of
life without carrots), sacks of meal, earthen
pipkins, and above all black bottles. For
the camp at Honvault, though strictly sober,
is a very thirsty camp. It is the sand perhaps
that provokes the drought. It must be the
sand, for very soon I get thirsty too.

There are no tents at Honvault. Long
parallel lines of comfortable, cottage-looking
huts, built of mud, clay, and wattles, and
neatly thatched, the lines crossed at right
angles by other lines of huts, extend along
the coast for an immense distance. A great
sandy esplanade runs along in front; and,
under a long shed in the midst, some
hundreds of recruits are being initiated into the
goose-step. Here is the broadest avenue—
the Regent Street of the camp, and here
the officers have their quarters, which are