to come, to feed gaslights, locomotive fires,
and human lungs? Would you not involuntarily
fear that the tunnel—as ill-natured
people say of the Leviathan—was a clever
contrivance to drown the greatest possible
number of human beings at once? By which,
then, would you, my reader, prefer to travel?
If the submarine route from Marquise to
Dover were finished to-day, would you travel
by it for a thousand pounds? An intermediate
station, refreshment-room, lighthouse,
and quay, on whose convenience and beauty
so much stress is laid, would be just as
possible in one case as in the other. For the
passage of shipping up and down the Channel,
at least three wide passages or bridges
might be left; say one in the centre, and
one within a judicious distance of each coast.
It is questionable whether a lofty embankment
thus provided with sufficient openings,
bridges, breaches, or sea-portals, would prove
so dangerous to sailing vessels as M. Thomé's
multitudinous islets. The digue might slope
upward from each end, so as to leave the
central bridge lofty enough for ships to pass
under it at high water, as is the case with the
Menai bridges.

M. Thomé casts his project on the waters
of public opinion with great modesty and
diffidence. He candidly owns that he does
not hold his own plans to be final, or that
nothing better can be suggested; but he wishes
to call the attention of the learned and the
powerful to the great idea of joining the soil
of England and France together by some
more sure and solid bond than the flying
hither and thither of storm-tossed steamers.
It is very probable that he would consent to
work out the details of an embankment, if
proposed to him, as ably and ingeniously as
he has indicated those by which a tunnel is
practicable.

In short, I calculate on having a large
majority of the votes both of navvies,
engineers, and tourists, in favour of making a
permanent, secure, and substantial way
through the waters of the Channel, instead of
under them; and I hope that whenever it
comes to pass, the government or the public
will present myself and family with free
tickets for life, in reward for my thus broaching
and advocating the infinitely preferable
plan of an open-air route.

COO-EE!

MANY years ago, when Australia was little
more than a vast sheep-walk, and before the
colonists had dreamed of digging gold

"From out the bowels of the sinful earth,"

it was my fate to be lost in the bush; and
this is how it happened:

I had recently arrived in what was then
termed the new country of Port Phillip,
now better known as Victoria; and,
unwilling to settle prematurely, was taking a
tour through the pastoral districts. Herein I
followed the advice of an old friend, who
furnished me with introductory letters to
several squatters in various parts of the
colony.

Accordingly, one morning, I set out from
Hawkswood, a lonely sheep-station, situated
under the shadow of Mount Macedon's
majestic pile, with the intention of proceeding
to Kororook on the banks of the Loddon, a
distance of about thirty miles. My instrucions
were to follow a certain track, or bush-
road, until I crossed the ford to which it
would conduct me; then to keep along the
banks of the river, till I came to the
station.

For some time all went pleasantly enough.
The track was pretty well defined, the day
was fine, and my horse was fresh; so I
cantered along with all that exhilarating
buoyancy of spirits which is peculiarly attributable
to the delicious atmosphere of Australia. The
Campaspe and Coliban rivers were passed
without difficulty. When, therefore, a few
miles farther on, I approached a small creek,
I apprehended no danger. But that
despised creek was the source of all my
subsequent troubles.

Selecting the fording-place, which appeared
to be most used, I rode boldly into the stream,
which at that point was very wide and
shallow. When about half-way through, my
horse stooped his head to drink, and I
relaxed my grasp of the bridle, that he might
do so with greater freedom. Instantly,
however, I felt that he was sinking into the soft,
black mud, which formed the bed of the
creek. I sought to urge him onward; but it
was too late. He struggled in vain to extricate
himself, and I had barely time to draw
my feet from the stirrups, and spring from
his back, ere he rolled over on his side, and
was swept by the current into an adjoining
water-hole of unknown depth.

I had stepped briskly back to the land, and
now awaited the result. In the deep water
my steed recovered his equilibrium; and,
striking out for the farther bank, easily
effected a landing. No sooner was he ashore
than, to my vexation, I beheld him roll and
tumble on the grass, utterly destroying the
saddle. He then shook himself heartily, as
though glad to be rid of his human
incumbrance—to wit, myself; and after these
demonstrations, proceeded to crop the grass
with the utmost nonchalance.

I waded through the ford as hastily as
the yielding nature of the soil would permit,
and endeavoured to recapture the truant.
But immediately I approached him, he threw
up his heels, and bounded off. In vain I
sought to coax him; the obstinate brute was
deaf to my blandishments; and, at length,
after a long and fruitless chace, I gave it up
in despair.

As regarded the horse, I judged correctly
that he would make his way to the