of earth?

He fully admits all the conditions laid down by his better half, including even the absence of 'the horrid little sort of sand-fly,' to be reasonable and necessary, but that does not lighten his task. He may talk himself hoarse to the men he meets in the City, or going up in the 'bus, but it is a hundred to one that he will not find any one to tell him of the terrestrial Paradise he is seeking. Brown will no doubt say: 'I know exactly the place for you, only unfortunately it's right in the middle of the town, and the children can't play on the sands in front because of the new drainage works. However, they can go by the old 'bus, if it's running, which I doubt, to Doddering's Cove, where there is a lovely beach. Only, I say, look out for the tide; its awfully treacherous there, and there are some very nasty quicksands, and the rocks you have to climb down to get to the cove are like iron, and as slippery as butter. Don't forget, too, that every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday the Artillery Volunteers practise there. The shots ought to keep well over your head, but the devil of it is they are apt to be so very careless.'

The same sort of answers are got out of Smith, Robinson, and the rest of Paterfamilias' friends. They all know the exact place, except for a few absolutely fatal objections. In despair, the poor would-be holidaymaker turns to some work intended to settle that question more vexed than even 'the still vexed Bermoothes.' Alas! no newest edition of the oldest guide-book is new enough to show the Eden on sea' for which we all pine. Those who desire perfection will not find it recorded even in the most rose-coloured of

guide-books. As the old countrywoman said of life generally, there's always a summat,' and in the case of most English watering-places there are a good many summats.'

He

Under these circumstances the man in search of somewhere to go to must do one of two things. must either resolve to give up the idea of perfection and a cheap holiday' altogether, or else he must listen to the still small voice which whispers at holiday-time 'Holidays be d-d; you'd a deal better stay where you are.' And, after all, why should not the free-born Briton sometimes spend his holiday at home, and, imitating Sir William Harcourt during periods marked by 'irregular jumpings' on the part of the political cat, remain at his own fireside? After all, there are few places better worth while being at leisure in than one's home. Especially is this true of the city gentleman, who, unless on a Sunday, seldom sees his home, except before breakfast and after dinner. The busy man whose child referred to him as 'the kind gentleman who comes in on Sunday to carve the joint' would find a month at home most agreeable. The neighbourhood would practically be terra incognita, and he might enjoy a delightful time in doing his own district. Even the Londoner might do worse things than devote a month to seeing the things best worth seeing in London.

September is a delightful month in town, and the home holiday-makers, armed with their guide-books, might follow in the wake of the hundreds of Germans and Frenchmen who at that season are always in our midst, 'Baedeker' and 'Guide Diamant' in hand. Which one of us is there who can lay his hand upon his heart and

faithfully declare that he knows his London as well as he knows plenty of Continental capitals? In the abstract he admits that the pictures and sculpture are as good, the buildings as curious and interesting, and the outside excursions as pleasant, and yet he has practically never seen them. Why, then, should not some English couple of moderate means devote their September holiday and their holiday fund to doing London from their home in South Kensington?

ARE OUR MANNERS DEGENERATING?

It is difficult to feel quite sure as to all the details of the Millennium, but in regard to one point we have no doubt. Though they will, of course, feel generally content, the majority of mankind will, we are certain, declare that the race of old servants has ceased to exist, and that the manners of the young people have deteriorated terribly. Mankind has been saying these two things without intermission since the world began. Palæolithic man, no doubt, complained that it was impossible nowadays to get a slave who could split a flint decently, while the older Lake dwellers certainly grumbled at the younger generation for slamming the trap-doors and swarming up the piles without making the vestige of a salutation or of an apology to their relations or friends engaged in fishing for eels, or sketching mammoths or elks on bone panels. The truth is, the habit of grumbling about the decay of manners has become part of the burden of humanity, and can no more be shaken off than the desire to eat or sleep. As long as man is man, and capable of a syllogism or an emotion, he will hold that 'outwardly at least our manners are changing for the worse.'

This being so, we are not surprised to find even Lord Meath uttering the old conventions and raising the old

complaints as he did in the 'Nineteenth Century' for July, 1896. Indeed, we should hardly feel cause for wonder were we ourselves to be caught indulging in like reproaches. There does not, we believe, breathe a man on this planet who is not liable at some time or other to obey the master instinct of the race and protest against the inability of the present generation to open doors for ladies and speak deferentially to the old. We claim no immunity from the influence of a thousand centuries and of millions upon millions of ancestors. We, like the rest, hear the chaunt of 'O tempora, O mores!' resounding down the ages, and in our weaker moments have yielded, and may yield again, like Lord Meath, to those silent voices. For the moment, however, we feel calmly indifferent to the tyranny of convention, and can discuss philosophically the momentous problem at issue. Seated for the moment on the airy heights of impartial wisdom, we can say with confidence that there is nothing whatever in Lord Meath's complaint. Nay, we can almost prove that we are right, and that he is wrong.

If manners had really been degenerating steadily ever since the days when Noah noticed with pain that his sons only held out their hands with a grunt to help the ladies of the family across the plank into the Ark, and did not bow, take off their sheepskin hats, and say 'Allow me,' there would clearly be no manners at all left now. Matter may be infinitely divisible, but manners are not, and it is quite clear that if the universal testimony of mankind were true on this point such a thing as a 'Thank you,' or a 'Please,' would be utterly extinct. But we see that this is not so. Therefore the outcry about the decay of manners must in the past have been