He put his eyeglass in his eye,
And rudely at me stared.

Oh, dear! the men that I have met,
Such awful gabies are, etc.

Then came to seek my hand in love,
An eminent M.P.;

He said that he'd resign his seat

If he could marry me.

I asked him if he would support
A bill to let us vote?
He only stammered awkwardly,
And gurgled in his throat.

Oh, dear! the men that I have met,
Such awful gabies are, etc.

VILLA LUCAS OR PRANGINS

THERE are two classes of kindly disposed people in the world there are those whose kindliness of feeling leads them to think of you and your needs and what will most help; there are others whose desire to be kindly leads them to wish to feel enjoyment with you. There is a certain joy of companionship in the hearts of these latter, but it is tinged with a measure of egotism: they wish to provide an enjoyment in which they will participate. Their feeling is very different from that which fills the heart of the man who sets himself aside, and has no thought of any selfgratification, but whose only wish is to devise something which will really benefit his friend.

In the course of my life I have met with much kindness, but I have met with the kindness of the profit-sharing character more frequently than the wholly unselfish kindness. People like to be kind in the way that gratifies themselves; they are less prone to the kindliness which thinks and acts in a self-detached way.

I had not been long at Lancaster Gate when I met with a kindness of this rare and happy kind. There lived at one of the houses which stood at what I may call the gateway to the square in which the church stood, a man of remarkable ability and unspoilt kindliness of nature. He had a large,

round, rubicund face-the rosy hue of health shone in it; he had a laughing eye, and the rare faculty of laughing at himself; he was rich, generous and thoughtful. His readiness to help was never of the guinea-and-go-away sort. If he was asked to help, he gave his mind as well as his money to the matter.

When I had been at Lancaster Gate a few months, and the summer holiday was drawing near, this good parishioner of mine made the friendly inquiry: "How or where are you going to spend your holiday?" I said that I had no plans. He said: "Go to my villa on the Lake of Geneva; tell me how many you will be, and I will arrange." It was a delightful prospect, but the reality surpassed my anticipations. The proposal was so kind, and the way in which it was made was so kind, that I accepted. I made up a little party; it consisted of my mother and my mother-in-law, Mrs. Peers, my brother-inlaw, Rev. W. H. Peers, and another friend, a lady whom I might call Matilda, for she scattered flowers in my life and subsequently became my wife.

We left London and reached Paris; there the two seniors of the party were disposed to rest, and my brotherin-law Peers had plans of his own. I took Matilda round the chief show places of Paris, and a long and tiring day we had; but we were young and vigorous, and we thought little of rest in those days, and, if my memory serves me, we contented ourselves with one night in Paris, and the next night we journeyed on to Geneva. There we changed, and an hour's railway journey brought us to Nyon. We were all eager to see what sort of a house was to be ours for

the six or seven weeks of our holiday. After a drive of some half-hour or more, we turned from the highroad into the grounds of the villa. A long drive past meadows and under pleasant trees ended in a villa most curious to behold. The side it turned towards the park was a series of curves; the house was brilliantly white in colour. We entered, and found ourselves in palatial quarters. I wonder whether I can give any adequate picture of this fascinating villa. The chief rooms looked out upon the lake. The centre of these rooms was the drawing-room, a large, oval-shaped room, tapestried in royal red. Beyond it, to the west, was the library; adjoining the library was the Prince's room, so called, for the villa belonged, at one time, to Prince Jerome Buonaparte. From the broad terrace on the south we looked over the lake, and like a silver shield the summit of Mont Blanc showed gloriously white among the irongrey mountains in the distance. The house was in every way a joy-ample rooms, comfortably, even luxuriously furnished; a billiard-room, in which my brother-in-law and Matilda and I found solace in the evening. To the west, a tiny little harbour, with boats for excursions on the lake. To row into Nyon became part of our programme.

In the boathouse I found a vessel of curious shape: two long wooden shoes, like small canoes, were fastened together by upright sticks, crowned by a saddle; a paddle lay near at hand. It was a vessel which I was told was called a Polinsky. You sat on the saddle with your feet in the canoe-like shoes, and from the height of the saddle you plied the paddle and took your way over the water. The movement was pleasant, and the sense of power which was

given you by height, made progress easy; the balancing was not difficult in smooth water. It was a novel experience to impel oneself over the water like a rider on his steed.

We were well cared for. Servants appeared when required, and disappeared in mysterious fashion. None of them lived in the villa: an underground passage connected with a dépendance enabled them to retire to their own separate quarters.

By day and by night, in sitting-room and bedrooms, we were reminded of the Napoleonic glory which had passed away; for the imperial monogram was on the glass and china. The catastrophe of 1870-71 had wrought havoc; and the villa, just as it was, with furniture and household goods, had passed into strange hands. My good friend at Lancaster Gate had shared in the purchase of the villa, and thus, ten or eleven years after the fall of the French Emperor, our quaint party were enjoying the rest and refreshment of this choice Swiss home of a Buonaparte.

I was fairly tired by my London work, and I was content to read, and ramble, and row upon the lake, and explore the neighbourhood.

We made the acquaintance of a bright-faced, intelligent and thoughtful Swiss pastor: he had charge of the neighbouring village: I heard him preach to his blue-bloused village folk his sermon showed a competent knowledge of modern thought and problems; he spoke with clearness and appropriateness, neither obscurantist in ignoring difficulties nor pedantic in parading them before his village hearers: