In spite, however, of the unrivalled attractions of Calais, I determine to go no further than the _buffet_. Acting under the instructions of Mr. Recorder BUNNY, Q.C., who seems to know the ropes thoroughly well, I allow the "goers on" (passengers bound for Paris and the Continent generally) to satisfy their cravings for food, and then give my orders. A waiter, who has all the activity of his class, representing, let us say, the best traditions of the Champs Elysée, takes me in hand. We make out a _menu_ on the spot--Melon, _tête de veau à la vinaigrette_, _caneton aux petits pois_, and a cheese omelette. Then half a bottle of red wine, a demi-syphon, and a _café_ and _chasse_. All good. Then the _garçon_ skips away, placing knives and forks at this table, a dish of fruit at that, and a basket of bread at the one yonder. These athletic exercises (that are sufficiently encouraging to promise the performer--if he wishes it--a prosperous career on the lofty _trapèze_), are undertaken in the interests of the expected voyagers Albion bound. Before the arrival of the Paris train I have eaten my lunch, settled my bill (moderate), and taken my deck chair on the good steamer that is to carry me back to my native land. Ah! never shall I forget the dear old shores of England as I watch them after _déjeuner à la fourchette_ through the perfumed haze of an unusually good cigar. "Low capped and turf crowned, they are not a patch upon the wild magnificence of the fierce Australian coast line, but in my eyes they are beautiful beyond compare." I remember that at one time or another I have heard "the finest music in the world, but at that moment there comes stealing into my ears a melody worth all that music put together, the chime of English village bells." I recollect that I have heard these beautiful expressions used in the Garrick Theatre on the occasion of the revival of a certain little one-act piece. Mr. ARTHUR BOUCHIER was then eloquent (on behalf of the author) in praise of Dover, and I now agree with him. What can be more beautiful than the white cliffs of Albion and the sound of English village bells--after a capital lunch at Calais, and during the enjoyment of an unusually good cigar? The trusty ship gets to England at 2.30, the equally trusty train arrives at Victoria a couple of hours later. I am in capital time for Mrs. ANYBODY'S "last Any-day." "How well you are looking," observes my kind hostess, pouring out a cup of tea. "And I am feeling well," I return; "and all this good health I owe to twenty minutes on the continent." And these last words sound so like the tag to a piece that they shall serve (by the kind permission of the British public) as the title and the end to an article. * * * * * SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.