one‐storied, round summer‐houses in their woods, painted inside with arabesques, Cupids, Venus, and Diana, and having six or eight small windows all round it; then, seated in a large gilt _fauteuil_, with a bottle of choice Chambertin by his side, he will languidly pop his short gun at the thrushes or the finches as they flutter from bough to bough before him; and so, at the end of a couple of hours, saunter home with a bagful of “game,” wearied with the exertions of _la chasse au tire_, like the gentlemen in France in the times of _La Régence_. The Duc de P. was there, and the Duc de C., and the Duke of H., and actually one of the men—what may they be called?—who preside over the pigeon‐shooting at Hurlingham, and who had been got over to ensure everything being _en règle_. What more could any one want? I wondered to myself whether the extraordinary beauty and sublime majesty of the surrounding scene had anything to do with enhancing the pleasure of the pigeon‐shooters; whether, in short, the successful slaughter of the poor birds was rendered more enjoyable by the fact of its taking place under a sky and in a spot fraught with exquisite beauty; noble and serene, vast and varied. And if not, why did they not stop among the cockney flats of Hurlingham? When all was over and we returned home, I actually found myself semi‐ conscious of a sort of pride that the best shot, in this decidedly trying proof of skill, was an Englishman! So much for the inconsistency of human, especially of female, nature. We are in the land of perfumes. Acres of roses, violets, and other scented flowers are cultivated solely for the perfume manufactories at Grasse, a few miles from Cannes. Of course, this is not the time of year to benefit by this exceptional form of farming; but in the spring it must be lovely. We are preparing to leave Cannes, and, as I write these lines, Frank silently lays a sheet of paper by my side. And I see—a Sonnet. THE OLIVE‐TREE. That dusky tree grows in a noted place— A garden on the rocky mountain’s side, O’erlooking (in the evening of its pride) The doomèd city of the chosen race. There, as the swathing evening mists efface Temple and fane, in sunset glory dyed, And round the city walls the shadows glide, Beneath the dappled gloom our hearts may trace The ling’ring footsteps of the Holy One. Our Master walks alone; and who can know All the deep myst’ry of his awful woe, As on the earth sinks God’s eternal Son? But ever shall the gray‐green olive‐tree Recall the image of his agony. A National Or State Church.