WHERE TO SPEND A HAPPY

MONTH.

AN APPEAL TO HOLIDAY-MAKERS.

ESITATION to the winds! Nothing can be more injurious to happiness. Halt not between two opinions! Be not like the jealous gentleman of colour, immortalised by William, "perplexed i' th' extreme," nor perplexed at all. Toss no more upon a sea of doubt! Let it not be said that you are unable to make up your mind where to go for your holiday. Whether you are a bachelor whose hat covers his family, or a married man with nine, or, it may be, eleven children, in either case you cannot do better than hire a marquee of Mr. Edginton, in the Borough, and spend a month under its canvas cover on the summit of Primrose Hill.

Whether we consider its proximity, its picturesqueness, or its salubrity, the romantic character of its surroundings, or the historic grandeur of its memories-to say nothing of its cheapness-the arguments in favour of this delightful protuberance are so many, that it is really no easy matter to decide which of them all best deserves priority of mention. But as we must begin with something, let us set out with the giddy fact, unknown to most Londoners, that Primrose Hill, so called

from the circumstance that no primrose has ever been seen there, is no fewer than 206 feet above high-water mark. This the present writer knows to be true, for he has it from the lips of the porter at Trinity House on Tower Hill, who was told so by his wife. Think what a fine thing it is to be thus exalted above the level of the Thames, instead of grovelling beneath it, as you would have to do, if you were to pitch your tent in a valley. An exceedingly fine prospect can be obtained from the top of the hill on a clear day. Even though the day should not be clear-which is like enough—you will not be without your compensations, for though you will have missed the view, you will have viewed the mist; and that is something to be proud of.

Wandering at eventide upon this magnificent eminence, any man of athletic imagination, who is also as blind as a bat and as deaf as an adder, may easily fancy that he is at the sea-side. Even people with good eyes and ears may find here other pleasures, less fanciful perhaps, but not less enjoyable. The air is aromatic with the sighs of lovers. 'Arry and Mary Jane are treading together the primrose paths of dalliance, and gazing into one another's eyes with swimming looks of speechless tenderness. When at last they talk and disburden their love-laden hearts, how delightful, how edifying is it to listen to snatches of their impassioned conversation! "Will you love me then as now?" I overheard Mary Jane inquire, in tremulous tones last night, of the young. man on whom she bestows her sweet society. "Not exactly," said 'Arry, "but I'll love you now and then." "That will do," sighed the beautiful Mary Jane, as she nestled in the bosom of her periodic swain. All this is very nice, and sheds a

halo of poetic sentiment around the enchanted spot, like a nimbus around the head of a saint.

But sentimental delights are not the only ones that will rejoice the heart of the philosophic sojourner. Others there are of a speculative kind, so many that the pen of the readiest writer can hardly keep pace with them. With a residence on the top of Primrose Hill is associated a series of the most blissful contingencies. You can never be quite sure of what is going to happen; but this you do know, that whatever happens will be for the best. The Hill itself is tunnelled, and through the tunnel beneath your very feet keep racing at headlong speed, morning, noon, and night, the trains of the North-Western Railway Company. They pass through 1100 yards of stiff London clay, described by geologists as "the most unmanageable and treacherous of all earthly substances." When the "treachery" shall have got the better of science, and the imprisoned subterranean gases shall one day burst their clayey cerements, the hill will be rent asunder like a volcano, my good fellow, and you and your precious tent, wife, children, and all, will be blown to the moon, there to meditate on the vanity and uncertainty of all things in this sublunary sphere.

Pending the occurrence of this tremendous business-which, mind you, is only a question of time-other eventualities will not be wanting to regale your fancy withal. It is so pleasant to look into the seeds of time. In this age we are nothing if not sensational; and certainly there is no lack of sensation, past, present, and to come, upon this romantic elevation. In the immediate neighbourhood flows, slow and sullen, the Regent's Canal, along whose drowsy waters continuously glide huge boats, laden with gunpowder. What has

been may be; and Che sara sara, as the Dukes of Bedford are wont to say. Not for the world would I utter a word to alarm anybody. On the contrary, it is quite possible that the next time a boat blows up, the consequent noise and convulsion may be productive of quite a pleasurable feeling to the tented tenants of the Hill. Only, they may as well be prepared for the approaching excitement, lest it come upon them unawares, and cause them to "lose their heads," in a figurative sense of the phrase. If they are fated to lose them in a physical sense as well, they must learn to do without them as comfortably as circumstances may permit.

How true is the oft-quoted saying, "History repeats itself!" So it does, by Jove! and nowhere more pertinaciously than in this identical place. "Going back," says Mr. Walford, "to the time of the Roman settlers, we find that when they planted their colony on the banks of the Thames and founded London, most part of the northern district consisted of a large forest, filled with wolves and other wild animals." And is it not so to this hour? The forest, to be sure, has disappeared, but the wolves and other wild animals (men and women in the number) are still to be found in their old quarters. To a contemplative mind, versed in the happy art of looking at the bright side of things, the proximity of the Zoological Gardens is a subject of the liveliest satisfaction. The rising of to-morrow's sun is not so likely an event as that sooner or later-probably sooner the lions, leopards, wolves, bears, and tigers incarcerated in those charming pleasure - grounds will break through their frail cages, and disdaining ignoble captivity, roam at large through the adjoining districts. And then-Oh then!—quis membra in

veniet, quis ossa? The tigers will plunge into the jungle, or the retreat most like it, the tangled woods running parallel with Bentinck Terrace. Wo worth the lovers strolling there! The leopardswill lie in wait for the ladies, gentlemen, and horses travelling between St. John's Wood and Camden Town; but the wolves and tigers will make for the hills. They always do; and inasmuch as there is no other hill but Primrose in the vicinity, the holiday-makers on that mountain, and more particularly our friends in the tent, had better look out; that's all. It is popularly supposed-though I don't believe a word of it--that lions object to eat ladies. If this is so, the wife of your bosom is safe; but no considerations of gallantry will intervene for your protection, poor paterfamilias! You will have to pay the penalty of your sex. As for the children, they are delicate and toothsome. Lions love them-for supper; so do bears and wolves; and what are lions, bears, and wolves to do-poor things!-if they have nothing else to eat? You cannot expect these hungry and unreasoning brutes to follow the example of Dr. Tanner.

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While waiting for the disruption of the Hill itself, the explosion of the powder-boats, and the incursion of the wild animals, you may have a very pleasant time of it, on this world-renowned eminence. Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!" What interesting objects, what enchanting scenes meet the gaze on every side! It is evening, eventide, as the poets call it. sun, instead of sinking into the impurpled main, as is his prismatic habit at Herne Bay and Margate, has quietly sneaked down multitudinous chimney-pots. The shades of coming night are falling, soft and dense, upon the dusky landscape.

The