from East
(something Turkish here); light breeze from Scotland (Highland Fling);
Anticyclonic movement; "Depression" on the hautbois; increase of wind;
then thunder, lightning, rain--all the elements at it! Grand effect!!
Crash!!! and ... for _finale_, calm sea, sun shining, joyful chorus,
Harvest Home, weddings, &c., &c., &c.

I've nothing more to say. Surely this outline is sufficient. Only if
any Composer does make use of this idea, and become famous thereby,
let him not be ungrateful to the suggester of this brilliant notion
(copyright), whose name and address may be had for the asking at the
Fleet Street Office.

* * * * *

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER VI.

_RECOVERY--WAITER--VICOMTE--CHATEAU--RECEPTION--NIGHT--MORNING--
WORKERS--HEADSTONES--MEMORIES--STONES--EXPLANATIONS--BREAKFAST--
OFF--BACK AGAIN._

[Illustration: "Karascho!" exclaims Daubinet.]

DAUBINET, quite recovered from his fatigue, sings "Blass the Prince of
WAILES" enthusiastically, and at intervals ejaculates queer, uncouth
words in the Russian tongue. Breakfast with Russian tongue. He asks
the waiter for "_minuoschhah karosh caviar_." To which the waiter
adroitly replies, "_parfaitement M'sieu_" and disappears. Returning
ten minutes afterwards, the wily attendant makes no further allusion
to the supposed errand that has taken him out of the room.

Then DAUBINET, remembering that we are literally "here to-day and gone
to-morrow," says we must visit his friend the Vicomte. I cannot catch
the Vicomte's name; I manage to do so for half an hour at a time, and
then it escapes me. As we are in this champagney country, I write it
down as M. le Vicomte DE CHAMPAGNIAC. We are to dine and sleep there.
A Night in a French Chateau. "But this is another story."

On our arrival at the Chateau de Quelquechose we are right royally
and heartily received. Delightful evening. _Vive la Compagnie_!
Magnificent view from my bedroom. In the clear moonlight I can see
right away for miles and miles over the Champagne valleys. At 6.30 we
are in the break, and within an hour or so are "All among the barley,"
as the song used to say, which I now apply to "All amongst the
Vineyards." Peasants at work everywhere: picking and sorting. How
they must dislike grapes! Of course they are all teetotallers, and no
more touch a drop of champagne than a grocer eats his own currants,
or a confectioner his own sweetmeats. I suppose the butcher liv