t merely that constraint and subjection to
ordinary discipline which his detention necessarily involves. As, after
the issue of the warrant for his arrest, he was allowed virtually to
choose his own time for its service, ride on an open car with a Mayor,
preceded by a brass band, playing a solemn march, take up his residence
at an hotel, and subsequently address a crowd from the balcony, the
Executive cannot be said to have been very hard on him, at least in
their preliminary treatment, and probably they will follow it up
somewhat in the same lines, and, without making his incarceration a
farce, allow it to be softened with such relaxations that, while not
incompatible with the surrender of his liberty, may yet be found
consistent with a due regard to the requirements of his health, and the
circumstances which have led to his rather injudiciously placing it in
jeopardy. Such, at least, Sir, is the view of the situation taken by

Your devoted and constant Correspondent,

COMMON SENSE.

* * * * *

Illustration: SEA-SIDE WEATHER STUDIES. "THE SEVENTH WAVE."

* * * * *

WHAT WAS IT?

I had been reading a lot of "Letters to the _Times_." That may account
for any little confusion in the details of the subsequent events.

My interlocutor was tall and thin, and looming up lanky against a dusky
sky, reminded me equally of an attenuated M.P., a phantom
telegraph-pole, and PETER SCHLEMIL, the Shadowless Man.

"TYNDALL is quite right," murmured he.

"Glad to hear it," said I, earnestly. "I had been thinking lately that
the distinguished _savant_ was going decidedly wrong."

"Ah! he understands _me!_" sighed the Spectre.

It was more than _I_ did; and I said so.

"Who and what are you, anyhow?" I inquired.

The lines of Long-thin-and-hungry seemed to shift and reshape.

"Ah!" came his voice, the same yet not the same, "elevation does not
always give coolness, and one may be torrid and tempestuous even among
the Alps."

Somehow this statement, though a truism, did not seem to fit on to
previous remarks.

"I was once said to be 'Up in a balloon,'" continued Proteus (now
looking rather like the Ancient Mariner,) "long and lean and brown, but
letters written to the _Times_ even from the utmost height lately
attained by the French Aeronauts--to say nothing of the top of the
tallest Lightning Conductor--would, I fear, be hot and ill-balanced.
Look at Mr. H