hus we proceed, and if this order is preserved
throughout, I feel that the sensational romance above mentioned will
not be written, at least not on this occasion. We are in stalactite
caverns; I expect a subterranean lake,--of still champagne of
course,--and a boat; strange silver foil and gold foil fish ought to
be swimming about, and the name of the subterranean lake should be
Loch Foil, Loch Gold or Silver Foil, according to the material. No,
nothing of the sort. It is all quite dry; uncommonly dry; atmosphere
dry; ground dry; and, gradually, throats dry. Probably, champagne also
dry. But remembering what I have heard of someone else's experience of
Dock-visiting, which I presume is similar to cave-visiting, I do not
mention my sudden drought. I feel that, while down here, if I took
one glass of champagne, my head first, and then my legs, might become
unsteady, whereupon nothing would be more likely than for me to take
the wrong turning and lose my companions; if I did, what are the
chances against my ever finding them again? Or if my legs failed me
and I disappeared between the casks, who would think of looking for
me there? Then, years afterwards, in some specially and unaccountably
good vintage year, when there would be a run upon these particular
casks, my mouldering skeleton would be found, among the sawdust,
between the barrels, and some purveyor of ballads would write a
song whereof the burden would not be unlike that of the once popular
"_Mistletoe Bough_." As I follow my leader through the vaults all this
occurs to me, as does also the appropriately melancholy refrain of
another old song or "catch," "Down among the dead men let him lie!"

We are under the central dome of this Stalactite Champagne Cathedral
dedicated to the worship of Bacchus. [_Happy Thought_.--The Champagne
country is the true "Poppy Land." I present this with my compliments
to Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT, whose pleasant articles in the _Daily Telegraph_
on "Poppy Land" are, and will be, for some time to come, so deservedly
poppylar on the North coast of Norfolk. When driving round and
about Cromer, our flyman pointed out "Poppy Land" to me. _Happy
Thought_.--In future let this be known as "Caledonia Up to Date, or
the New Scott-land."] A strange light descends from somewhere above,
producing a blueish atmospheric effect. Weird, very. We are now in
the Wine Demon's Cave. More pantomimic effects: big demons and little
demons at work everywhere: champa