THE Times, in a letter from Grenoble, states that the Trappists in the neighbourhood of La Salette are busy in the manufacture of a beverage which, from the writer's description, seems to be about identical with that which is produced by Messrs. Seager & Evans. We congratulate the worthy monks upon taking to honest gin-spinning, which is a much more laudable occupation than weaving toils to entangle simpletons. We should think this order must be rather numerous in the district in question, as surely all those must have been regular Trappists, who were concerned in getting up the enormous hoax which has given it celebrity.
It seems that they have entrapped some gulls of the Lucas tribe, who were not up to Trap: but we should have considered even that common marine fowl, the Booby, too old a bird to be capable of being caught by chaff so extremely palpable.
PEBBLES PICKED UP AT THE SEA-SHORE.
BY A SENTIMENTAL OLD YOUNG LADY.
One's existence down here is divided between donkey-riding and novel-reading—pretty exercises for the mind and body! It would be difficult to say which were the slowest—the donkeys or the novels. It's very strange, but how extremely rare it is you come across a donkey or a novel that's in the least moving!
Youth writes its hopes upon the sand, and Age advances, like the sea, and washes them all out.
We raffle, and raffle our best affections away, like shillings at the Library, and Man looks coldly on, and smilingly says, "Better luck, Miss, next time."
I am sure that the sand, with which Time has filled his hour-glass, must have been picked up at a watering-place, for nowhere else does the time run on so slowly, or the hours succeed one another with such provoking similarity.