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A VERY SHORT HOLIDAY.

(BY ONE WHO ENJOYED IT.)

It having occurred to me that within a few days I might get an entire change by visiting some thoroughly French seaside places on the coast of Normandy, I started via Southampton for Havre.

I started mysteriously at midnight.  Lights down.  We glided out, almost sneaked out, as if ashamed of ourselves.  I had pictured to myself sitting out on deck, enjoying the lovely air and the picturesque view. L’homme propose, la mer dispose. I retired early, and enjoyed neither the lovely air nor the picturesque view.  “The rest is—­silence,” or as much silence as possible, and as much rest as possible.

[Illustration:  The “Screen Scene,” as played on a gusty night on the covered terrace at Frascati’s, Le Havre.]

8’30 A.M.—­Le Havre.  Consul’s chief attendant,—­Lictor, I suppose, the master being a consul,—­sees me and my baggage through the customs—­“customs more honoured in the breach than the observance,”—­and in five minutes I am—­that is, we are, the pair of us—­at the Hotel Frascati, which, whether it be the best or not I cannot say, is certainly the liveliest, and the only one with a covered terrace facing the sea where you can breakfast, dine, and generally enjoy a life which, for the time being, is worth living. A propos of this terrace, I merely give the proprietor of Frascati a hint,—­the one drawback to the comfort of dining or breakfasting in this upper terrace is the door which communicates with the lower terrace, and through which everyone is constantly passing.  We know that Il faut qu’une porte soit ouverte ou fermee.  But this is opened and shut, or not shut, and, if shut, more or less banged, every three minutes.  If it isn’t banged, it bursts open of its own accord, and whacks the nearest person violently on the back, or hits a table, and scatters the bottles, or, if not misbehaving itself in this way (which is only when rude Boreas is at his rudest), it admits such a draught as causes bald-headed men to rage, ladies to shiver, delicate persons to sneeze, and, finally, impels the diners to raise such a clattering of knife-handles on the different tables, as if they were applauding a speech or a comic song.  Then the maitre-d’hotel rushes at the door and closes it violently,—­only for it to be re-opened a minute afterwards by a waiter or visitor entering from the terrace below!  A mechanical contrivance and a light screen would do away with the nuisance, for a nuisance it most undoubtedly is.  The perpetual banging causes headache, irritation, and indigestion, and those who have suffered n’y reviendront pas, like several Marlbrooks.  Let the proprietor look to this, and, where most things are done so well, and not unreasonably, don’t let there be a Havre-and-Havre policy of hotel management. Allons!