Turning from Leicester-place into the hotel, you
might have fancied yourself at once in France—
not necessarily in Paris, but in some provincial
town. The hall was flagged with the same dirty
marble, decorated with the same sham bronzes,
and hung with the same array of shrill tinkling
bells. The walls were gay with the same
kighly decorated placards relating to chocolate,
corn plasters, bills, elastic corsets, and hotels at
Geneva, Lille, Dunkirk—or, continentally
else-where. There was a little poky office, with
pigeon-holes for the lodgers' candlesticks, and
numbered plates and hooks for their keys; a
green-shaded lamp on the escritoire; limp, green,
shagreen- covered registers to keep the accounts
in; a long low arm-chair covered with Utrecht
velvet, for Mademoiselle Adèle; another, higher
and black leather covered, for La Mère Thomas.
Madame Rataplan was seldom seen in the upper
regions. She was, in fact, head chambermaid, her
assistant being a dirty Irish girl, with a face like
a kidney potato, and many chilblains, who got on
very well with the Rataplans principally for the
reason that they were all Roman Catholics. The
salle a manger was a long low room, uncarpeted,
and the floor beeswaxed; furnished with the
usual array of rush-bottomed chairs, the usual
litter of half-emptied wine bottles, dingy napkins
in dingier bone rings, knives that wouldn't cut,
forks lacking their proper complement of prongs,
copies of the Siecle and the Charivari seven
days old, and a big mezzotint engraving after
Horace Vernet, representing Napoleon rising
from the Tomb. Everything was very French
indeed. Everything was very dear indeed. There
was a table d'hôte every day at half-past six,
at which the cookery was admirable and the
wines were detestable. The hotel was
generally full of foreigners. The Rataplan clientèle
abroad was extensive; and foreign visitors to
England were accustomed to declare that,
although the hotel accommodation of perfidious
Albion was in general execrable, that offered by
the Hôtel Rataplan was passable, mais diablement
cher. They did not seem to be aware of the
possibility of any hotels existing anywhere in
London out of Leicester-place, or at least
"Laycesterre-squarr."

Rataplan, then, prospered. He only kept one
waiter: a young man from Alençon, named
Antoine, with a red head and a face like a fox.
This serviteur appeared by day in a waistcoat
with black calico sleeves and baggy pantaloons
of blue canvas terminating in stocking feet.
At table d'hôte time he attired himself in the
black tail-coat and white cravat de rigueur, and
carried a serviette in lieu of a feather broom
under his arm. He was very good natured, and,
save on the question of the reckoning, passably
honest. He had taught the Irish servant girl to
play piquet with him, and, when any of the
lodgers wanted a little quiet gambling, Antoine
was always ready with a portable roulette box
with an ivory ball. He did not appear to cheat
until he was found out.

I have forgotten to state that from basement
to roof the Hôtel Rataplan smelt very strongly
of tobacco-smoke.

SPORT ON THE NAMELESS FJELD.

TALK of laughing-gas! It is nothing to the
effect the bracing air of the Norwegian Fjelds
has upon the frame. Whether the amount of
oxygen one inhales up there, produces a too
great wear-and-tear of the system, is a
physiological question I don't feel competent to enter
upon; but I incline to think the reverse to be
the case, when the quantity of carbon assimilated
in the shape of provisions is taken into account.

On the Fjelds a man is always hungry. If
ever I were reduced to such straits as to be
obliged to devour my shooting-boots, in default
of better diet, I could do so up there with greater
complacency and relish than elsewhere.

I am what is termed an "old hand" in
Norway, and have been in the habit of spending
my summers there for a number of years; and
when I have had my fill of catching salmon,
and of eating them (and when the mosquitoes
have had their fill of me), I repair to the
Fjelds to pay my attentions to the grouse and
reindeer. Norway is the safety-valve for all my
ailments. Whether it is the air, or the
sea-passage, or the "roughing," or the sharp
exercise, certain is it, that when I get back to
England, I feel better in body and in mind.

This last year, 1863, our party consisted of
four. Tents, canteen, rods, dogs, and guns
were all packed up, and we had secured berths
on the old Scandinavian.

Let us hasten over that horrid North Sea,
and pass over all the troubles to which flesh
is heir on a rough passage, as quickly as
possible. It was as bright a day as you could
wish to see, when we found ourselves on board
the " Skibladner" at Eidsvold, the southern end
of the beautiful Miosen Lake. Of course the
first thing we did there, was to light our pipes
with some of the "Bedste Tabak subter
Solem," otherwise called Petum, costing the
respectable sum of not quite tenpence the
Norwegian pound.

I take it for granted that the Miösen Lake
has been so frequently described, that further
remarks on it would be superfluous. So,
instead of the scenery, I will devote a few lines
to some of our fellow-passengers.

The boat was crowded. St. Hans' Fair in
Christiana was just over, and the timber-merchants
were returning to their homes from the
metropolis. A jolly set of fellows those Bönder
were, and, to judge from the quantity of
champagne they consumed, I should say, well
off. Among our passengers was an English girl,
who in company with her elderly parent, was
going to fish salmon on the western coast.
She wore a felt hat, with a feather stuck in it
on one side in the most jaunty manner, and
a dark blue yachting jacket with brass buttons
and pockets, and address of the same material