Once more I am back in my London "_pied-à-terre_"--(but how it can he
a _pied-à-TERRE_, I don't quite know, considering it's a flat on the
fourth floor!--_ridiculous_ language French is to be sure!)--and

very glad to get home again I assure you. I have spent the last few
weeks in the Isle of Wight, which is a British Possession in the
latitude of Spithead--(I don't know why Spithead should want any
latitude, but it seems to take a good deal!)--sacred to Tourists,
_Char-à-bancs_, and Pirates--the latter disguised as Lodging-letters!

While there we suffered severely from Regattas; which swarm in the
Island at this season, and are hotly pursued by the visitors, with the
deadly telescope. I myself was bitten once by the Regatta Bacteria,
and very painful it was. My friend, Baron VON HODGEMANN, owner of the
_Anglesey_, persuaded me to go on board for a race, and we travelled
the whole thirty miles sitting at an angle of forty-five degrees, and
singing the war-cry of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club!--

To the mast-head high we nail the Burge,[1]
When the north wind snores its dismal dirge!
In the trough of the sea with a mighty splurge,
The quiv'ring Yacht beats down the surge,
And weathers the Warner Light!

This experience having inspired me with courage, I indulged in another
flight of daring which required all the _aplomb_ of a leader of
Fashion to carry out successfully; and, though few of the "smart"
Ladies of my set habitually indulge in the habit. I am happy to think
I am encouraging them in a healthy and amusing pastime, which, in the
Summer, may in time even rival Lawn Tennis! However--not to beat about