Here someone, gradually assuming a palpable form, emerges from somewhere out of a dark corner, and hands to each of us a long piece of wood about the length of a harlequin’s bat (note, pantomime again), only that this is an inch or so thick and quite two inches wide at one end, where presently a candle is fixed by an attendant sprite,—­the slave of the tallow candle,—­and the wand, so to speak, tapers off towards the handle. A propos of “tapers off”—­the question occurs to me, later on, as we pass through labyrinths of dark passages, where should I be in the case of “taper off”?  Beautiful title for sensational story—­“Lost in the Catacombs.”

Our trusty guide, M. VESQUIER, is well ahead, and DAUBINET follows closely at my heels.  Thus 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