or a fair somewhere on the Monday—with
a two-wheeled show-cart of meaner pretensions;
the proprietor of which walked by
his vehicle in a Sunday cloak made out of
the gaudy and dappled oilcloth which served
on profane occasions as his roulette board.
There was the blue and the red, and the less
fortunate black, and the lucky crown, most
gorgeous in its yellow, displayed upon the
proprietor's back.

Next, I met "tidy" women, very smart, and
their lords in very roomy royal blue dress-coats
and brass buttons, and those extra-short double-
breasted waistcoats which honest but sorely
tempted children of the soil always wear in
melodramas. These were distinctly not going to
church; and I could pardon them for turning
aside to the rustic inn, to which you mounted by
steps, which had two bow-windows with diamond
panes and plenty of flowers, and a sign well on
the road, and called the Jolly Waggoner. If it
were a little later, I should myself have liked
to go up and make the acquaintance of the Jolly
Waggoner and his ale. After three or four miles,
during which the sun was growing a little
strong, and the dust perhaps rather acrimonious
in its visits to the eyes, the great river and
bridge came in sight. And there, while the
spectator leaned on the bridge and looked in
every direction, was a view that might sanctify
any Sunday morning. A great full river, with
that most satisfactory brimming fulness which
recalled the Rhine, and a noble bridge of
many arches, hill-shaped according to the
older pattern, and whose piers seemed to
stand firmly and confidently in the water and
to defy any winter's flood, as if they were
great granite calves of legs belonging to a
many-legged granite giant, who could stride
down the river with ease. At the opposite side
was the little old town, and the little old town's
ruined castle, and the little old town's houses
very much crowded, and forced down to the
edge of the water. And then beyond the little
old town was the nautico-military town, which
climbed up a hill laid out in ancient "lines"
and more ancient fosses; and beyond the hill
down far below, the river had got in again and
was wading under that Sunday's sun, glittering
and glistening very far below, with the dockyards
at its edge and the great shipbuilding
sheds—monster coach-houses, but which now
looked like tiny mousetraps. A charming view
until modern man stepped in to spoil all, or rather
the cruel, rapacious, and ubiquitous London,
At'em and Dashover Railway, which seemed to run
amuck through the country, and which hurled
a heavy iron trough across the pretty river, and
side by side of the pretty bridge. As I looked
at its raw lines with disgust, and at its endless
rivets, and heard it reverberating and clanging
with a passing train, I seemed to hear it say,
like an ugly bully, "I've as much right to be
here as you. I can go beside you, if I like, or
go any where I like!"

Going on, I entered the little old town, which
is all a snake-shaped street, with old rusty inns,
and old posting-yards, and a few old framed
houses; their old bones and joints well looked
to and kept as fresh as paint could keep them.
I liked the way they projected over and covered
the pathway, and I liked their gables still more.
I went out into the road to have a good stare:
to the amazement of the family, who were reading
their Bibles on that Sunday morning, and
thought the profane stranger might be better
employed. Everything looked as bright and
clean as a Dutch town, even to the one policeman,
who, having little to do, began an affable
conversation. Taking another bend, the little
old town showed me some genuine red brick
houses with yellow stone corners and high French
roofs—little Kensingtons, with a delightful old
clock that hung out over the street in a mass
of florid carving. Behind was a niche, and a
flamboyant statue of a naval officer in a wig and
gauntlets, pointing, I know, to the French—the
brave old admiral Sir Cloudesley, in whose
honour the red brick tenement had been reared.
Further on was a famous almshouse where
Six Poor Travellers did get their lodging and
fourpences, and which looked snug and clean
enough to make one wish to be a poor traveller;
and further on again was the ancient little theatre,
in good repair, with a portico and pillars, and
some little dwindled bills on the walls by which
I was glad to see that the Theatre Royal was
in play. Approaching and reading with interest
(much to the disgust of a sour middle-aged lady
with her husband and boy, who was making
uncharitable Sabbatarian remarks), I find that
MR. GEORGE JENBY, the eminent character
actor and vocalist, would "give two nights,"
in this

                        HIS NATIVE TOWN.

He was to be assisted by "Miss Marion
Jenby, of the London Concerts;" by "Miss
Susan Jenby, of the London and Ealing
Concerts;" by Mr. William Jenby on "this occasion
only," who was of no concerts at all; and by
"the Infant Marie Jenby." The programme
was "rich and varied," including Miss Marion
Jenby in her great character song of the
"Battle of the Alma," which was subdivided into
"The Advance, Charge of the Heavy Brigade!
Quick step, they run! Prodigies of valour! The
Naval Brigade; England's Wooden Walls;"
the two latter headings I suspected to be
specially introduced as adroit compliments to
the dockyards. Wishing Jenby and his family
all success, and being really worked into
sympathy by the quotations concerning coming
home at last, with which William Jenby ended
his bill, "As the hare whom hounds and horse
pursue, Pants to the spot from which at first it
flew!" I passed on, and began to meet soldiers.
Then I heard sounds of an organ coming out
of a pretty little building, and found my middle-
aged lady, her husband and boy, peeping in at
the door with disgust and alarm. For doing
the same, I find this to be a chapel full of Irish
soldiers, which, having a stained-glass window,
looked very tranquil and cool and inviting of