the railing, tapping their teeth with their
dandy little sticks, and making the most
powerful use of their eyes. Here I watch
moving before me the great portrait gallery
of living British beauties. Every instant a
fresh profile passes in review, framed and
glazed by the carriage window. Onward rolls
the tide of vehicles — of dashing cabs with
pendant tigers — of chariots with highly-
groomed horses — of open phaetons, the reins
of faultless white, guided by lady whips—
of family coaches ancient and respectable.
Now and then some countryman and his
"missus," in a home-made chaise-cart, seem
to have got accidentally entangled among the
gay throng, and move along sheepishly enough.
On they all go to where Kensington Gardens
leans, like a sister, beside her bolder brother,
Hyde Park; and here all alight, and pour
in a bright flood of moving colour upon the
emerald turf.

Country people pity us poor town-people,
and wonder how we can exist! Did anybody
ever see such a public park as this in the
country ? I never did. Indeed, I question
if there be a prettier promenade in Europe
than the north bank of the Serpentine,
with its mimic beach of broken shells,
washed by its freshwater lake. Here, where
I stand, might be called the port; underneath
tall sycamore trees which cast a pleasant
shade upon the edge of the water—
are grouped the various boats which hail
from this place. There is a cutter with
flapping sails just come off a cruise ; another,
is beating up in the wind's eye a quarter of
a mile off ; a third, comes sweeping in with
her gunwale under water. There is some
respectable sailing to be picked up on the
Serpentine, I suppose. Near the picturesque little
boat-house, which, with its weather-beaten
carved gables and moss-grown roof, looks as
though it had been an old inhabitant of some
Swiss valley, lie grouped a dozen light skiffs,
dancing on the water, and reflecting on their
sides the twisting snakes of gold cast from
the sun-lit little waves.

But what are all those mimic skiffs I see,
coasting from shore to shore — cutters, sloops,
and schooners, now on their beam-ends, now
sliding in between the swans, which scarcely
deign to turn aside their feathery breasts,
bent back like Roman galley beaks. These, at
least, are playthings. Not at all. One of the
boatmen, with a straw in his mouth and
his hands in his pockets, informs me that they
form the squadron of the London Model
Yacht Club, and that they are testing their
powers for the next sailing-match. I am not
quite sure that those grave-looking men with
long poles, watching the performances of the
different craft, are not the members of the
Club. That big man there, may be for
anything I know, the Commodore—for they
have a Commodore, and rules, and a club-
room, and they sail matches for silver cups!
Look into Bell's Life in London, a week or
two since, and there you will find full
particulars of the next match of the Yacht
Club, " established in 1845," which is to come
off in June next for a handsome twelve-
guinea cup, and which informs us that the
measurements must be as follows: " The
length multiplied by the beam not to exceed
five hundred inches over all; the keel for
cutters or yawls, not more than two feet, six
inches; and for two-masted vessels, two feet
ten inches, on the level of the rabbit, with
not less than four inches counter." It is
a very serious sporting matter. The Vice-
Commodore of the sister Club at Birkenhead
having proposed, by advertisement, to
change the flags of the Club, " the white
ensign to be without the cross," &c., the
editor of our sporting contemporary gravely
objects, "that the alteration of our national
ensign cannot be legally made without the
written sanction of the Admiralty." Fast
young boats, these!

For the cup last autumn, fifteen yachts
started, and the different heats lasted the
whole day; the America, modelled on the
lines of the famous Yankee boat, coming
off victorious. It is a pretty sight to see
these little cutters driving along under full
sail; and many an old gentleman, standing
amid his boys, I have noticed enjoying
it to his heart's content. After watching
them for some little time, one's ideas of
proportion get confused; they look veritable
ships sailing upon a veritable great lake;
the trees, the men, the sheep on the shore,
swell into immense proportions, and it seems
as if one were contemplating the fleet of
Lilliput from the shores of Brobdignag.

A little farther on, stands the boat-house
belonging to the Royal Humane Society; and
in it are seen the awful-looking " drags"
with which the drowning are snatched from
death's black fingers. Across the road, is
the establishment for recovering those who
have been rescued from the water. Over the
door is the bas-relief of a child attempting
to kindle with his breath an apparently
extinguished torch, and around it is the motto:
"Lateat forsan scintilla," — Perhaps a spark
still lingers. Baths, hot-water beds, electrifying
machines, and mechanism by which artificial
breathing can be maintained, are ranged
around the rooms.

The majority of poor creatures carried
beneath these portals are persons who have
sought their own destruction. The bridge
across the Serpentine is the Westminster
"Bridge of Sighs." Who would think this
bright and sunny spot could be the haunt of
suicides! They are mostly women of the better
order, who have been brought to shame and
abandoned,— at least five women to one man
being the proportion. The servants of the
Society, who form a kind of detective water
police, and are always on the look out, scarcely
ever fail to mark and to watch the women who
contemplate self-destruction. They know them