is done for you; every service is provided at
a fixed and reasonable charge; all the prices
are hung up in all the rooms; and you can
make out your own bill beforehand, as well
as the book-keeper.

In the case of your being a pictorial artist,
desirous of studying at small expense the
physiognomies and beards of different nations,
come, on receipt of this, to Pavilionstone. You
shall find all the nations of the earth, and all the
styles of shaving and not shaving, hair-cutting
and hair letting alone, for ever flowing through
our hotel. Couriers you shall see by
hundreds; fat leathern bags for five-franc pieces,
closing with violent snaps, like discharges of
fire-arms, by thousands; more luggage in a
morning than, fifty years ago, all Europe saw
in a week. Looking at trains, steam-boats,
sick travellers, and luggage, is our great
Pavilionstone recreation. We are not strong in
other public amusements. We have a Literary
and Scientific Institution, and we have
a Working Men's Institution—may it hold
many gipsy holidays in summer fields, with the
kettle boiling, the band of music playing, and
the people dancing; and may I be on the hillside,
looking on with pleasure at a wholesome
sight too rare in England!—and we have two or
three churches, and more chapels than I have
yet added up. But public amusements are
scarce with us. If a poor theatrical manager
comes with his company to give us, in a loft,
Mary Bax, or the Murder on the Sand Hills,
we don't care much for him—starve him out, in
fact. We take more kindly to wax-work,
especially if it moves; in which case it keeps
much clearer of the second commandment
than when it is still. Cooke's Circus (Mr.
Cooke is my friend, and always leaves a good
name behind him), gives us only a night in
passing through. Nor does the travelling
menagerie think us worth a longer visit. It
gave us a look-in the other day, bringing
with it the residentiary van with the stained
glass windows, which Her Majesty kept
ready-made at Windsor Castle, until she
found a suitable opportunity of submitting it
for the proprietor's acceptance. I brought
away five wonderments from this exhibition.
I have wondered ever since, Whether the
beasts ever do get used to those small places
of confinement; Whether the monkeys have
that very horrible flavour in their free
state; Whether wild animals have a natural
ear for time and tune, and therefore every
four-footed creature began to howl in despair
when the band began to play; What the
giraffe does with his neck when his cart is
shut up; and, Whether the elephant feels
ashamed of himself when he is brought out of
his den to stand on his head in the presence
of the whole Collection.

We are a tidal harbor at Pavilionstone, as
indeed I have implied already in my mention
of tidal trains. At low water, we are a heap of
mud, with an empty channel in it where a
couple of men in big boots always shovel and
scoop: with what exact object, I am unable to
say. At that time, all the stranded fishing-boats
turn over on their sides, as if they were dead
marine monsters; the colliers and other shipping
stick disconsolate in the mud; the steamers
look as if their white chimneys would never
smoke more, and their red paddles never turn
again; the green sea-slime and weed upon the
rough stones at the entrance, seem records of
obsolete high tides never more to flow; the
flagstaff-halyards droop; the very little
wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare
of the sun. And here I may observe of the
very little wooden lighthouse, that when
it is lighted at night,—red and green—it
looks so like a medical man's, that several
distracted husbands have at various times
been found, on occasions of premature
domestic anxiety, going round and round it,
trying to find the Nightbell.

But, the moment the tide begins to make,
the Pavilionstone Harbor begins to revive.
It feels the breeze of the rising water before
the water comes, and begins to flutter and
stir. When the little shallow waves creep
in, barely overlapping one another, the vanes
at the mastheads wake, and become agitated.
As the tide rises, the fishing-boats get into
good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists a
bright red flag, the steamboat smokes, cranes
creak, horses and carriages dangle in the air,
stray passengers and luggage appear. Now,
the shipping is afloat, and comes up
buoyantly, to look at the wharf. Now, the carts
that have come down for coals, load away
as hard as they can load. Now, the steamer
smokes immensely, and occasionally blows at
the paddle-boxes like a vaporous whale—
greatly disturbing nervous loungers. Now, both
the tide and the breeze have risen, and you
are holding your hat on (if you want to see
how the ladies hold their hats on, with a stay,
passing over the broad brim and down the
nose, come to Pavilionstone). Now, everything
in the harbor splashes, dashes, and
bobs. Now, the Down Tidal Train is
telegraphed, and you know (without knowing
how you know), that two hundred and
eighty-seven people are coming. Now, the
fishing-boats that have been out, sail in at
the top of the tide. Now, the bell goes, and
the locomotive hisses and shrieks, and the
train comes gliding in, and the two hundred
and eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now,
there is not only a tide of water, but a tide of
people, and a tide of luggage—all tumbling
and flowing and bouncing about together.
Now, after infinite bustle, the steamer
steams out, and we (on the Pier) are all
delighted when she rolls as if she would roll
her funnel out, and are all disappointed when
she don't. Now, the other steamer is coming
in, and the Custom-House prepares, and the
wharf-labourers assemble, and the hawsers
are made ready, and the Hotel Porters come
rattling down with van and truck, eager to
begin more Olympic games with more luggage.