to England."  This amiable weakness of
being fine and genteel breaks out in the
nomenclature of our villas and terraces.
Thus we have Belgrave-square, which Mrs.
Molloy is glad to put on her cards of
invitation: " Mr. Molloy and I will be so glad
to see you at Belgrave-square." Near us
we have " Grosvenor-terrace," with other
high palatial denominations; and these
pretentious titles have a significance beyond
the mere affectation that provokes a smile.
The taste for the genteel goes deep here,
and all through the country we have
Belgrave-square in all sorts of shapes: in
the love of small show and cheap display,
in the passion for all manner of poor little
titles and honours, in "going to the castle,"
and all the rest of the electro-plated
ceremonials. " Going to the castle" is a
magnificent business; and, with a view to its
glories, the country attorneys, who fill the
offices of clerks of the peace, have actually
got a uniform invented for themselves, and
exhibit, like French deputies, silver collars
and flaps all over.

The two limbs on which Rextown supports
itself are the mail-packet service and
the yachts. Nowhere is the postal service
conducted so magnificently; and monster
packets steam in and out four times a
day from a pier constructed specially for
their accommodation. At Folkstone, and
Dover, and Newhaven the trains come down
to the packets; while the tiny boats, into
which the foredoomed passengers crawl
down by steep ladders, wait far below. A
fiendish nature domiciled at one of these
ports might literally revel in feasts of
human agony, keeping up with the steamer
as she creeps slowly from the smooth shelter
behind the piers and warehouses, which
mask the great sea outside, tumbling, and
tossing, and roaring for its prey. The hapless
passenger, hearing, perhaps, no sound
of wind, beguiles himself into the certainty
that there will be a fair, fresh passage.
But the resident fiend on the pier may just
catch a glimpse of a face turning livid as
the light craft is caught on the back of a
frisky billow, which tosses it violently on
to another, while the unhappy vessel passes
out slowly, buffeted and overwhelmed in
the struggle. It is very different at Rextown.
According to the genteel law of all
packet stations, every one goes down at
six o'clock to see the packet come in; and
in the summer-time the bevy of fine blooming
girls, from all the rich pasture districts
of the country, gay, lively, coquettish,
skittish, that cluster here, is a sight to see.

The pier is handsomely fenced from the
sun by broad shedding, like a gigantic
parasol, under which waits the expectant
train, wait also the mail guards, mail
agents, chiefs of station, hotel emissaries,
and the rest. Suddenly, at the entrance
of the harbour, is seen the huge vessel.
her four chimneys pouring out volumes of
black smoke, her huge paddles churning
the water, and the bridge, on which a
county ball could be given, crowded with
passengers. On she comes slowly, and is
brought up alongside with the nicety of a
waggonette guided by a good coachman.
Then, of course, we make two lines, and
watch the interesting procession pass by.
It is curious how an accurate observer will
find the same typical elements exhibited
invariably: the vast bundles and boxes
carried in each hand nervously, as though
they contained precious stones or gold;
the invariable bird-cage; the stout fussy
woman in the hat, dragging an unhappy
child after her, as if it were a dog at the
end of a chain. And though there is no
hurry, universal is the eagerness to have
done with this good ship, which has behaved
so well; though, it must be said, the good
ship is no less willing to be quit of her
freight. Nothing is more amusing in these
mail services than the good-humoured
toleration of the sailors for the passengers,
whom they endure as a species of intruders.
They affect merely to be in the service of
the mails.

Seeing the packets off at Rextown is
sometimes dramatic enough. It is a dark
autumn evening, the air cool, the sea not in
that sickly Mediterranean calm, which is
of an effeminate sort, but fresh and
invigorating, while the lights are twinkling in the
Rextown amphitheatre behind us. Other
lights, watch-lights of some fifty yachts, dot
the harbour, and are reflected in the eddying
waters, while, beyond, a fiercely red glare,
changing slowly to a white as fierce,
marks the entrance to the port. The great
steamer lies beside the pier, uttering low
growls of impatience at being detained so
long. Her sailors all wait clustered on the
pier, looking towards the mouth of a
tunnel, a few hundred yards away. Suddenly
is heard a shrill whistling and shrieking,
and out emerges the passenger train,
and comes sweeping down alongside.
Instantly all is bustle and animation. Doors fly
open like those of cupboards, a hundred passengers
descend and dash at the gangway,
laden inconveniently with bundles which
they would not part with for the bare life,