A WALK THROUGH HANTS.

"THREE o'clock on the first of September, at Squance's, the Victoria Pier, Portsmouth." Thus early in August, over a lobster-salad at Epitaux', spake my friend Parma. Though of no ducal house, Parma hath pleasant possessions in a certain isle of fairy beauty, where young princes and princesses get their sea-bathing, and where a great poet gives his friends "honest talk and wholesome wine," far from any aimless gossip save that of the magpie,

"Garrulous under a roof of pine."

Parma hath horses also, and vehicles, and a friend passionately addicted to pedestrianism and photography; so the inducements to visit him in his seaside retreat were plentiful. Wherefore, agreeing to meet him as aforesaid, I sent to Walker's for a map of Hampshire, and straightway encouraged visions of the New Forest and Winchester and Romsey, of William Rufus and William of Wykeham and Lord Palmerston.

There is on the borders of Berkshire and Hampshire, high up on the chalk, an inn called the Pineapple. There I stood one day, having walked over from the primitive

station at Woolhampton, where the whole village turns out, hatless and bonnetless, to see a train come in and go out. A pleasant picture that station,-full-foliaged elms all about, and a rustic population of spectators, with obviously nothing in the world to do, and a large flock of pigeons flashing through the air, white in the sunlight, purple in the shade, and one of the prettiest girls I have seen (since that metempsychosis in which I was Paris upon Ida), come to see a friend off by the train. Stately was she, and unconscious of her beauty, and so simply attired as to remind me of a certain poet's wish :

"Loving thoughts pursue you,

And your lips are kissable,
And you 're not ungainly,
As, no doubt, you guess;
Wherefore let me woo you,
Dainty little Isabel,
White-straw-hatted plainly,
In a light print dress."

But to return to the Pineapple. Looking from it across the hills into Wiltshire and Hampshire, I seemed to sniff the brine in the breeze that came straight from the west. And I remembered the plunges of my boyhood into the sea that washes the grey walls of Southsea Castle. And I longed again to be upon the sands with that strange longing which pertains to dwellers in islands. But that I had a novel to finish, and a Quarterly article and a ream of leaders to write, and only two half-crowns in my pocket, I think I should have walked straight away to Basingstoke and taken the train to Gosport.

When at length I started, it was in rather a melancholy mood, for a fine St. Bernard puppy, whom we had

Bor M

christened Tory, had just committed involuntary suicide.

by running under the wheel of a cart.

Poor fellow ! what

a fine honest head he had, and what kindly eyes! I know a young lady who wept when we buried him.

He lies in the soft earth under the grass,
Where they who love him often pass;
And his grave is under a tall young lime,

In whose boughs the pale green hop-flowers climb :
But his spirit—where does his spirit rest?

It was God who made him-God knows best.

I hope none of the orthodox will strongly censure this.

Unwise is the man who starts very early on a journey. The Victoria Terminus beheld me, unbreakfasted, between six and seven in the morning; a Portsmouth train was just starting; there was not an instant for a cup of coffee. This same train was an unconscionable time getting to Portsmouth; it took me straight down to Arundel, and then away at right angles through Chichester and Havant ; and my sole consolation was the sight of Arundel Castle, almost as nobly situate as Warwick, with dense woods behind it, overhanging the town and the river Arun, at whose mouth excellent red mullet do congregate. It were almost worth while to be a Duke to have so stately and picturesque a dwelling as pertains to the Earl Marshal of England.

Well, I arrived at Portsmouth at last, cross and hungry. And Portsmouth is not a town to restore one's good temper. The "special" of the Spectator, who seems to have gone down to look at the fleets on the day I was there, describes it thus :-" At the best it is a town well described by the American epithet of 'one-horse' or 'tin-pot' city.

The place has a 'drunk-over-night' air about it, which even in its brightest and cleanest hours it never succeeds in shaking off entirely. Everybody appears to be more or less closely connected with the sale of intoxicating liquors, and to be in the habit of promoting consumption by his own example." I fully agree with this dissatisfied gentleman. It occurred to me that the surly cannon which glare down High Street from a grim wall at its upper end would be well employed in blowing it into the sea. How is it that Portsmouth is so dingy and dismal, while Plymouth, the rival seaport, is thought the pleasantest place of residence in England, after London? Has the difference between the Devon and Hampshire races of men anything to do with it?

Portsmouth was dirtier and less pleasant than ever, thanks to the fleets; its grotesque attempts at festivity were laughable; I never before saw so shabby an assortment of the flags of all nations. I hear, however, that the entertainments were very grand, and that the Duke of Somerset and the Mayor of Portsmouth distinguished themselves immensely. I had not calculated on finding the fleet at Spithead, and was rather annoyed thereat, as I hate crowds. Surely Southsea Common had a little grass upon it in the days of my boyhood-before that pier was built, before there were any bathing-machines? Of course, my first care was to dip in the sea—and a very breezeless sultry sea it was. And next I had to decide whether I would breakfast or sail round the fleet. The hotels all looked so unattractive that I decided on the latter, and got as close as I could under one or two of

those colossal machines for murder, French and English. What shall I say about them? They did not seem so ugly as it is the fashion to call them. I do not think they have less beauty than their wooden predecessors. To-day, in the midst of a gay flotilla of holiday steamers and yachts, with golden sunlight glorifying every spar and rope, they were certainly a sight worth seeing.

When my brief cruise was over, a steamer for Southampton was just starting from the Royal Pier. I went on board-not, however, without a glance to the right, where the ladies' bathing-machines are placed immediately under the pier, so that you may watch the nymphs bobbing up and down in that wonderful way which is their custom. Damp young ladies were drying themselves on the shingle close by; while the pier was crowded with loungers, men with abundant beards, and piquant girls full of fun and flirtation. Beards and flirtation, like the myrtle, always flourish best by the sea. O for Leech's pencil to sketch this indescribable scene! My steamer ran across to Ryde, whose long pier was crowded. Sailing (or steaming) on a summer sea is uncommonly pleasant; but one ought to have a choice companion, feminine of course, with whom idly to watch the long track of cream-white foam which the vessel leaves behind her. Thus provided,

"With an indolent arm round a darling waist,"

I think sea-travel about the most delicious thing in the world. However, being on the present occasion a lonely voyager, I first hunted for something to eat. There was not a biscuit on board. So, adjourning the consideration