THE SURFACE OF FASHION: A SKETCH IN HYDE PARK.

See the Pcem.

OUR visit to the good old granite cities in the fertile west of France was but a flying one. We are people who always make flying visits to beautiful or interesting scenes, and intend religiously to return and do the thing better another time. We never wear out our welcome at our inn, or satiate ourselves with the architecture of a town. We depart, leaving a wide margin of exploration for the future. Here to-day and gone to-morrow' is our motto.

Thus, finding ourselves at the end of July with a fortnight's holiday at our disposal, a fortnight which might possibly be stretched into three weeks, we determined upon realising the long-cherished desire of our hearts and seeing Brittany. Brittany! There is romance in the very name. All the rest of France is but leather and prunello as compared with Brittany. A region of poetry, of idyllic simplicity, of wild sea life, of all which the heart of man hankers after. All the French novels of provincial life we have ever read surge up in our memories, and they all seem to have been about Brittany. A wild people doubtless, and in some measure fearful to encounter. We think it rather a bold thing to penetrate so rugged a region. We have even an idea that there is something adventurous and heroic in the trip, like a pilgrimage to Mecca, or a journey into the mysteries of unexplored Africa. But that smack of peril makes the thing delightful.

We consult a travelled friend, who asks us for a map, and cheer

VOL. XXXII. NO. CLXXXVII.

fully jots down with a pencil the towns we are to visit.

'You will go to St. Malo, and up the Rance to Dinan, and from Dinan to Rennes-be sure you see Vitré, it will only take up an hour or so-from Rennes to Vannes, Auray, Quimper, Brest, Morlaix, Lannion, St. Brieuc, Portrieux, and back to Dinan.'

He runs his pencil along the map, the places look very near together, and on a fine atlas like this of Black's one ought to get a fair notion of distance. We have an idea that these haltingplaces are divided by about half an hour's or an hour's railway travelling. And the railway is to carry us everywhere, except here and there where there is a hiatus to be filled by diligence. Convenient, but rather at variance with that idea of Brittany which we have developed out of our inner consciousness-the Brittany of Jean Cattereau and George Cadoudal; the land of the Chouants with their screech-owl watchcry, whence rose their name-a corruption of 'chat-huant.'

Our friend gives us his itinerary, and we make ready for departure. We hold no consultation with the gentle Cook; we are neither 'personally conducted' nor provided with tickets for a beaten round. We go forth as genuine explorers, without even so much as Hachette's convenient Diamond Guide-book or the ever-useful Murray. Murray. The penny time-table of the South-Western Railwaywhat a mass of literature for a penny!-is our only manual.

We are dwellers in a South

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Western district, and turn eagerly to the tourists' arrangements to see what our friendly South-Western can do for us. Its offers are large, its temptations strong. It can take us to the Land's End or the Cornish moors, to rocky Ilfracombe or placid Dawlish, to Weymouth-sacred to the Third George's gentle memory-to Southsea and the Wight, to Jersey, Guernsey, St. Malo, Havre, and Honfleur. Nay, it will put us under convoy of an interpreter, and have us personally conducted to Paris free of all care or trouble.

Havre, with its aristocratic neighbours, Trouville and Deauville, we know of old, and a very charming spot is the suburb of Ingouville for a summer holiday; and much is there to interest the traveller within easy distance of the busy port, with its long quays and mighty fortifications. Frascati's, too, is a pleasant hotel for those who love to live gaily among their fellow-creatures, and to sip their after dinner coffee within sight of the sea.

We have friends whom we have promised to visit in Jersey, and this seems a good opportunity for keeping the promise; so we begin our fortnight in Brittany by spending three days in Jersey, and, unfolding our plans to the kindly captain of the steamer, he enlarges our itinerary by adding Granville, Avranches, Mont St. Michel, and Dol to the list of halting-places.

From Jersey the South-Western Company's steamer will take us across to Granville in a couple of hours or so, and we shall thus get a peep at a pretty corner of Normandy, which is new to us.

Jersey, under the broiling July sun, is almost too dazzling-every one tells us we have come a month too late or a month too soon; but who cares? We English people get so scant an allowance of sun

shine in a general way, that we cannot have too much of this glorious heat and glow when Heaven blesses us with a fine oldfashioned summer; and there lies the sea all round our romantic island, with its gem-like greens and purples and translucent blues, giving rest and coolness to the eyes that look upon it.

St. Helier's is not a pretty town. I hardly think its warmest admirer would claim for it the grace of absolute beauty; but it is a town of long and wide streets, excellent shops, very fair hotels, a fine market, and most charming suburbs. In order properly to appreciate St. Helier's you must live a little way outside it, on the slope of one of those noble hills which encircle it on the landward side like a natural amphitheatre. Contemplated from this sunny and airy altitude St. Helier's is delightful; but in spite of the comfort of its hotels, the excellence of its baths, and the super-excellence of its lobsters, St. Helier's is not a town we would care to see too much of.

Surely there never was such a place for lobsters. The finest, the reddest, the noblest of their species. They appear on the breakfasttable; we meet them everywhere at our halting-places for luncheon; they ornament the dinner-table; they tempt us to the unaccustomed indulgence of supper. Let all lobster lovers emigrate to Jersey, and spoil their digestions and be happy.

The island is full of beauty. The long hilly lanes, with their wealth of verdure and overarching trees, remind one of the prettiest bits of Devonshire. The coast scenery is bolder, grander, and more varied than that of the Isle of Wight. Flowers of all kinds grow in perfection. The scarlet bells of the fuchsia light up every

cottage garden, and the hydrangea, called here the blue palm, grows with wondrous luxuriance, and assumes a lovelier hue than I have ever seen it take in any other climate. And then the figtrees! They are as big as beeches, and here a man may verily sit under his own fig-tree, and have ample shelter from sun or rain beneath the thick spreading leaves.

I don't know why it should have entered into the mind of man that a commoner class of excursionists go to Jersey for their pleasure than to any other place, save Margate and Ramsgate. It is only fair to say that we saw no vulgarity, no herd of buff-slippered pleasureseekers, no negro minstrels, and no invitations to tea and shrimps. There are public vehicles of the wagonette species with four horses, which drive about the island every day, taking excursionists to see the lions of the coast, and affording the traveller a long day amidst the loveliest scenery, for the small charge of half-a-crown. It is considered in the island a vulgar act to join one of these parties, because on the homeward journey the more exuberant of the excursionists are apt to be carried away by their delight in the beautiful and to break forth into singing, and of course this, from the 'papa, potatoes, prunes, and prism' point of view, is altogether abominable. We were duly warned of the danger we should have run had we, in an unwary moment, cast in our lot with these promiscuous travellers; and our friends informed us that they had engaged

a landau and unicorn team to convey us to the choicest spots of the island in dignified seclusion. Our party was sprightly and well assimilated, and I fear on many occasions we were almost as noisy as the half-crown excursionists. Six weeks in Jersey would not be a day too much, It is the

place of places for the literary worker, the poet, or the painter. The distractions of the outer world would hardly touch him here, yet the island is too well populated for a feeling of dulness to arise. There is a sense of isolation, no doubt, at odd times, in the winter season, when the mails cannot come in and an accident has disabled the telegraphic system.

House-rent is said to be wonderfully low, and the island is full of pretty houses-country seats on a small scale, surrounded by delightful gardens and orchards, and hidden away in those lovely lanes. We are always driving up or down hill, and the blue warm sea smiles at us wherever we turn.

Three days are but too little, yet we contrive by the aid of the best of coachmen to see a great deal in the time; and every way seems lovelier than the last. Hard to choose where all are so fair, yet I think if I had a summer to spend in Jersey I would fix my place of abode at Goree, under the shadow of that fine old castle of Mont Orgueil, with its traditions of Charles II. and its view of the fair Norman coast, with the purple towers of Coutances cathedral on the horizon.

So after a flying visit to Jersey we embark one sunny Saturday morning on board the steamer for Granville, at that lovely hour when the air is clearest and freshest and sweetest, and which sluggards enjoy so thoroughly when they do find themselves awake so early, from the rarity of the sensation.

All Jersey is alive on this Saturday morning at seven o'clock; the markets are in full swing; the boat is crowded, but not to discomfort, with travellers, for the most part French, who certainly do take their pleasure more gaily than we do; for the wind being fresh, and