A DAY'S TOUR.





I.

_IN TOWN._


It is London, of a bright sultry August day, when the flags seem
scorching to the feet, and the sun beats down fiercely. It has yet a
certain inviting attraction. There is a general air of bustle, and the
provincial, trundled along in his cab, his trunks over his head, looks
out with a certain awe and sense of delight, noting, as he skirts the
Park, the gay colours glistening among the dusty trees, the figures
flitting past, the riders, the carriages, all suggesting a foreign
capital. The great city never looks so brilliant or so stately as on
one of these 'broiling' days. One calls up with a sort of wistfulness
the great and picturesque cities abroad, with their grand streets and
palaces, ever a delightful novelty. We long to be away, to be crossing
over that night--enjoying a cool fresh passage, all troubles and
monotony left behind.

On one such day this year--a Wednesday--these mixed impressions and
longings presented themselves with unwonted force and iteration. So
wistful and sudden a craving for snapping all ties and hurrying away
was after all spasmodic, perhaps whimsical; but it was quickened by