railway from London to Plymouth skirts the park of Powderham, running so close beside it that each train sends a herd of deer scampering down the velvety glades.  One afternoon a bouncing young lady, who belonged to a family which had lately emerged from the class of yeoman into that of gentry, and whose “manners had not the repose which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,” found herself in a carriage with two fashionably-attired persons of her own sex.  As the train ran by the park, one of these latter exclaimed to her companion, “Oh look, there’s Powderham!  Don’t you remember that archery-party we went to there two years ago?” “To be sure,” was the rejoinder.  “I’m not likely to forget it, there were some such queer people.  Who were those vulgarians whom we thought so particularly objectionable?  I can’t remember.”  “Oh, H——­:  H——­ of P——!  That was the name.”  Upon this the other young lady in the carriage bounced to her feet with the words, “Allow me to tell you, madam, that I am Miss H——­ of P——!” Neither of those she addressed deigned to utter a word in reply to this announcement, nor did it appear in the least to disconcert them.  One slowly drew out a gold double eye-glass, leisurely surveyed Miss H——­ of P——­ from head to foot, and then proceeded to talk to her companion in French.  Perhaps the best part of the joke was that Miss H——­ made a round of visits in the course of the week, and detailed the disgusting treatment to which she had been subjected to a numerous acquaintance, who, it is needless to say, appeared during the narration as indignant and sympathetic as she could have wished, but who are declared by some ill-natured persons to have been precisely those who in secret chuckled over the insult with the greatest glee.

English gentlemen experience an almost painful sensation as they journey through our land and observe the utter indifference of its wealthier classes to the charms of such a magnificent country.  “Pearls before swine,” they say in their hearts.  “God made the country and man made the town.”  “Yes, and how obviously the American prefers the work of man to the work of the Almighty!” These and similar reflections no doubt fill the minds of many a thoughtful English traveler as the train speeds over hill and dale, field and forest.  What sites are here! he thinks.  What a perfect park might be made out of that wild ground! what cover-shooting there ought to be in that woodland! what fishing and boating on that lake!  And then he groans in spirit as the cars enter a forest where tree leans against tree, and neglect reigns on all sides, and he thinks of the glorious oaks and beeches so carefully cared for in his own country, where trees and flowery are loved and petted as much as dogs and horses.  And if anything can increase the contempt he feels for those who “don’t care a rap” for country and country life, it is a visit to such resorts as Newport and Saratoga.  There he finds men whose only notion of country life is what he would hold to be utterly destitute of all its ingredients.  They build palaces in paddocks, take actually no exercise, play at cards for three hours in the forenoon, dine, and then drive out “just like ladies,” we heard a young Oxonian exclaim—­“got up” in the style that an Englishman adopts only in Hyde Park or Piccadilly.