uld be seen by his contrast to the
prevailing British tone. It is a mystery why he should be here instead
of at Trouville, Boulogne, Dieppe or Etretat, where the habits of the
gay world are all his own. Nobody seems to know him at Tenby. Behind
him walks quite as pronounced a type of the Welsh country gentleman--a
character not to be mistaken for an Englishman, in spite of the family
resemblance. A shrewd simplicity characterizes this face--an open,
guileless sharpness, so to speak, peculiarly Welsh. An indifferent
judge of human nature might venture to attempt heathen games with this
old gentleman, but no astute rogue would think of such a thing. A man
of this stamp, however green and rural, is not gullible. This Welsh
simplicity of character is very deceptive to the unwary, and many
besides Ancient Pistol have eaten leeks against their will because of
their ignorance concerning it.

We join the throng in the street and stroll leisurely down the long
incline. The whole town tips that way. A variety of more or less
quaint vehicles move about--cabriolets drawn by donkeys and ponies;
sedan chairs; a species of easy-chair on wheels, with a wooden apron,
and propelled by a boy or a decayed footman in seedy livery with
bibulous habits written on his face. Something of a similar sort was
seen at the Centennial, yet utterly unlike this, notwithstanding a
resemblance in principle. These invalid go-carts are very convenient
at Tenby, as they may be trundled everywhere, even on the sands, which
are hard and flat. A peculiarity of all the vehicles, even those drawn
by two animals, is that they go slower, as a rule, than on-foot people
do. Briskly-walking couples and groups of English and Welsh ladies
pass us, carrying over their arms bathing-dresses or towels, with the
business-like alacrity of movement characteristic of most Britons on
their feet. No one saunters except ourselves. All are hastening to the
south sands, looking neither to the right nor the left; but for
us there are eye-lures in every direction. The town abounds with
antiquities calculated to awaken the liveliest interest in a stranger:
every street is rich with romantic story; every hill and rock for
miles around has its legend, its ruin of castle, abbey or palace, or
its mysterious cromlech,--all that can most charm the soul of the
antiquary; and Shakespeare has honored this corner of Wales beyond
others by putting it in one of his tragedies. Considerable portion