to an emphatic whisper) "whenever we receive a
complaint, we investigate it at once, hear both
sides, weigh the evidence, and act accordingly.
A gentleman writes up to us that his cup of tea
was cold, or weak, at Birmingham, where our
establishment is independent of the railway;
or an old lady complains that her chop was ill
served at Herne Bay; and passes are sent down
to the people implicated, who come up and
explain matters to us here."

Having heard thus much of the theory of
this pleasant necromancy, we next see it in
practice. Huge and well-stocked cellars, with
clerks entering requisitions for wine from the
various stations, and cellarmen silently at work;
vast underground kitchens, where men in
spotless white linen suits are busily engaged, and
where the shoots to and from the dinner-rooms
up-stairs are never idle; a private butcher's
shop, with carcases of the Aberdeen beef in long
rows, and joints of Moor mutton —in themselves
a testimony of excellence— are preludes to
inspection of gilded chambers in which scores of
people are dining—all in comfort, many in
luxury. There are, besides the railway bars,
first and second-class dining-rooms, and dining-
rooms for ladies only. In the first is a silver
grilling machine, which, with the elaborately
ornamented stove it works on, cost more
than a thousand pounds. At a signal from one
of the genii it is lifted, and I am gratified with
a sight of its hall-mark. This is the cave, and
there is as much difference between its present
appearance, sumptuous, comfortable, and costly,
and the dry arch it was before the genii
exorcised its demons of rubbish and neglect, as
between the bill of fare and wine-list, and poor
Robert's toffee and "peculiar" sherry. Everything
is on a club scale—glass, linen, food, and
decorations. Joints, made-dishes, and the
game in season are all being served, and it
needs the shrill shriek of the whistle and the
hoarse rumble of the trains overhead to remind
us that we are in a railway station, and that this
scene of comfort and magnificence is a mere
addition to a traveller's refreshment-bar. The
counters are in another department, which we
inspect later, to find them luxuriously
appointed and profusely stocked. They are
crowded with customers, many of whom are
evidently not travellers, but who prefer being
served by the bright-eyed, cheerfully obliging
nymphs here, to patronising taverns or coffee-
houses. We are again assured that the smallest
and most distant station under the control of
the genii differs from what we see only in its
proportions and in the variety of its viands.
Borrowing the bill of fare of the first-class
dining-room, which is changed every day, we
compare it half an hour later with that of one
of the principal clubs in Pall-Mall, and find it
superior in some particulars, and equal in all.
Under the genii, the hungry Briton may count
upon nourishing food and wholesome drinks,
and recalling the miseries of the past, the
insolence of Mugby, and the barrenness which
has prevailed from Dan in England to Beersheba
in North Britain, we mentally kiss the magician's
hand, and pray that the outlying railway
world may be shamed or coerced into imitation.

A CHRONICLE IN WORSTED

O the sun, the blinding, burning sun on
these rich green Norman flats! It is a relief
and a comfort to quit the road, and creep at
last into the narrow Bayeux streets, lime-white
and clean, inodorous, and with every upper
window a miniature garden. The love of
flowers is universal in Norman towns; and the
poorer the neighbourhood, the gayer and richer
often the hanging garlands on the window-sills.
We call to mind one at Caen, a perfect bower
of geranium, heliotrope, and fuchsia, high under
the eaves of a most ancient and decayed dwelling;
a picture in the street, with a bird-cage
hanging in the midst, and the bird singing as if
in Eden—sunshine, song, and sweetness living
and thriving still in the cold shade of utter
poverty!

It is these spots of brightness, suggestive of
another brightness within, that give their
distinctive charm to these old French cities. The
busy working world has passed them by. No
country town in peaceful England was ever
drowsier at midsummer than Bayeux to-day. Yet
Bayeux has seen stirring times—war, revolution,
civil riot, religious despotism, in all their varieties
of misery, triumph, and defeat; and not so
long ago but that their visible traces remain,
and living traditions of them survive amongst
the elder generation.

We asked nobody the way anywhere, but
dreamed along at our leisure on the shady side
of the streets, turning hither and turning thither
where we espied attraction; the whole long day
being before us, and we in no haste to have
done with our sight-seeing. As we took our
slow journey, with a pause here and a pause
there, now at the window of an old curiosity-
shop, then before a still-life group of splendid
luscious fruit in a barrow, three ladies flashed
by us—ladies in carmelite costumes and broad
straw hats, from across the Channel like
ourselves, but burdened with bags, and in virtuous
hot haste to accomplish their duty towards
Bayeux.

"They are coming from the Tapestry," we
say, and set our faces in the direction whence
they are returning.

The Tapestry is kept at the city library, but
we see no building that bears a frontispiece of
publicity. There is a woman standing within
a little wicket, darning a stocking, and
apparently on the watch for any casualty fortune
may be kind enough to send to break the
monotony of the day. We will inquire of her, for it
is noon now, and the blaze is cruel.

"This is the library," says she, in answer to
us, and opens the wicket that we may pass into
a court where broken stone coffins and
mutilated stone figures, heads, limbs, trunks, are
disposed in picturesque confusion, with pots of