Pulp Fiction, 1865 · page 301 of 400
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282 On the South Coast. a social scourge, the bane of our existence? Why does dislike immediately run riot within us, so that we hasten onwards with injured feelings that refuse to be comforted? Is it nothing but selfishness and inconsistency? Or 1s it that somehow or other, as a rule, the people one meets in travelling—the so-called tourists, of whom each unit seems a crowd, and a crowd a vast multitude—are of a genus gifted with small sensibilities and refinements, whose very presence immediately dissolves a spell and breaks a charm, and disturbs future pleasures of memory? We are strange beings, made of a thousand whims and fancies, full of uncertain motions, swayed by a breath of wind. Harps of-a thousand strings, and every separate | | | ne ee Sa = = l i = = | — i { ile senicice i i nee il aera) ney SS YUNG == = Gta l ie oe . 3 ie H ve ce srr kl —— — — - r | a) y, i | (Af 6 ZO. Be 4 é * AA Wy ¢ ASY ' * ; oe 3 Fat : x oe SA = ge aS | : ef =. = a = = See ool . SO wu) 4 = 5 Sa > 4-7 ~ S> = - -_ I £- “TAYLOP-<=- : —— . ro hin a“ US < ai | — oe Af BOURNEMOUTH. string vibrating to a separate touch. Yet who shall say that it is not better so? So I left the trio, and went on my way to Parkstone, to call upon Miss Rosa Mackenzie Kettle, the author of ‘The Ranger’s Lodge,” “My Home in the Shires,” and all that series of pleasant and admirable books published by Mr. Weir, of Regent Street. And still, as we went, the plantations of firs were all around, and clearing after clearing had been made, and house after house was being raised to meet the demand. ‘The pines threw out a delicious scent, and one longed to pitch one’s tent in a place where the very air seemed possessed of an additional sense. Presently passing through a village, where building was going on just as much as anywhere else, we turned to the left, and entering a lane, appeared to be nearing the confines of civilisation. : Gom (9) booksnco im