WOLVERTON. Flying by rail through green fields below Harrow Hill and thence to Watford,--stopping for a moment in a deep cutting to hear a man cry “_Tring!_” and a bell say “_Ring!_” until the passenger gets so confused with the paltry squabble that he scarcely knows which of the two competitors is vociferating the substantive and which the verb,--we will now conduct our readers to the Station and little town of Wolverton. As every city, village, or hamlet on the surface of the globe is usually inhabited by people of peculiar opinions, professions, character, tastes, fashions, follies, whims, and oddities, so there is always to be witnessed a corresponding variety in the allinement and architecture of their dwellings--the forms and excrescences of each often giving to the passing traveller a sort of phrenological insight into the character of the inmates. One street, inhabited by poor people, is as crooked as if it had been traced out by the drunken Irishman who, on being kindly questioned, in a very narrow lane across which he was reeling, as to the length of road he had travelled, replied, “_Faith! it’s not so much the length of it as the_ BREADTH _of it that has tired me_!” Another--a rich street--is quite straight. Here is a palace--there are hovels. The hotel is of one shape--the stock-exchange of another. There are private houses of every form--shops of every colour--columns, steeples, fountains, obelisks _ad infinitum_. Conspicuous over one door there is to be seen a golden pestle and mortar--from another boldly projects a barber’s pole--a hatchment decorates a third--the Royal Arms a fourth--in short, it would be endless to enumerate the circumstantial evidence which in every direction proves the truth of the old saving, “_Many men, many minds_.”