leave, after passing a few weeks at the house of a friend in the
country;--a house, for instance, such as is to be met with only in
England:--with about twenty acres of lawn, but no park; with a
shrubbery, but no made-grounds; with well-furnished rooms, but no
conservatory; and with a garden, in which dandy tulips and high-bred
anemones do not disdain the fellowship of honest artichokes and laughing
cauliflowers--no bad illustration of the republican union of comfort
with elegance which reigns through the whole establishment. The master
of the mansion, perhaps an old and valued schoolfellow:--his wife, a
well-bred, accomplished, and still beautiful woman--cordial, without
vulgarity--refined, without pretension--and informed, without a shade of
blue! Their children!... But my reader will complete the picture, and
imagine, better than I can describe, how one of my temperament must
suffer at quitting such a scene. At six o'clock on the dreaded morning,
the friendly old butler knocks at my room-door, to warn me that the mail
will pass in half an hour at the end of the green lane. On descending to
the parlour, I find that my old friend has, in spite of our over-night
agreement and a slight touch of gout, come down to see me off. His
amiable lady is pouring out for me a cup of tea--assuring me that she
would be quite unhappy at allowing me to depart without that
indispensable prelude to a journey. A gig waits at the door: my
affectionate host will not permit me to walk even half a mile. The
minutes pass unheeded; till, with a face of busy but cordial concern,
the old butler reminds me that the mail is at hand. I bid a hasty and
agitated farewell, and turn with loathing to the forced companionship of
a public vehicle.

My anti-leave-taking foible is certainly not so much affected when I
quit the residence of an hotel--that public home--that wearisome
resting-place--that epitome of the world--that compound of gregarious