morning I set off for Cheltenham. I was greatly struck with the entrance
to that town: it is to these watering-places that a foreigner should be
taken, in order to give him an adequate idea of the magnificent opulence,
and universal luxury, of England. Our country has, in every province,
what France only has in Paris--a capital, consecrated to gaiety,
idleness, and enjoyment. London is both too busy in one class of society,
and too pompous in another, to please a foreigner, who has not excellent
recommendations to private circles. But at Brighton, Cheltenham,
Hastings, Bath, he may, as at Paris, find all the gaieties of society
without knowing a single individual.

My carriage stopped at the--Hotel. A corpulent and stately waiter, with
gold buckles to a pair of very tight pantaloons, showed me up stairs. I
found myself in a tolerable room facing the street, and garnished with
two pictures of rocks and rivers, with a comely flight of crows, hovering
in the horizon of both, as natural as possible, only they were a little
larger than the trees. Over the chimney-piece, where I had fondly hoped
to find a looking-glass, was a grave print of General Washington, with
one hand stuck out like the spout of a tea-pot. Between the two windows
(unfavourable position!) was an oblong mirror, to which I immediately
hastened, and had the pleasure of seeing my complexion catch the colour
of the curtains that overhung the glass on each side, and exhibit the
pleasing rurality of a pale green.

I shrunk back aghast, turned, and beheld the waiter. Had I seen myself in
a glass delicately shaded by rose-hued curtains, I should gently and
smilingly have said, "Have the goodness to bring me the bill of fare." As
it was, I growled out, "Bring me the bill, and be d--d to you."

The stiff waiter bowed solemnly, and withdrew slowly. I looked round the