once; so new, so fresh, and regular. The building where the medical water is drank, and where the baths are, exhibits very different objects; human nature, old, infirm, and in ruins, or weary and ennuyé. Bath is a sort of great monastery, inhabited by single people, particularly superannuated females. No trade, no manufactures, no occupations of any sort, except that of killing time, the most laborious of all. Half of the inha bitants do nothing, the other half supplies them with nothings --A multitude of splendid shops, full of all that wealth and luxury can desire, arranged with all the arts of seduction.

Being in haste, and not equipped for the place, we left it at three o'clock, dined and slept 14 miles off, on the direct road to London. During our ride, we saw a little stream appear here and there among the willows, in the vale below. I asked a woman at the toll-gate what the name of it was: "Sure, Sir, the Avon !" It is not easy to avoid failing in respect to English rivers, by mistaking them for mere rivulets. I have heard an Englishman, who was amusing himself with the ignorance prevalent in foreign countries, tell a story of a lady, who said to him, "Have you in England any rivers like this?" (the Seine); but interrupting herself, added, laughingly, "Good God, how can I be so silly, it is an island; there are no rivers!" I really think the lady was not so very much in the wrong.

The country is beautiful, rich, and varied, with villas and mansions, and dark groves of pines, shrubs in full bloom, evergreen lawns, and gravel walks so neat,—with porters' lodges, built in roughcast, and stuck all over with flints, in their native grotesqueness; for this part of England is a great bed of chalk, full of this singular production

(flints). They are broken to pieces with hammers, and spread over the road in deep beds, forming a hard and even surface, upon which the wheels of carriages make no impression. The roads are now wider; kept in good repair, and not deep, notwithstanding the season. The posthorses excellent; and post-boys riding instead of sitting. Our rate of travelling does not exceed six miles an hour, stoppages included; but we might go faster if we desired it. We meet with very few post-chaises, but a great many stagecoaches, mails, &c. and enormous broad wheel waggons. The comfort of the inns is our incessant theme at night, the pleasure of it is not yet

worn out.

January 11.-We arrived yesterday at Richmond. F- felt a sort of dread and impatience to meet new-old friends, and approached the Green with no very enviable feelings. I knew the house immediately, from the drawing I had seen of it. Nothing can be more friendly than the reception we have met, and I feel already at my ease. Generally an inn is vastly preferable at the end of a journey to a friend's house,-unless a friend indeed and I have said before, on such an occasion I hate a friend; but here I have felt at my ease from the first moment. This morning I set out by myself for town, as London is called par excellence, in the stage-coach, crammed inside, and herissé outside with passengers, of all sexes, ages, and conditions. We stopped more than twenty times on the road-the debates about the fare of way-passengers-the settling themselves-the getting up, and the getting down, and damsels shewing their legs in the operation, and tearing and muddying their petticoats-complaining and swearing-took

an immense time. I never saw any thing so ill managed. In about two hours we reached Hyde Park corner; I liked the appearance of it; but we were soon lost in a maze of busy, smoky, dirty streets, more and more so as we advanced. A sort of uniform dinginess seemed to pervade every thing, that is, the exterior; for through every door and window the interior of the house, the shops at least, which are most seen, presented, as we drove along, appearances and colours most opposite to this dinginess; every thing there was clean, fresh, and brilliant. The elevated pavement on each side of the streets full of walkers, out of the reach of carriages, passing swiftly in two lines, without awkward interference, each taking to the right. At last a very indifferent street brought us in front of a magnificent temple, which I knew immediately to be St. Paul's, and I left the vehicle to examine it. The effect was wonderfully beautiful; but it had less vastness than grace and magnificence. The colour struck me as strange,-very black and very white, in patches which envelope sometimes half a column; the base of one, the capital of another;-here, a whole row quite black,there, as white as chalk. It seemed as if there had been a fall of snow, and it had adhered unequally. The cause of this is evidently the smoke which covers London; but it is difficult to account for its unequal operation. This singularity has not the bad effect which might be expected from it.

I had not time for any long examination, and felt uneasy and helpless in the middle of an immense town, of which I did not know a single street. A hackney-coach seemed the readiest way to extricate myself, and I took one. After being dragged slowly along many short, winding, dark,

VOL. I;

and crowded streets, and missing my letters, which had just been sent to Richmond, I met with a friend, who took me under his protection; dis missed my hackney-coach, which was not better, and perhaps worse, than those of Paris, and in which was surprised to find a litter of straw, which has a very shabby appearance, but, being changed every day, is better than a filthy carpet. My friend conducted me very obligingly back again through the whole town. In our walk we passed several large squares, planted in the middle with large trees and shrubs, over a smooth lawn, intersected with gravel walks; the whole inclosed by an iron railing, which protects these gardens against the populace, but does not intercept the View. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood, who contribute to the expense, have each a key. One of these squares, Lincoln's Inn Fields, appears to contain five or six acres, and is said to be equal to the base of the largest of the pyramids of Egypt. The buildings round are plain houses. I have not observed any thing in this day's ramble above that rank in architecture, or any public buildings of note.* But although the luxury of this people does not resemble the luxury of the Greeks and the Romans, yet they are better lodged. I have heard no cries in the streets,-seen few beggars,-no obstructions or stoppages of carriages, each taking to the left. We found in Piccadilly a stage-coach ready to start for Bath, by which I could be car ried some miles on my way to Richmond; it resembled a ship on four wheels; a sort of half cy

* I have since seen in this part of the town several buildings worthy of notice.

linder; round below, flat above, very long, and divided into three distinct apartments. I was introduced into the cabin by an after-port, and locked in with another passenger. Soon after I had taken my seat, the carriage rattled away full speed. This was much better than my morning conveyance, and I enjoyed the change; but after a few miles, an apprehension seized me of being carried beyond the port to which I was bound (Kew Bridge). We reached it, I knew it again,-saw with terror that we passed it, and that I was swept away with alarming velocity, like Robinson Crusoe from his island. I endeavoured in vain to call, or to open the door. At last the carriage stopped unexpectedly, a little more than a quarter of a mile beyond the bridge; and, proceeding the rest of the way on foot, I reached Richmond long after dark, but in time for dinner, which is here an early supper,related the adventures of the day, and received the letters sent from London.

January 24.-We are at last established in London, in furnished lodgings, very near Portman Square, a fashionable part of the town. A previous study of the map has made me sufficiently acquainted with the town to find my way to every part of it, by means of two principal avenues, Piccadilly and the Strand, Oxford-Street and Holborn, which unite at St. Paul's, whence, as from a common centre, they separate again, to form two other great avenues, still east and west, Cornhill and Bishopsgate-Street: they are the arteries of this great body, and all the other streets are the veins, branching out in all directions. It is easier to acquire a practical knowledge of the geography of London than of Paris, which has not the same rallying points, except the Seine, which divides