our coasters. He describes the Downs, lands at Gravesend, mounts a coach for London, arrives there, and takes up his quarters at the Colonnade hotel, where he is received with courtesy, though an "unfortunate outside."

His description of the coffee-room of the hotel is admirable and amusing, and given with much quiet humour.

"The coffee-room, into which I now entered, was a spacious apartment of oblong form, having two chimneys with coal fires. The walls were of a dusky orange; the windows at either extremity were hung with red curtains, and the whole sufficiently well illuminated by means of several gas chandeliers. I hastened to appropriate to myself a vacant table by the side of the chimney, in order that I might have some company besides my own musing, and be able, for want of better, to commune with the fire. The waiter brought me the carte, the list of which did not present any very attractive variety. It struck me as very insulting to the pride of the Frenchman, whom I had caught a glimpse of on entering, not to say extremely cruel, to tear him from the joys and pastimes of his belle France, and conduct him to this land of fogs, of rain, and gloomy Sundays, only to roast sirloins, and boil legs of

mutton.

"The waiter, who stood beside me in attendance, very respectfully suggested that the gravy-soup was exceedingly good; that there was some fresh sole, and a particularly nice piece of roast beef. Being very indifferent as to what I ate, or whether I ate any thing, and moreover quite willing to be relieved from the embarrassment of selecting from such an unattractive bill of fare, I laid aside the carte, not however before I had read, with some curiosity, the following singular though very sensible admonition, 'Gentlemen are particularly requested not to miscarve the joints.'

"I amused myself with the soup, sipped a little wine, and trifled with the fish. At length I found myself face to face with the enormous sirloin. There was something at least in the rencounter which conveyed the idea of society; and society of any sort is better than absolute solitude.

"I was not long in discovering that the different personages scattered about the room in such an unsocial and misanthropic manner, instead of being collected about the same board, as in France or my own country, and, in the spirit of good fellowship and of boon companions, relieving each other of their mutual ennuis, though they did not speak a word to each other, by which they might hereafter be compromised and socially ruined, by discovering that they had made the acquaintance of an individual several grades below them in the scale of rank, or haply as disagreeably undeceived by the abstraction of a pocket-book, still kept up a certain interchange of sentiment, by occasional glances and mutual observation. Man, after all, is by nature gregarious and social; and though the extreme limit to which civilisation has attained in this highly artificial country may have instructed people how to meet together in public places of this description without intermixture of classes or mutual contamination, yet they cannot, for the life of them, be wholly indifferent to each other. Though there was no interchange of sentiments by words then, yet there was no want of mutual observation, sedulously concealed indeed, but still revealing itself in a range of the eye, as if to ask a question of the clock, and in furtive glances over a book or a newspaper.

"In the new predicament in which I was now placed, the sirloin was then exceedingly useful. It formed a most excellent line of defence, an unassailable breast work, behind which I lay most completely intrenched, and defended at all points from the sharp-shooting of the surrounding observers. The moment I found myself thus intrenched, I began to recover my equanimity, and presently took courage-bearing in mind always the injunction of the bill of fare, not to miscarve the joints-to open an embrasure through the tender loin. Through this I sent my eyes sharp-shooting towards the guests at the other end of the room, and will, if the reader pleases, now furnish him with the result of my observations.

"In the remote corner of the coffee-room sat a party of three. They had finished their dinner, and were sipping their wine. Their conversation was carried on in a loud tone, and ran upon lords and ladies, suits in chancery, crim. con. cases, and marriage settlements. I did not hear the word dollar once; but the grander and nobler expression of thousand pounds occurred perpetually. Moreover, they interlarded their discourse abundantly with foreign reminiscences and French words, coarsely pronounced, and awfully anglicised. I drew the conclusion from this, as well as from certain cant phrases and vulgarisms of expression in the use of their own tongue, such as "regularly done"-" completely floored,"-" split the difference," that they were not the distinguished people of which they laboured to convey the impression.

"In the corner opposite this party of three, who were at the cost of all the conversation of the coffee-room, sat a long-faced, straightfeatured individual, with thin hair and whiskers, and a bald head. There was a bluish tinge about his cheek-bones and nose, and he had, on the whole, a somewhat used look. He appeared to be reading a book which he held before him, and which he occasionally put aside to glance at a newspaper that lay on his lap, casting, from time to time, furtive glances over book or newspaper at the colloquial party before him, whose conversation, though he endeavoured to conceal it, evidently occupied him more than his book.

"Halfway down the room, on the same side, sat a very tall, rosy young man, of six-and-twenty or more; he was sleek, fair-faced, with auburn hair, and, on the whole, decidedly handsome, though his appearance could not be qualified as distinguished. He sat quietly and contentedly, with an air of the most thoroughly vacant bonhommie, never moving limb or muscle, except when, from time to time, he lifted to his mouth a fragment of thin biscuit, or replenished his glass from the decanter of black-looking wine beside him. I fancied, from his air of excellent health, that he must be a country gentleman, whose luxuriant growth had been nurtured at a distance from the gloom and condensation of cities. I could not determine whether his perfect air of quiescence and repose were the effect of consummate breeding, or simply a negative quality, and that he was not fidgety only because troubled by no thoughts, no ideas, and no sensations.

"There was only one table between his and mine. It was occupied by a tall, thin, dignified-looking man, with a very grave and noble cast of countenance. I was more pleased with him than with any other in the room, from the quiet, musing, self-forgetfulness of his air, and the mild and civil manner in which he addressed the servants. These were only two in number, though a dozen or more tables were spread around, each capable of seating four persons. They were well-dressed, decentlooking men, who came and went quickly, yet quietly, and without confusion, at each call for George or Thomas. The patience of the

guests seemed unbounded, and the object of each to destroy as much time as possible. The scene, dull as it was, furnished a most favourable contrast to that which is exhibited at the ordinaries of our great inns, or in the saloons of our magnificent steamers."

After all, we know not where the traveller can find so much real comfort in a hotel, as in England. No where else are there such attentive and noiseless servants, such all-pervading cleanliness. A coffee-room, with its scattered diners, may look unsocial, and even misanthropic; and a French table-d'hôte may be more lively and equally agreeable, but we most solemnly protest against any comparison in favour of our own style of hotel dining. Whoever has traveled in the United States, will remember the horrors of a public table; the anxious crowd around the bolted door; the rush to the table; the seizing and quick despatch of food; the impossibility of a clean plate, or of the services of a domestic. Then the misery of having to hurry from the pleasantest engagement in the world at the dinner hour, certain, that if twenty minutes have elapsed since the gong or bell sounded, the dinner has elapsed with it. This is no exaggeration; and although in our cities a private table is no longer unattainable, the general custom is as we describe it.

The comforts of traveling in England, maugre the expense, are very great. The ease of locomotion, the facility of making long or short journeys, as is wished, the minute punctuality, the speed, and the certainty of good accommodation, all render it an elysium to the tourist. Instead of lumbering along in a diligence, or still more slowly, in a "vettura," you fly over the ground, drawn by fleet and well-groomed horses, at the rate of from ten to twelve miles an hour, with a motion scarcely less easy than that of a cradle. The coach stops, you descend at a hotel; the waiter receives you at the door; the chamber maid stands in the entry to conduct you to a chamber, "Boots" following with your luggage. There you find carpets and comforts; above all, that greatest of luxuries to a traveller, a wellarranged and perfect washing apparatus, foot-bath, towels, &c. When you descend to dinner, you do not find persons ready to start a political discussion with you, nor the luxurious profusion of the French "carte;" but you do find a neat table, a complete service, and your meal when you choose, be it early or late, and under no risk of an indigestion from haste. In France the thing may admit a comparison. At Meurice's, par exemple," one dines like a king, with courses and servants, and even conversation, provided that he does not sit next to a newly landed "Anglais."

Much may be said on the unsociability of the English. It is true that their manner is cold and haughty, and perhaps

especially of those who wish to show in it what nature has denied them in their birth. Our tourist meets a remarkable instance of civility, on board the steamer, between Rye and Portsmouth. As often as it has been our lot to sit on or in a stage coach, we never heard any thing like a conversation thereon or therein; occasionally a gleam of intercourse will show itself in a remark about the weather, but generally the four insides and the nine outsides sit in silence, muffled in their cloaks, as if Niobe's fate had fallen on them. Nor can we absolve our own countrymen from the blame of repulsiveness when abroad. Brooks relates, in one of his late letters, an amusing incident of his having offended an American by not mistaking him for an Englishman.

The appearance of modern London, as conveying the idea of wealth and magnificence, struck the "American" very forcibly. We have always preferred it to that of any of the continental cities with which we are acquainted. The entrance to Paris, by the Champs Elysées, is fine, and that to Rome, by the Porto del Popolo, imposing; but neither of them has ever excited our imagination as much as the view of Regent Street, and Park, and that from Hyde Park Corner. The happy mixture of stately buildings, of gorgeous terraces, of verdure and of foliage, all combine to heighten the effect. Not but what there are many architectural "niaiseries" in the west end; we allude merely to the effect of the whole. The "American" reflects very justly on the little advantage his countrymen take of the modern construction of their cities, to reserve places and parks for embellishment and healthy recreation. He regrets that we should content ourselves with red brick rows instead of beautiful terraces, and that sameness should have satisfied us where there could be so much variety. We think that the superior beauty of the modern streets of the European cities must be one of the very first impressions of every visiter to the Continent. It is to be regretted that the utilitarian spirit of the age has prevented the full development of taste with us. We have no class who have leisure or inclination for mere amusement: hence the fine arts have languished with us; and we shall be doomed to see elegance generally sacrificed to profit. It is not however too late; we have still abundance of space, and thousands of buildings are yet to be erected: may we not hope that some change will be effected, and that persons will no longer run the risk of entering their neighbours' houses instead of their own, unable, as the Irishman said, to tell "t'other from which." We may yet have parks and places, and not be condemned, when we want exercise, to take it in the dust of the suburbs.

Our American visits the theatres, churches, and institutions

of London. He is shocked at the licentiousness of the former. He descends into the city, and is taken through the Bank, Lloyd's, the Stock Exchange, and goes on 'Change in all its glory. He here sees Rothschild, and as he is one of the lions of the day, we transcribe his picture:

"On reaching the eastern side I was struck with the regal air of a man who was leaning against one of the columns, with his face towards the courtyard, giving audience to a crowd of suppliants. He was a very common-looking person, with heavy features, flabby, pendant lips, and a projecting fish-eye. His figure, which was stout, awkward, and ungainly, was enveloped in the loose folds of an ample surtout. Yet there was something commanding in his air and manner, and the deferential respect which seemed voluntarily rendered to him by those who approached him showed that it was no ordinary person. 'Who is that?' was the natural question. The king of the Jews.'

"The persons crowding round were presenting bills of exchange. He would glance for a moment at a paper, return it with an affirmatory nod, and turn to the next individual pressing forward for an audience. Two well-looking young men, with somewhat of an air of dandyism, stood beside him, making memoranda to assist in the recollection of bargains, regulating the whole continental exchange of the day. Even without this assistance he is said to be able to call to mind every bargain that he has made. The most singular stories are told of the business habits of this extraordinary individual, who manœuvres stocks and loans with as much skill, and not always without the same important effect, as Napoleon did armies and artillery. His favourite study is said to be looking over his bills of exchange; these are his literary pets,—they are both poetry and prose to him: with these he communes by the hour. It is said that he can, on any day, tell without reference every bill that is to fall due. We were delighted to find that he had recovered possession of his favoutite column, against which he was standing, and that the intrusive Mr. Rose, on whose conduct there had been much speculation in the newspapers, was nowhere to be seen.

"This astonishing man was formerly the mere agent, at Manchester, of a Jew house in Frankfort, for the purchase of cotton goods. Subsequently he removed to London, and commenced the traffic in exchanges. He was first brought into notice during the war, by transmitting to the Austrian government at Vienna the subsidy furnished by England for carrying on the war. He executed this in a bold manner, at a time when the older bankers declined the task, on account of the agitated condition of continental affairs. After this, he was regularly employed by the government in remitting funds to the British troops in the Peninsula and elsewhere; this he was always able to do promptly, by rallying around him all his Jew brethren throughout the continent. Of these he may now be esteemed the king; unless, indeed, his title to royal honours should be disputed by our clever and facetious high-priest, who not long since conceived the project of uniting the scattered tribes on the new Ararat of Lake Erie, and, robed like Melchisedek of old, enacted such a delectable farce within hearing of the roar of Niagara.

"The chief origin of the present enormous fortune of this individual was his purchasing largely in the funds of all the old established powers, towards the close of the French war and Napoleon's career. He went into these stocks as deep as he was able, buying extensively, then raising money on what he had bought, and still going on to buy more. By the