And now to wander homewards. How houseless the man is who calls his inn his home! It was all very well for "Sir John" to say, "I like to take mine ease in mine inn;" and in his day the thing was practicable. The little parlour, with its wainscot of walnut-wood and its bright tiles, all shining in the tempered light through the diamond-paned window; the neatly spread table, where smoked the pasty of high-seasoned venison, beside the tall cup of sack or canary; and the buxom landlady herself, redolent of health, good spirits, and broad jest;--these were all accessories to that abandonment to repose and quiet so delightful to the weary-minded. But think of some "Cour de Russie," some "Angelo d' Oro," or some "Schwarzen Adler," all alive with dusty arrivals and frogged couriers--the very hall a fair, with fifty bells, all ringing; postboys blowing--whips cracking--champagne corks flying--and a Bable of every tongue in Europe, making a thorough-bass din that would sour a saint's temper!...
I'll leave at once--I'll find some quiet little gasthaus in the Tyrol for a few weeks, till the weather moderates, and it becomes cool enough to cross the Alps--and die!
These watering-place doctors have less tact than their _confrères_ elsewhere: their theory is, "the Wells and Amusement;" they never strain their faculties to comprehend any class but that of hard-worked, exhausted, men of the world, to whom the regularity of a Bad-ort, and the simple pleasures it affords, are quite sufficient to relieve the load of over-taxed minds and bodies. The "distractions" of these places suit such people well; the freedom of intercourse, which even among our strait-laced countrymen prevails, is pleasant. My Lord refreshes in the society of a clever barrister, or an amusing essayist of the "Quarterly." The latter puts forth all his agreeability for the delectation of a grander audience than he ever had at home. But to one who has seen all these ranks and conditions of men--who finds nothing new in the _morgue_ of the Marquis, or the last _mot_ of the Bench--it is somewhat too bad to be told that such intercourse is a part of your treatment.
My worthy friend Dr. Guckhardt has mistaken me; he fancies my weariness is the result of solitude, and that my exhaustion is but _ennui_; and, in consequence, has he gone about on the high roads and public places inquiring if any one knows Horace Templeton, who is "sick and ill." And here is the fruit: a table covered with visiting cards and scented notes of inquiry. My Lord Tollington--a Lord of the Bedchamber, a dissolute old fop--very amusing to very young men, but intolerable to all who have seen anything themselves. Sir Harvey Clifford, a Yorkshire Jesuit, who travels with a _socius_ from Oscot and a whole library of tracts controversial. Reginald St. John, a "levanter" from the Oaks. Colonel Morgan O'Shea, absent without leave for having shot his father-in-law. Such are among the first I find. But whose writing is this?... I know the hand well.... Frank Burton, that I knew so well at Oxford! Poor devil! he joined the 9th Lancers when he came of age, and ran through every thing he had in the world in three years. He married a Lady Mary somebody, and lives now on her family. What is his note about?