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proved from several historical remains. Bladud is supposed to have existed at Bath about 480 years before the birth of Christ. I do not profess myself much of an antiquarian, and therefore shall not detain you by a long exposition of facts easily culled from books; my wish is to give you a hasty sketch of the city, and its inhabitants. Bath is surrounded on one side by the spacious plains of Wiltshire and Dorsetshire; and on the other by the river Severn, which unites with the river Wye, and may be seen from the summit of one of the hills in Bath. The city itself is completely situated in a valley: wherever you turn, the green summits of hills, crowned with woods and foliage, attract your admiring gaze. Let me recommend you, when you pay Bath a visit, to climb up Beeching Cliff, and I promise you a prospect that will never be forgotten. Placed on the meadow that extends behind the embowering wood, you have the whole city lying before you. To the right, is the rocky hill of Claverton, beautifully varied with fields of all hues; on the top is an ancient building, vulgarly denominated Sham Castle; there are, I believe, a few superstitious legends connected with this mouldered pile-but they are not worth recording. Nothing can be imagined more calmly picturesque than Claverton, when its sloping expanse is shone upon by the declining sun. The flickering of the tinting sunbeams on the ivied walls of the castle itself; the solitary grandeur of its decaying turrets; and the gleaming roofs of rustic cottages speckling the surrounding scenery, balk the powers of description. To the left, you can perceive the gentle Avon meandering along its verdant banks, till it gradually winds away among the clustering trees and deep overhanging woods. Fronting your downward gaze, lies the city, in all its sleeping magnificence-for thus it appears, with its myriad roofs and chimnies covered with a thin garment of smoke, that just permits the houses to peep through its mantling dimness. The "Crescent Fields," "Beacon Hill," the " Parades," and many other noted situations, may be discerned from this

eminence.

It was night when I entered Bath, from the lower Bristol road: the "Old Bridge" entrance is by no means the best. The bridge itself is in a mouldering state, the neighbouring houses of a muggy appearance, and the vapors steaming from the river, are any thing but refreshing to a visitant. Still, I remember, a feeling of pleasure warmed my mind as the coach wheels rattled briskly over the bridge, and the long tirade of glittering lamps convinced me I was entering the city. Of course, you are not unreasonable enough to imagine, that I shall conduct you in my descriptions through the whole of the city! you must be content with a picture of some of its principal streets, &c. &c.

Like all other places, Bath has vastly increased in size within these fifty years. Each spot of vacant land is readily monopolized by builders: some have been romantic enough to imagine that Bath and Bristol will, ere long, be united! You have, doubtless, heard Bath much admired for its sumptuous buildings-and justly so; for

travel England (I was going to say the world) over, and you will still find them peerless for their regularity, neatness, external grandeur, and internal comfort. Bath enjoys an advantage peculiar to itself: nearly all its houses are constructed with freestone from its own neighbouring quarries. When new, the freestone imparts to them a smiling neatness; when sombered by the crust of age, they still retain an equable kind of majestic appearance. Bath is not like London, remarkable for its single edifices, but for the general beauty of its streets, which are never spoiled by the introduction of shabby contemptible houses among those of a superior order. "The Parades" are no longer what they were in the days of Sheridan, when he wrote the Rivals;" they are still inhabited by gentility, but comparatively deserted by fashionables: by the bye, you must not forget that Sheridan himself formerly resided in " Kingsmead Street," now the abode of hucksters, aud "things of that sort." The abbey is, in itself, a theme for volumes: Britton has lately produced a valuable work to illustrate it. "Union Street," and "Milsom Street," may be compared (in regard to the fashion attached to them) to the Bond Street and Regent Street of London: both are elegantly adorned with shops displaying all that can tempt the purse, and feast the eye. "Queen Square," "Gay Street," &c. &c. &c. &c. are all remarkably handsome. I cannot help thinking, that the ascent of many of the principal streets in Bath, tends to increase the pleasing picture they represent: vide several philosophers' writings for an explanation of this mystery. I can only stop to mention two noted resorts in Bath--Pultney Street and the Royal Crescent; who has not heard of these? The only fault in Pultney Street is its shortness; were it double the length, we might fairly pronounce it unrivalled. I remember a friend of mine, Captain As, remarking, that a few years ago, he “shot "snipes on the swamp where Pultney Street now stands ;" who knows what you and I may came to! Well, then, for Pultney Street— viewed from the top, it is really beautiful. The massy importance of its houses, the grand simplicity of their architecture, the spacious width of the road, and smooth expanse of pavement, cannot but gratify the spectator. At the beginning, there is an enclosure surrounded by iron rails, and at the end stands Sydney Gardens-the Vauxhall of Bath. On gala nights, the situation of the Gardens is very effective on the eye; the brilliant star in the centre is vividly attractive at a great distance. Passing through the "Circus" and "Brock Street," you arrive at the Royal Circus: I have been in many cities of England, but have never beheld any building so truly magnificent and imposing. The length is very considerable; this, added to the "tout ensemble" of its appearance (I really cannot find a better expression), renders it the subject of every visitor's admiration. The Crescent looks most superb amid the glitter of a summer sunshine: the dazzling gleams of light on the window panes, the twining vines running up the walls, the many pretty faces smiling through the drawing-room windows, and the mixed concourse of Sunday ambulators in the Crescent itself, considerably increase the charms of this

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resort. It is here that Sir Francis Burdett resides for part of the year, with his family, not more illustrious than amiable. Mr. Beckford, author of Byron's admired "Vathek," has a gorgeous mansion in the Upper Crescent."

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Like Brighton, and other fashionable haunts, Bath may be said to subsist on its season—that is, six months in winter. Many are of opinion, that its fashionable fame is declining. I do not pretend to be a judge, but am disposed to coincide with them for many reasons. Few of the ancient and noble families reside here as formerly, when the lower boxes at the theatre presented a row of nobility rarely matched. The season, at this time, is full; but Bath is far from it. A worse season than the present is scarcely remembered in the annals of the tradesmen and pump-room. I suppose that the late pecuniary embarrassments have ruined the dissipated, and taught prudence to the lavish. In order to give you a picture of Bath in the season, I must draw a brief contrast by its appearance in summer. Perhaps you recollect the dreadful heat of Florence, mentioned in Madame de Stael's Corinne- such is the burning fervor of the sun, during the summer at Bath. The walls and stones seem in a perfect glow, and every step you take is an advance to a brain-fever. At this time, Bath may be said to be empty. The pump-room doors are fried by the sun, the theatre is closed, the rooms deserted, the hotels in a melancholy tranquillity, the pastry-cook shops monotonous, and the whole city seems to have taken laudanum. If you crawl out into the streets, you ought, male or female, to carry a parasol. A dandy is rarely to be seen; the tradesmen yawn at their shop doors, and grope their breeches for "want of thought;" beautiful shapes, rustling in beautiful dresses, are now become rare. Perhaps a few old stagers, faithful to Bath all the year round, are to be seen in Milsom Street, lounging round an auctioneer's door, or seated on a bench beneath a wide spreading" canvass, chewing politics, wiping their brows, and exclaiming, "how dd hot 'tis!" The very organ men and daily street drummers are now invisible. But to the contrast:-no sooner has jovial December made its dark appearance, than a general smile pervades the town. Now it is that chaises, carriages, and all manner of vehicles, well sprinkled with mud, come dashing by Lambridge, and throw life into the York House, whose ten thousand bells commence their notes like so many mad election bawlers. Often as I have marked the merry countenance of a young stranger whirled into this queen of cities, I have not been able to refrain from wishing, "may you return as happy as you have come!" What a contrast now, to the scene a few months ago! Every thing seems alive-every body in a bustle, and every door in the full use of its hinges; the bills of the theatre tempt your eye at the corners of each street, and lots of "unri"valled wonders" are in the custody of "Quiet Streét;" the pumproom displays its motley concourse, and fiddle strings are again inspired. What may be said more particularly to certify the reason, is the morning rap of the Master of the Ceremonies, at the street door of

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the "qualified:" "Pon my soul, coz, the office of Master of Ceremonies at Bath, is as good as any sinecure under Government: you cannot help being a gentleman, you must see good company, and not a peeress in the city will disdain to give you a sign of approbation from one of her features. "Oh! terque, quaterque beati vos," Master of Ceremonies! If you look into the four papers (or one of them perhaps will be enough) you may glance over among "arrivals" the names of the increasing visitors, trace "fashion" glimmering through every page, peruse with divine extacies the first ball and concert, or catch the demi-hint of an about-to-be masquerade, and a most-probable dramatic fete, and bless your lucky stars that you are in Bath. Thus I have given you a sketch of the visible graces of a commencing season, I shall now conduct you a little further into the arcana, and then say, vale!

Gaiety, pleasure, and amusement (for these are somewhat essentially different) are particularly attributed to Bath by the world in general. The satirists of the last century never failed to introduce its name as an illustration of a fashionable scene; and Brougham, some few months back, seemed astonished that Bath should have a Mechanics' Institution! A little consideration will soon explain this :--Those who chiefly support Bath, are invalids of rank and fortune, who resort here to drink its health-inspiring waters: their presence naturally attracts the branches of their different families, and other connections; thus, without remembering the architectural beauty of the city, &c., we may account for the gay assemblage of the ton in Bath. Of course it is for the interest of Bath to produce as many attractions as possible. The manners of the Bath people can only be characterized by viewing them as exhibited in their different orders---the genteel, middling, and low; but surely it is unnecessary for me to dwell here; they are like all others similarly situated. One thing I must not omit, in relation to the sentiments of the Bathonians :---no other city in England contains an equal number of charitable establishments; so that if there be an abundance of folly here, there is, likewise, an abundance of charity; and charity, we all know, "cover"eth a multitude of sins." The following is the usual method of spending a day, d-là-mode, in Bath: we must imagine the day to be fine:--

Turn out from your bed about noon: you must not think of rising before this; better almost break three commandments in the decalogue than sin here. Considering, too, that if in the right train, you are seldom in bed till three or four in the morning; no one need think you a sluggard. Should it be once known in the Crescents, &c., that you were "visible" before twelve, from that moment date your fall in the estimation of the ton. Spend the hours from twelve to two in drinking coffee, and self-adjustment; that is, arranging your person for the inspection of the town. At two o'clock leave your lodgings; be every inch Bathish; twist your cane with the nonchalance of a gentleman; point your toes well, and march into Milsom Street. Think of fashion, pomposity, lolling vanity, beauty, small waists,

and stumping boots, all en masse, and you may imagine the picture Milsom Street presents between two or three o'clock, in the season. It is true, the street is not many yards long; but Diogenes lived glorified in a tub, and you may establish your importance even in these few yards. Let me just caution you to remember the spurs as you lounge through this street; they are frequently usurped by those who never crossed a horse. Do not forget to drop in at Duffields' as you pass; he will do you the amiable; and you will, I am sure, be delighted by the rich exhibitions in his saloon. If you are desirous of being "somebody," (a great many somebodies here are nobodies) forget not to amuse your lips with a few select pies and cakes at Mrs. Mel-- somebody—I don't remember the concluding syllable; however, her shop of condiments is at the end of Milsom Street; enter there, eat, smile, quiz, and be quizzed, and then come out again. Your next place for a morning call, must be at the General News Office, a depot for newspapers, at the top of New Bond Street; here you may turn over fifty journals, without reading one, behold the day's politics in Miss Williams' smile, talk of the war, of periodical literature, flourish your large India silk handkerchief, and leave the door with a strut and a bienséance that will linger behind you, like the shadow of a peer.

Union Street is a lounge arising from Milsom Street; it is as much dependant on it, as the aqueduct to the spring for its water: this is a very passable street for a few minutes' loitering and ogling. All the shops display quite a metropolitan kind of show; there is, too, a corridor, some few feet in length, leading out from Union Street, that seems to beseech a little good company, and a little good money; you will hear a fiddle there, whose Orphean tunes almost charm the money from your pocket. But by this time the pump-room assembly must be complete;-there you are coz! did you ever see a finer room? There are a number of associations connected with this lounge; amongst these, two are not the least important-Chesterfield wrote an epigram on its stony Beau Nash; and the late Queen Charlotte took a pinch of snuff here! I need not, I imagine, tell you that this is the rendezvous where the waters are drunk. To delight the pumproom ambulators, a very good band is provided; who, seated in a lofty orchestra, make the walls echo with their commingling music. I believe the pump-room was intended (excepting invalids) solely for the genteel part of the community; but the doors are remarkably wide, the music remarkably enticing, the pretty faces remarkably numerous; and why should not retired tinkers indulge themselves. with a strut there, as well as Lord D. or Lord Any-body-else? But the pump-room has other conveniences;-it is here the balls are decided on, actors criticised, the fates of empires weighed, the qualifications of the present season discussed, flirtations commenced, and quizzers abound. You will be amused to observe the different characters parading :---Yonder mopes along, at a snail-like pace, the gouty remnant of three score and ten ;---there is a cluster of "nice young maidens," giggling, tossing their pretty heads, and showering

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