Hyde Park is a stupid place; the English make business an enjoyment, and enjoyment a business--they are born without a smile--they rove about public places like so many easterly winds--cold, sharp, and cutting; or like a group of fogs on a frosty day, sent out of his hall by Boreas for the express purpose of looking black at one another. When they ask you, “how you do,” you would think they were measuring the length of your coffin. They are ever, it is true, labouring to be agreeable; but they are like Sisyphus, the stone they roll up the hill with so much toil, runs down again, and hits you a thump on the legs. They are sometimes polite, but invariably uncivil; their warmth is always artificial--their cold never, they are stiff without dignity, and cringing without manners. They offer you an affront, and call it “plain truth;” they wound your feelings, and tell you it is manly “to speak their minds;” at the same time, while they have neglected all the graces and charities of artifice, they have adopted all its falsehood and deceit. While they profess to abhor servility, they adulate the peerage--while they tell you they care not a rush for the minister, they move heaven and earth for an invitation from the minister’s wife. There is not another court in Europe where such systematized meanness is carried on,--where they will even believe you, when you assert that it exists. Abroad, you can smile at the vanity of one class, and the flattery of another: the first, is too well bred to affront, the latter, too graceful to disgust; but here, the pride of a noblesse, (by the way, the most mushroom in Europe,) knocks you down in a hail-storm, and the fawning of the bourgeois makes you sick with hot water. Then their amusements--the heat--the dust--the sameness--the slowness of that odious park in the morning; and the same exquisite scene repeated in the evening, on the condensed stage of a rout-room, where one has more heat, with less air, and a narrower dungeon, with diminished possibility of escape!--we wander about like the damned in the story of Vathek, and we pass our lives, like the royal philosopher of Prussia, in conjugating the verb, Je m’ennuie. CHAPTER LXVII. In solo vivendi causa palato est.--Juvenal. They would talk of nothing but high life, and high-lived company; with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the musical glasses.--Vicar of Wakefield. The reflections which closed the last CHAPTER, will serve to show that I was in no very amiable or convivial temper, when I drove to Lord Guloseton’s dinner. However, in the world, it matters little what may be our real mood, the mask hides the bent brow and the writhing lip. Guloseton was stretched on his sofa, gazing with upward eye at the beautiful Venus which hung above his hearth. “You are welcome, Pelham; I am worshipping my household divinity!”