But to return to the table-d’hôte. A glance round the “SALLE-A-MANGER” brought a strong conviction on my mind, that FAME had either exaggerated the virtues of the Serpent’s Bath, or had excited hopes that would seldom be realized. A majority of the guests were females; and not a few of these were of a certain—or rather of an _uncertain_, age. Of the males, the greater number were evidently dandies in decay. I never remember to have seen, in the same compass, a greater variety of feature and complexion—indicating a re-union, in this sequestered spot, of individuals from various and remote regions. But however diversified in external physiognomy, there was one point in which there was a wonderful coincidence and similarity—that point was—_not_ the point of BEAUTY. It is with mortification, I confess, that the English portion of the guests did not form a prominent exception to the general rule. To say the truth, the whole company exhibited sorry samples of the great European and Transatlantic family;—and if appetite was any index, the majority had met here, partly for health, but principally for—RE-_creation_. How far the transmutation from age to youth—from decrepitude to vigour—from the wrinkled skin to the polished surface, was effected by plunges in the Serpent’s Bath, I had not time to ascertain. I candidly acknowledge that I never saw a _real_ phœnix—but if _these_ were specimens of Dr. Fenner’s phœnixes, “rising from their ashes,” then I must say that they very much resembled a batch of old cocks and hens roosting at Schlangenbad during the molting season. The first impression which a stranger receives, while prying through Schlangenbad, is that the waters have an uglifying rather than a beautifying effect on the human frame. This is erroneous. We do not go through the wards of an hospital to search for samples of rude health—neither ought we to go to Schlangenbad for specimens of smooth skin and delicate complexion.