My dear Tiverton,--You often said I was a fellow to make a spoon or spoil a--something which I have forgotten--and I begin to fancy that you were a better prophet than that fellow in "Bell's Life" who always predicts the horse that does _not_ win the Oaks. When we parted a few days ago, my mind was resolutely bent on becoming another Metternich or Palmerston. I imagined a whole life of brilliant diplomatic successes, and thought of myself receiving the freedom of the City of London, dining with the Queen, and making "very pretty running" for the peerage. What will you say, then, when I tell you that I despise the highest honors of the entire career, and would n't take the seals of the Foreign Office, if pressed on my acceptance this minute? To save myself from even the momentary accusation of madness, I 'll give you--and in as few words as I can--ray explanation. As I have just said, I set out with my head full of Ambassadorial ambitions, and jogged along towards England, scarcely noticing the road or speaking to my fellow-travellers. On arriving at Frankfort, however, I saw nothing on all sides of me but announcements and advertisements of the baths of Homburg,--"The last week of the season, and the most brilliant of all." Gorgeous descriptions of the voluptuous delights of the place--lists of distinguished visitors, and spicy bits of scandal--alternated with anecdotes of those who had "broke the bank," and were buying up all the chateaux and parks in the neighborhood. I tried to laugh at these pictorial puffs; I did my best to treat them as mere humbugs; but it would n't do. I went to bed so full of them that I dreamed all night of the play-table, and fancied myself once again the terror of croupiers, and the admired of the fashionable circle in the _salon_. To crown all, a waiter called me to say that the carriage I had ordered for the baths was at the door. I attempted to undeceive him; but even there my effort was a failure; and, convinced that there was a fate in the matter, I jumped out of bed, dressed, and set off, firmly impressed with the notion that I was not a free agent, but actually impelled and driven by destiny to go and win my millions at Homburg. Perhaps my ardor was somewhat cooled down by the aspect of the place. It has few of the advantages nature has so lavishly bestowed on Baden, and which really impart to that delightful resort a charm that totally disarms you of all distrust, and make you forget that you are in a land of "legs" and swindlers, and that every second man you meet is a rogue or a runaway. Now, Homburg does not, as the French say, "impose" in this way. You see at once that it is a "Hell," and that the only amusement is to ruin or to be ruined.