I was soon in London, and received many marks of attention and kindness from the representatives of an old commercial house, which for years had sold every hogshead of tobacco from the Granby plantations. My bills were honored, and at the instance of Scipio I took a suite of rooms in the most fashionable street of the city. Without letters of introduction, and too proud to search for my many noble relatives, (my uncle had drugged me with their amors, duels and honors!) I succumbed in silence to that cheerless solitude which flaps its funeral wing around the indurated selfishness of a crowded city. At the Virginia Coffee House, I frequently found many of my own countrymen, who were making the tour of Europe only because their fathers had done it. An utter contempt of money--a carelessness of air and manner--a generous and open hearted confidence in every one--a familiarity with the Doncaster and Epsom turf--an anxious zeal in attending the courts of Westminster, and the gallery of the House of Commons, with a thorough knowledge of the literary history of England, and the places hallowed by Shakspeare and the Spectator, were their striking and changeless characteristics. Shortly after my permanent and fixed residence had been made, I was lounging, as was my wont, in the crowded walks of the Exchange--the only idle being in that heated and feverish walk of gain, when a loud cry broke through the multitude and a horse dashed near me, the foot of his rider hanging in the stirrup. I instantly sprang forward, caught the bridle, leaped on his back, and leaning down I rescued the unfortunate rider from his perilous situation. From this event an intimacy commenced between Col. R---- and myself. His history was brief. High birth and fortune smiled on his cradle. Entering into manhood he had purchased a commission in the army, and had lived out Swift's spirited description of the man of fashion, "in dancing, fighting, gaming, making the circle of Italy, riding the great horse and speaking French." Satiated with the world, he had left it without being either a churl or a misanthrope. He resided in a costly villa near London, which his taste had decorated with elegance and refinement. The massy richness of an aged grove, soothed, without chilling the fancy, and through its broad vista the glimmering light lent itself to diversify uniformity without diminishing grandeur. Consistency towered above vanity, for there were no glades rolled into gravelled plains, nor trees sheared into fantastic foliage--that sickly taste which finds honor in the sacrifice of simplicity, and pride in its outrage on nature. The walls of his house were hung with rare and deeply mellowed paintings, and his capacious library was stocked with the heavy tomes of ancient lore. Gone are those good old books!--their spirit has been turned into a tincture!--their life and soul have been abridged--the stern Clitus has been disgraced by a