Here let me observe that I entirely endorse all that my talented countryman, Anthony Trollope, has stated regarding the inhospitality of the enormous American hotels, where weary and travel-worn ladies are forced to await in the wretched reception parlors, the often long delayed advent of the official charged to show them their rooms, while gentlemen, still more unfortunate, must attend in the office the favor for which they have humbly made supplication to His Majesty the Book-keeper. How different from the hearty welcome of “Mine Host” and his worthy spouse, in the cheerful, old-fashioned inns of England; how cheerily the landlord enters, and stirring the fire, makes his guests feel instantly at home; while the good wife, were you an old acquaintance, could not proffer for you with greater kindness the best fare her house can afford. The pretty chambermaid, too, candle in hand, shows you to a clean, comfortable bedroom, leaving at the same time, all the requisites for your toilet; and as you discuss your cutlet or roast chicken, the waiter tells you of all to be seen in the town and neighborhood. He closes the shutters and draws the curtains, and your glass of sherry or old port, as may be, has quite a home flavor, as you draw your easy-chair cosily before the bright, glad fire, which itself sparkles and crackles its welcome. I am not now describing the London or new railway hotels, Heaven forbid! they are less comfortable, and far more expensive than those in America; but I allude to the charming “hostelries” of the olden times, some of which still exist, though “few and far between.” Thanks, however, to the kind consideration of Mr. D’Arcy, we were ushered at once to our suite of elegantly furnished rooms, only too thankful to seek and find repose in the luxurious beds of this splendid Hotel. On awakening, next morning, my first impression of New York was as if I saw pictured before me, in giant proportions, one of the toy towns with their many colored houses, interspersed with green trees, that used to come to me in large oval deal boxes in the days of my youth. Red brick, grey, brown, white, dark chocolate stone—all of multiform size and shape, such is the description of the dwellings, in this metropolis of the west, now decked in its mantle of summer foliage. Our heroine had been wedded about three months—was she blessed in her second union more than in her first marriage? My kind and gentle readers, she was not happy—yet she was content. But had she ever before indulged in any illusions, as regards Sir Percy, they must have quickly faded. Even on returning from the Church, his bride at his side, not one word of affection did the newly-made husband utter; of himself alone he spoke—_his_ position, _his_ future; but then, to be sure, he was turned of fifty, and as Byron observes, rather than one husband at that mature age, “’Twere better to have _two_, at five-and-twenty.” This was the beginning of sorrows.