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Our friend, soon finding that he was 'cock of the walk,' had no notion of
exchanging his greatness for the nothingness of London, and, save going up
occasionally to see about opening the flood-gates of his fortune, he spent
nearly the whole summer at Laverick Wells. A fine season it was, too--the
finest season the Wells had ever known. When at length the long London
season closed, there was a rush of rank and fashion to the English
watering-places, quite unparalleled in the 'recollection of the oldest
inhabitants.' There were blooming widows in every stage of grief and woe,
from the becoming cap to the fashionable corset and ball flounce--widows
who would never forget the dear deceased, or think of any other
man--_unless he had at least five thousand a year_. Lovely girls, who
didn't care a farthing if the man was 'only handsome'; and smiling mammas
'egging them on,' who would look very different when they came to the
horrid L s. d. And this mercantile expression leads us to the observation
that we know nothing so dissimilar as a trading town and a watering-place.


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