The glory of Spa has departed!  Time was when the idle, the gay and the dissolute crowded to this retired village to intrigue and play, under the pretence of drinking the waters; when its halls were thronged with princes and nobles, and even monarchs frequented its fetes and partook of its festivities.  The industrious inhabitants even now spare no pains to render the abode pleasant, but the capricious taste of the age lures the traveller to other springs, where still pleasanter haunts invite their presence.  Germany abounds with watering-places, which are usually rendered agreeable by a judicious disposition of walks, and by other similar temptations.  In nothing are the money-grasping and shiftless habits of America rendered more apparent, than in the inferiority of her places of public resort.  In all these particulars nature has done a good deal for some of them, but nowhere has man done anything worth naming.

A trifling expenditure has rendered the rude hill which, covered chiefly with evergreens, overlooks Spa, a succession of beautiful promenades.  Serpentine walks are led through its thickets, agreeable surprises are prepared for the stranger, and all the better points of view are ornamented by seats and summer-houses.  One of these places was covered by a permanent protection against the weather that had a name which amused us, though it was appropriate enough, so far as the shape went.  It was called a “mushroom,” it being, in fact, a sort of wooden umbrella, not unlike those which the French market-women spread over their heads in the streets of Paris, and which, more sentimental and imaginative, they term a “Robinson” in honour of Robinson Crusoe.[22] This mushroom was the scene of a remarkable occurrence, that it will scarcely do to relate, but which, taking all together, furnishes a ludicrous sample of national manners, to say nothing of miracles.

[Footnote 22:  Pronounced Ro-ban-sown.  The writer once went to return the call of Mr. Robinson, at Paris.  The porter denied that such a person lived in the hotel.  “But here is his card; Mr. Robinson, N——­, Rue ——.”  “Bah,” looking at the card, “ceci est Monsieur Ro-ban-sown; c’est autre chose.  Sans doute, Monsieur a entendu parler du celebre Ro-ban-sown?”]

The waters and the air together proved to be so much a tonic, that we determined to pass a week at Spa, A——­, who was so weak on leaving Paris, as scarcely to be able to enter the carriage, gaining strength in a way to delight us all.  The cholera and the quarantine together induce a good many people to come this way, and though few remain as long as ourselves, the constant arrivals serve to keep attention alive.  Among others, the Duke of Saxe-Cobourg passed a night here, on his way home.  He appeared in the public room, for a few minutes; but so few were assembled, that he retired, it was said, disappointed.  There is still some playing in public, and occasionally the inhabitants of Verviers,