JOURNAL 99 



GLOUCESTER HOTEL, CLIFTON, BRISTOL, 



Sunday evening, 15th September 1833. 



Here I am in the coffee-room of the Gloucester 

 Hotel, where everything is at this moment very quiet, 

 although the voices of some fellows tippling in a neigh- 

 bouring apartment are making their way through the 

 wall. I have finished three cups of tea and half a 

 muffin. Opposite sits a tall Englishman I know he is 

 one, although I took no note of his speech. He has 

 taken half an hour to his coffee and eatables, ten 

 minutes to smacking his lips, five to picking his teeth, 

 and as many more to humming, haing, or grunting, and 

 is at present inspecting a newspaper. At another table 

 is another person, who is similarly occupied save the 

 smacking, picking, and grunting. At a cabinet is -a 

 fourth looking for a book, and at a table is a fifth read- 

 ing the Times, or basking in the rays of the True 

 Sun. What a difference between this and the coffee- 

 house of the Northumberland buildings in Dublin, 

 where, while I was discussing my beefsteak and subse- 

 quent half-pint of vinum flavum and cup of tea, three 

 Scottish men were quarrelling most obstreperously, one 

 having given to another the lie direct. The affair 

 ended in nothing, however, for the parties were evi- 

 dently not gentlemen. The Irishmen present were 

 peeping over the upper margin of their newspapers, and 

 the eyes of all the waiters were directed towards the 

 vulgar disputants. I do not exactly know how it is, 

 but I do dislike Ireland and its inhabitants, and when 



