CHAPTER XL.
THE BELL AT BRISTOL.
On the morning after my dinner at Carlton House, I found my breakfast-table covered with cards and invitations.

The news of the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo was published in all the morning papers, and my own humble name, in letters of three feet long, was exhibited in placards throughout the city.
Less to this circumstance, however, than to the kind and gracious notice of the Prince, was I indebted for the attentions which were shown me by every one; and indeed, so flattering was the reception I met with, and so overwhelming the civility showered on me from all sides, that it required no small effort on my part not to believe myself as much a hero as they would make me.

An eternal round of dinners, balls, breakfasts, and entertainments filled up the entire week.

I was included in every invitation to Carlton House, and never appeared without receiving from his Royal Highness the most striking marks of attention.

Captivating as all this undoubtedly was, and fascinated as I felt in being the lion of London, the courted and sought after by the high, the titled, and the talented of the great city of the universe, yet amidst all the splendor and seduction of that new world, my heart instinctively turned from the glare and brilliancy of gorgeous saloons, from the soft looks and softer voice of beauty, from the words of praise as they fell from the lips of those whose notice was fame itself,--to my humble home amidst the mountains of the west.