ſhrivelled limb its former plumpneſs. This water is, in fact, the genuine oil of beauty, more effectual than eſſence of roſes, Olympian dew, or the waſh of Madame de la Pompadour. The wonder-working ſtream glides along in ſilence, under the ſhade of vile and unſeemly brambles; after watering their roots, it hides itſelf in the maternal boſom of the earth, as if in diſguſt that its powers ſhould be overlooked; while its neighbour at Carlſbad bubbles up with patrician noiſe and impatience, announces its entrance into the world by hot lixivial fumes, and hears its praiſes from the mouth of the whole gouty world. Doubtleſs were the latent virtues of the mountain ſpring, whether in perpetuating the ſhort-lived bleſſing of female beauty, or reſtoring its bloom when faded, properly advertiſed, all Chriſtendom, to the no ſmall emolument of the good town of Zwikow, would pour forth its maids and matrons, in the form of pil-grims
