towards the end of the evening, the islander
himself, put in a good humour, abandoned
himself to disorderly improvisations. Here,
a word between ourselves: I very much fear
that the can-can will not cross the Channel
this year. I have, however, observed some
vestiges of this highly fanciful dance at
another establishment—the Vauxhall. At
Vauxhall they hold masked balls. The
entrance costs three shillings, but the real
profit of the management is in the sale of
false noses. The bills do not tell the public
that they will not be admitted unless masked;
and it follows, that when a foreigner, ignorant
of the tricks of English trade, presents
himself, he is allowed to buy his ticket, after
which it is explained to him that it is
impossible to enter the establishment with the face
uncovered, and he is offered a false nose, at a
cost of three shillings. For the rest—when
once the false nose is paid for, he is perfectly
at liberty to put it in his pocket. If an
attendant asks why you are not masked, you
draw your nose from the depths of your coat
pocket, and are allowed to pass quietly: you
are en règle. The false nose is the passport to
the Vauxhall."

It is impossible, it appears, to obtain admittance
into "any theatre," without submitting
to "the tyrannical etiquette of the white
cravat" and the eternal black coat, upon which
M. Texier elsewhere remarks. Without, in fact,
appearing in the most authentic evening
costume, a man who has the misfortune to fail in
these requirements finds himself—in the midst
of the most populous portions of London—in
a desert; and without even the Parisian
consolation of a café to enable him to kill his
valuable time.

If the English are absurd at home, abroad
they are a little worse. M. Texier has heard
of "an honourable baronet," who had,
contrary to the habits of his class, never quitted
his country seat, except for the orthodox
three or four months in London once a year.
His mania was ornithology; and he especially
prided himself upon stuffing every possible
specimen that could be procured. His addiction
to this fascinating pursuit was fast
depriving him of his social position, when he
was reminded by a kind friend, that
"property had its duties as well as its rights."
Aroused to a sense of his situation, he saw,
at the age of thirty, that no time was to be
lost. "He ordered an immense travelling
carriage, in which was placed a bed, a table,
his instruments of dissection, his scientific
books, and his dead birds. At the back of
his carriage he established his cook and his
cuisine; and, having ordered his valet to
conduct him into the most picturesque countries
of Europe, he gave himself up very quietly to
his favourite occupation. At the end of a
year the baronet, having accomplished his
duties as a perfect gentleman, returned home,
bringing with him some hundreds of stuffed
birds. He had slept, drunk, eaten, and
stuffed in his carriage, from which he had not
dreamed of alighting; but his honour was
safe, he had crossed the Channel, and his
vehicle had visited Europe."

Returning again to the English ladies—
which M. Texier seems very fond of doing—
we are told that the "rosy and smiling Misses"
whom one meets at balls, are educated to
within an inch of their lives. "They know
history and geography like an old professor;
they have studied botany, physic, and
chemistry. These ladies, whose blooming
shoulders can scarcely be distinguished from
the satin of their robes, will speak to you in
the language of Cicero, and show you that you
have lost your time at College; I have seen
one very young lady, of great beauty, who
knew Greek. In contemplating this bland
apparition, which seemed to issue from a cloud
of lace and flowers, there was not one among
us who was not tempted to exclaim, with the
person in the Femmes Savantes—

"Ah! pour I'amour de Grec, souffrez qu'on vous
embrasse."

The author allows the English one redeeming
point, in matters of taste. If they do not
produce articles of art, like the French, at
any rate they purchase them. The Duke
of Northumberland, for instance, "possesses
one of the richest collections of pictures in
Europe, and he estimates these great works
in proportion to the price which he has
paid for them. He does not profess to have
the most beautiful paintings, but the most
costly ones. However, as the price of works
of art, whatever their merit, is limited, the
intelligent millionaire, in desperation at not
being able to find in the universe a picture
worth one or two millions, has taken the
heroic course of placing in his saloon—
magnificently framed, and in the place of honour
in the midst of the works of the masters—
a bank-note for a hundred thousand pounds.
Oh, Molière!"

Oh, Munchausen!

The author goes to Epsom on the Derby
Day—"the great festival of the year in
England." On his way he sees miniature
houses and gardens, and young ladies in white
dresses—notwithstanding the severity of the
English May—and carrying parasols, "wasted
flattery addressed to an apocryphal sun." At
the inn where he stops to refresh, the war-cry
of the moment, "No Popery,"' is inscribed,
according to custom, on the wall. He also
reads the following mysterious inscription—
"The pope and the French bayonets, for ever
John Bull can't"—which he prudently
translates into French, for the benefit of the
English public, as meaning "Le pape et les
baïonettes françaises, John Bull ne les supportera
jamais." It may be asked here, in passing,
if M. Texier really copied the English
inscription, by what process he contrived to
put it into such very sensible French?

At Epsom he admires things in general—