Among that unfortunate class "individual
egotism assumes its most revolting form.
Nothing can be more disagreeable and
disgusting to the foreigner than this intentional
and boasting regardlessness in individuals, for
which the term of rudeness is by no means too
strong." * * "Hence their class distinctions.
It would take a volume to say who, or what
is a gentleman. But, in England, everybody
says, ' I am a gentleman, and all beneath me
are the mob.' "  And further on the writer
informs his countrymen that England is the
very country they ought to go to, if they
would learn how they ought not to behave;
and that just as in Germany every one
pretends to be enlightened (aufgeklärt), so in
England every one believes himself to be a
gentleman, and to conduct himself in a
"gentlemanlike manner."

A German must give a reason for everything,
arid the writer accordingly discovers
that our national peculiarities are all founded
upon the fact that we are a nation of sailors.
Our language (and in support of this assertion
Madame de Staël is cited as an authority)
our habits, our domestic arrangements, and
our opinions upon things in general, are
influenced by the insulated position of our
country; they are those of a sea-faring people.
Hence the economy of space in the construction
of our houses; the steep, narrow stairs;
the absence of ante-chambers, the frequency
of sky-lights and of oil-cloths; our mode of
shutting ourselves up as in ships' cabins,
either at home, or in the boxes of coffee-rooms;
the bluntness of our general bearing, and the
worse than vulgarity of our pleasures.

It is very kind of the German to find so
good an excuse for us being a bad people.
And it is pleasant to find that he has devoted
some attention to the means of what is
popularly called "ameliorating our condition;"
and that the labouring classes in particular
have excited so much of his sympathy—an
article of which he must have had a great
deal to spare after his other experiences. He
appears, from philosophical or other motives,
to have dined at the East end of the town
miscellaneously among the masses (even while
fresh from Soyer's Symposium); to have
partaken of what he calls the "fourpenny-plate"
with the labouring man; and to have
made his repast even at those "peripatetic
kitchens." where he tells us, oysters, soups,
coffee, and similar refreshments are prepared
for those who can only spend a halfpenny for
their daily meal(!); but which desirable
dinner was "almost spoiled" by the aspect
of surrounding misery, and the destitution
which "stared him in the face from every
quarter of this, the wealthiest of all the cities
on the face of the earth."

As a set off against this most undesirable
state of things, the writer admits that great
wealth will attract great pauperism, and that
the " poor in London are generally better off
than the corresponding classes on the
Continent; that destitution in this city is more
'staring,' but that the misery of the poor in
Germany is more intense."But the Germans
want less." The same classes here make
greater pretensions to comfort. Saxony is a
wealthy country, but meat is scarcely ever
given to its farm servants. Many of the
public-houses for workmen in London are
much better furnished than the best hotels of
the German provincial towns. There are
carpets and mahogany furniture everywhere.
These pretensions to good living, and their
obstinate indulgence, lead to destitution, and
this destitution is, in thousands of cases,
hopeless and appalling. Every little street or
lane, some in the vicinity of the most populous
quarters, show to what a minimum of animal
comforts the poor are screwed down. In
these lanes there are men who sell roast meat
(the leavings of large shops) fixed on wooden
skewers * *  Such a skewer of meat costs
a penny, or even a halfpenny, and the profits
of the trade are something like a hundred per
cent."

We can only add, in reference to this last
piece of experience, that the writer seems to
have been dining with some particularly
luxurious rogues, in whose pleasant society
we cannot do better than leave him.

As a contrast to that of the philosophical
diner out, the work of Max Schlesinger,
Wanderungen durch London, is well worth
attention; but being generally truthful it is
generally dull; and would certainly be out of
place here. But even this sensible gentleman
has extraordinary notions of the dignity and
all-conquering potency of the London
"Policemans," and cannot be persuaded that the
sun ever shines upon its eternal bricks and
mortar. He tells us, too, an obviously veracious
anecdote of a barber of loyal tendencies
who is determined to see the Queen pass Hyde
Park corner to the Exhibition. He is shaving
a friend of the author's (who tells the
story), and says that he "knows how to
manage it."

"'You know how to manage it, my dear
Mr. Robinson? Has the Duke of Wellington
reserved a balcony for you at Apsley House?'

"'No, not exactly that, you see; but '—and
here he put his hand into his coat-tail pocket
—' but it's just as certain' and then he
showed me a long stout strap.

"'With this strap,' said he, 'I shall go to
bed to-night, and start at four o'clock in the
morning to Hyde Park, and wait till the
gates are opened; with this strap, sir, I shall
fasten myself tight to one of the posts of the
Park, and then they may push and crowd
and shove as much as they like, and won't
move me. We shall see!'

"On the second of May, at noon," continues
the narrator, "I had the honour of
seeing Master Bob again. He was rather
pale, from excitement; had a little cold, from
standing so long in the morning mist; a pain
in the stomach, scarcely worth speaking of,