probably from the strap; and a very slight
soreness of the feet, from twelve thousand
persons treading on his toes: but was, nevertheless,
radiant, excited, and glorious. He
had seen Her! and Prince Albert, and the
Princess Royal, and the Prince of Wales
"capital boy that.' He had seen them twice,
as they went there and back, through Rotten
Row, and had shouted so tremendously, that
he was still warm with it; and he shaved
me in such a state of happiness, that had I
been suddenly named Finance Minister of
Austria—of which I am always in fear—I
should have had nothing to do, before taking
up the portfolio with proper ceremony, but to
have performed the painful operation all over
again. But I readily forgave him, and forgive
all Robinsons, Browns, and Smiths, who have
never been more than twelve miles from
Hyde Park Corner, for being so proud of
their Queen. And yet, ill-natured people
call me a Radical!"

If we might be excused for making, for
once, a not very original remark, we should
draw the following distinction between French
and German writers: it applies generally,
but more particularly to describers of
national characteristics. Both fall into not
dissimilar errors, but from entirely distinct
causes; the one because he does not see far
enough, the other because he sees too far.
The Frenchman judges by immediate
impressions, which are sure to be wrong; the
German, in his anxiety to be right, reasons
and deduces with such tortuous ingenuity,
that the result, though delightful as a logical
argument, is absurd as a matter of fact. Of
the two, perhaps the Frenchman is more
practically philosophical: like the German, he
realises nothing but base metal—but then he
has not had the trouble of digging for it.

Be it from what cause it may, we confess to
a preference for the French writer as a greater
master of the art of misleading.

"His stream glides along in a blithe gurgling error,"

with which the more laborious blunders of
the German cannot compete. The two are
like the fabulous and familiar hare and
tortoise: they are equally sure of arriving at the
mistake, but the German takes longer about
it. The one has to plod on a great many
wearisome steps in the wrong direction the
other accomplishes his false conclusion in a
hop, skip, and a jump.

To return then to our favourites, the French,
with whose erroneous progress it is almost
impossible to keep au courant. Here is a
veracious account of a sitting of the House of
Commons, from a very recent feuilleton by
the very amusing Monsieur Méry. He tells
us that:—

"Speeches are delivered in a psalm-singing
tone; members sleep here and there, and
everybody yawns; the speaker does not
use a bell, and nobody is ever called to
order; there is never any agitation on any
of the benches; ennui rains in torrents;
Whigs and Tories share among themselves
badly-baked biscuits; a great deal of Barclay
and Perkins's porter is drunk; members go
out every moment to swallow basins of turtle
soup; on their return they turn over collections
of caricatures; ministers play at short
whist in a corner; those who are not asleep
read a romance of Dickens; speakers seem
not to care about being listened to."

While noting a few of the thousands of
examples of similar ignorance among French
writers, we must not omit to mention that the
principal comic journal of France, the
Charivari, is among the most flagrant of the
offenders. If we had a file of the journal at
hand, and simply wished to cover paper, we
might fatigue our readers to any extent,
simply by citations. A chance number before
us, however, furnishes rather a mild illustration
of the mode in which the greatest (presumed)
wits in France deal with an English
subject. It describes the Society for the
Protection of Animals holding a séance at
Cremorne Gardens, under the presidency of a
mysterious "Sir Kripps," to ascertain the
amount of pain endured by an animal sent up
in a balloon upon the plan of the ingenious
M. Poitevin. For this purpose a director is
suspended from the car, carrying a young
lady upon his back (like the Poitevin pony),
and reports the result of his experience
during the voyage, which is made the
foundation of a petition to Parliament. Of course
the thing is intended as a joke, but the want
of knowledge of the circumstances to be joked
upon is no less apparent.

Apropos to the Charivari, it may not be
amiss to observe here what does not seem to
be the impression in England, that the journal
in question, the principal organ of the most
spirituel writers in the most spirituel country
in the world, is a most unfortunately dull and
prosaic affair. It may be said that it is dull
to Englishmen because they do not understand
the local allusions and intricacies of
the language. But the reverse of this is the
fact. The Charivari has a high reputation in
England because the English do not understand
its full meaning, and are content to
take it for granted with the same amiability
which makes them indulge in demonstrations
of ecstacy at very mild jocularity in the
French Plays. Those who have lived long
in France, who know the politics, character,
language, and daily life of the country—
those, in fact, who can properly appreciate
the Charivari—know it to be puerile and
ponderous.

Yet we cannot forget that, not many years
ago, when it was proposed to establish an
English Charivari, the notion was ridiculed
in sagacious quarters. Wise men shook their
heads, saying, "We are a serious people. We
want the vivacity, the humour of the French;
they are so effervescent, there is such a delicacy
in their satire. The thing can never do, in