three pale-faced governesses making observations
for themselves—and a glass-case full of
mathematical instruments, whereof an eager
boy was taking down some of the prices in
his note-book, and the anatomical plates at
which a bevy of young women were squinting
from afar, I satisfied the desire of my
boy Albert, by getting into the space set
apart for models of patents, and a full
register of specifications. There is the steam-
engine first taken in infancy, then growing
and working, as it gets up somewhat in years,
and I found that my son might possibly have
a soul capable of better things than longing
after shrimps. I was obliged to promise
coffee to our whole family, before I could get
him out of the machinery. Obedient to
promise, we went, therefore, to the refreshment-
room, where a cup of good coffee is supplied
for two pence, and comforted ourselves before
taking an omnibus, for the return to
Limehouse. We left Brompton at ten, and were
all home by twenty-seven minutes past
eleven. With renovated spirits, I was
merrily at work on a Death's head, at six o'clock
next morning.

PARIS ON LONDON.

IT is a pleasant novelty to meet with a
book of travels,* written by a Frenchman, in
which the Lord and Lady Allcash of Fra
Diavolo are not assumed to be veritable types
of Britannic high society. It is almost a
startling discovery to read at the very outset,
as here we read, the candid confession that
"England, across which I have made several
excursions, is often badly appreciated and,
it must be allowed, little known amongst us.
At the actual moment, the truth is that
international prejudices are much stronger
on our side than they are to the north of
the Channel. The French rarely quit their
country, and when they do venture out of it,
they travel too quickly. Our retired and
domestic habits leave an empty gap in our
education. Hence arise prejudices, difficulties
in our relations with other nations, our
maladroitness in colonising, the limited extent
of our commerce, the narrow bounds of our
historical erudition, and the greater part of
the misapprehensions which hamper our
foreign politics. The statesmen of England
are acquainted with the habitable globe,
much as our police-agents are acquainted
with the quarters of Paris. If there is
an example calculated to inspire us with
more adventurous tastes, it is that of a
people who, although endowed with a national
sentiment amounting to superstition,
have nevertheless chosen the whole world
for their country." From such a prelude, we
may hope to receive a little fair dealing.
The English, although somewhat tender and
even self-laudatory in respect to insularities
of which they have no reason to be proud,
are neither greedy of flattery from foreign
visitors, nor over-sensitive to a little sharp
criticism from the same; still, they may
reasonably wish to find their faults to be
considered faults, and their merits, merits,
instead of vice versa; nor can they highly
respect the acumen of those who attribute to
them faults and merits, both purely
imaginary.

* Les Anglais chez eux, by Francis Wey. Paris
Michel Lévy Frères. 1857.

There is a little defect, pervading this
book of travels, which, although it belongs
rather to the French literature of the day
than to this individual author, is not the
less open to remark. He is fond of
chopping up his composition into short
sentences, after the manner of that worthy
Eugène Jacquot, commonly called De Mirecourt;
each sentence being intended to be an
epigram, but mostly proving a platitude or
a common-place, and also, what is worse, a
would-be hard-saying, which is simply stupid.
To give a single instance, we are told that
Richard the Third, Henry the Eighth, and
Charles the First, are the princes best known
to the cockneys of London. It (England) is
a country where blood refreshes the memory.

But, is there a country, including France,
where blood does not refresh the memory?
Are the deaths of Louis the Sixteenth, or of
Marie Antoinette, forgotten? Or the Terror?
Or St. Bartholomew? Are the martyrs of
our common Christianity forgotten? Will
not the memory of Cawnpore remain fresh
for centuries, in consequence of the innocent
blood shed at that far-distant butchery?
Scores of similar schoolboy-sayings might
be quoted from the English at Home. With
increased experience, M. Wey will prefer
writing like a historian, to pointing (query,
blunting?) periods like a feuilletonist.

Like every other newly-arrived stranger, M.
Wey is struck with astonishment by the
Thames, which is an arm of the sea as far
as Gravesend; which from Gravesend to
London is a port wherein the ships of all
nations are ranged by hundreds; which from
London to its source is an Arcadian river
that gambols amidst meadows, distributing
grace and freshness to the shady parks that
slope to its margin. He sees that it is
impossible for London to have the calm beauty
and the imposing regularity of the quays of
Paris; because, with such a vast amount of
commerce the river itself is obliged to serve
both as a quay and a magazine; the vessels
unlade at the very warehouse door, as if they
were perfectly at home; while the jetties
and landing-places are necessary for the use
of innumerable water-omnibuses, the steamboats,
which run up and down that vast noiseless
street, the Thames. For, life on the
Thames is a pantomime. No countenance
laughs; the lips are mute; not a cry, not a
voice; everyone remains isolated in the
crowd. The artisan does not sing. The
passengers who pass and repass regard each