as one sees dug in the streets of Paris to seek an escape of gas, and I felt rather surprised at such repairs being carried on upon a Sunday. The digging was in a most frequented place, and people passed constantly to and fro, trampling down the fresh earth as fast as it was thrown out of the hole. Three or four persons looked on; the rest went their way. One of the bystanders stepped aside as I approached, and I beheld, with stupefaction, upon the brink of the hole, a coffin, half enveloped with a mortuary cloth, and placed there like a chest waiting for a porter. The labourerthe only one who works upon a Sunday-was the sexton. The relatives of the deceased were elbowed by the passengers; smiling young girls stepped a little aside to avoid stumbling over the dead; for my part I stumbled on a fragment of an ancestral tibia, wandering amongst the legs of posterity. Children were playing and shouting hard by, and, in the heart of the holiday-city, with out pomp or solemnity, in a piece of ground strolled over by idlers, and vibrating from the passage of omnibuses, whose conductors were bawling for passengers, a dead man was being buried, just as we might ditch up a dog on the open space of the Carrousel, did the police tolerate in Paris, upon the public highway, such outrageous uncleanness." Slight exaggeration subtracted, and vivid colouring washed off, there still remains enough truth in this sketch, in French chalk, of a Sabbath scene in London, to make us ashamed of our barbarous system of burying the dead in crowded thoroughfares, under the very feet of the living. Fortunately steps are taking towards the abolition of so vile a practice, and we trust they will be energetically followed up, until a burial in London shall seem as strange a sight as it now would in Paris. As yet, how ever, strangers have us here upon the hip, and any foreign itinerant of literary turn is perfectly justified in filling a chapter, by inveighing at our foul paactice in matters of interment. Mr. Wey, who is by no means fond of fault-finding, but, on the contrary, rather kindly disposed and desirous to be pleased, lets us off in a

page or two, and soon afterwards writes down the most indulgent estimate of a Sunday in London we ever met with from a Frenchman's pen. As usual, his sensible observations are mixed up with slight exaggerations and errors of detail:

"After a whole week of unceasing toil, of sleeplessness, activity, pleasure, and fatigue, London sinks exhausted, and feels the want of fourand-twenty hours' profound repose. From midnight on Saturday, the town assumes quite another aspect; movement ceases, and the next day the sun rises without awakening the city whose usually crowded streets are as solitary as those of Bruges, Pisa, or Aix in Provence. The agitation of the preceding days renders this complete idleness necessary to all. It is the only concession made to nature in a country where life is factitious and harassing. For some it is the time for sleep, for others the sole opportunity of freely enjoying the fresh air. The logical and salutary side of the English Sunday is generally ill appreciated, and, whilst restricting ourselves to the external physiognomy of the insitution, we forget to point out its opportuneness. To be alone wakeful, amidst a sleeping world, is to be placed in a situation in which one is sure to ennuyer one'sself; it is that of a Frenchman on the other side of the Channel. And, as ill-humour has got mixed up in the matter, they have exaggerated the religious severity presiding over that day of compulsory recreation. Many persons believe absurd stories, that they would be fined did they play in their own houses, upon the Sabbath, on the piano, flute, or cornet-àpiston. Nothing of the sort; the laws of the country are not so benevolent. Everybody has heard that one is compelled to fast, if he has not laid in his provisions the night before. The truth is, that bakers, pork-shops, pastrycooks, &c. &c., are open morning and afternoon Public establishments, museums, galleries, theatres, closed; it is not customary to pay visits on the day which is devoted to God and to one's family. Accordingly the English go out very little on Sunday; carriages desert the parks; most

are

rich people go into the country, or to the sea side, on Saturday night. The origin of all this is equality. Must not servants, guardians of public places, actors, musicians, be allowed to repose themselves, as well as mas. ters, idlers, spectators, and lovers of music? There are houses where the cloth is laid the evening before, to diminish the work of the servants; if shops are closed by a general ordinance, it is that some may not take advantage of the religious scruples of others, to injure these by Sunday competition. Contrary to our countrymen, I enjoy Sunday very much. Weary of running about and remaining awake (during six weeks I never slept more than four hours out of the twenty-four), I was delighted to have time to lose, and to be exonerated from all duty, pleasure and study." There are certain things to which, from the force of habit, we pay no attention, but which really, when we reflect upon them, go far towards justifying the received opinion in France, that the English are a nation of eccentrics-des originaux, as the French used to say, des humoristes, as they now begin to call us, adopting the word in the sence we least frequently give to it-that of a whimsical odd person. The sort of birdcage grating enclosing the top of the Monument strikes Mr. Wey with astonishment. "This precaution," he says, "was rendered necessary by the eccentricity of the citizens, who had taken a fancy to throwing themselves from the summit of these glorious columns. We Frenchmen pass in England for crack-brained and fantastical; but, thank God! it has not yet been found necessary to fasten railings (garde fous) above our heads." Then he pauses for a reply, which we regret to say we have not in readiness, and fear that, in this instance, he has us at an advantage. He is prodigiously amused at the style of entertainment found at one of the taverns, to a round of which he devoted an evening. "At the further end of the room, on a platform, was a sort of bureau, furnished with three gentlemen, as serious as moneychangers, solemnly attired in black coats, their necks ceremoniously surrounded with white cravats. Sud.

Was

One

denly one of them knocked the table with a little hammer; there silence; a piano preluded, and the three gentlemen, grave as Anglican ministers, sang in turn, smiling blandly at each other, indigenous ballads, Anglo- Italian pasticcios, whose words, I suppose, were piquant, judging from the mirth and applause they excited. As the English are capable of amusing themselves for a long time with the same thing, these songs follow each other in quick suc cession, and last for several hours." Mr. Wey's social sketches are not all equally life-like. Now and then, presuming on the supposed ignorance or credulity of his French readers, careless of the verdict of his English ones, and anxious to give pungency to his book, he draws upon his ima gination for a comical sketch. day he got upon a Pimlico omnibus. Before recording what he saw from his elevated station, we must observe that nothing he met with in England excited his disgust more strongly than those abominable vehicles. Some gay deceiver had vaunted them to him as magnificent carriages, lined with mahogany and cushioned with velvet. Such mahogany!—and such velvet! He was confounded to find himself in a narrow, badly closed, dusty, dirty vehicle, in every respect inferior to the roomy, cleanly, wellorganised Diligentes, Favorites, and Hirondelles of his native Paris, whose seats are well-brushed, albeit not of velvet, and divided by little rails, securing to every passenger a due and ample share of room, whose access is easy and floor roomy, and whose conductors (greatest of all differences) are clean, obliging, honest, and respectable-not the compound of pickpocket, prize-fighter, and dog-stealer, so often found doing duty as "cad" upon the uncomfortable perch in rear of a London 'bus. The public vehicles of London, whether cabs or omnibuses, are in most respects immeasurably inferior to those of Paris. Foreigners soon make that discovery, and Mr. Wey was not an exception. Disliking to sit with his knees jammed against those of his opposite neighbour, to be squeezed flat between corpulent wo men, and to have his toes trodden on at every entrance or exit of a pas

senger, he usually performed his omnibus journeys side by side with the driver. In his ascent of the "Pimlico" aforesaid, he was assisted by an obliging gentleman who spoke French, and showed him much attention without any intrusiveness. "When he saw that I was acquainted with the country, and able to find my way about, he appeared satisfied, not being of those officious persons who would gladly see you pummelled, that they might have the pleasure of defending you. We ceased to speak; discretion is a quality all the English possess, and because they are neither inquisitive nor obsequious, we conclude that they have little obligingness. No conclusion can be more unfounded." In another part of his volume, Mr. Wey says that all the English he met appeared to take an interest in knowing the impression made upon him by London and its people. "They attach importance to the opinion of France," he says; "and the impartiality with which they judge themselves is all the more meritorious, that they are evidently pleased at any judgment that is flattering to them." If this be true (and we are unprepared to deny it) gratitude for the many civil things said of England and the English by Mr. Wey, should make us restrict ourselves to exhibiting the best passages of his amusing little octavo, and abstain from showing him up when he romances and deals in inventions, reminding us a little of some of those perpetrated by our old and interesting friend Whaler Melville, when he told of his first voyage to London, and of his visits to imaginary gambling-houses, and visions of enchanting beauties and fantastical patricians -a sort of compound of Tom and Jerry, and Tales by Hoffmann. We must, however, relate the strange sight Mr. Wey beheld from the imperiale of the "Pimlico Blue." "In about five minutes, deeming it proper to return my neighbour's colloquial visit, I addressed a few words to him concerning a carriage which just then drove by. It was too fine to be elegant, and was drawn by two magnificent bay horses. On the box, adorned with beautiful fringe, sat a black-coated coachman; there was

not a wrinkle in his white cravat, his snowy gloves were spotless. In the vehicle, on downy cushions, carelessly lounged a man without a coat, his arms bare, his sleeves turned up to the shoulder; an apron, with the corners turned up, served him as a girdle. So that the coachman looked like a gentleman driving a mechanic in his working-dress." Mr. Wey asked his neighbour who and what was the strange-looking occupant of the dashing_carriage. "The richest butcher in London," was the reply. "He is returning in his own carriage, from the slaughter-house to his residence. His forefathers were in the same business; his father left him a fortune of more than two millions, and he, out of modesty, follows his father's profession-a very honourable old custom. This gentleman butcher possesses four millions."

"In your country," continued the Englishman, "such patriarchal usages are unknown, and children aspire to raise themselves above their parents' station in life."

Our acquaintance with London does not include that of the millionaire vender of steaks and briskets, who could not find time to put on his coat before entering his chariot, a precipitation which must have been detrimental to the purity of the cushions, and have horribly scandalized the correctlygot-up coachman. Neither do we remember to have heard of certain "great bankers, who out of an affectation of plainness, go every morning to the butcher's to buy chops, which they themselves carry to some tavern in Cheapside or Fleet Street, where they have them broiled in their presence. Then they purchase three pennyworth of rye bread, and munch their Spartan breakfast in publie, giving at the same time their first audiences. And the good shopkeepers admire in them the simplicity of old times. What worthy people!" These apocryphal traits of British butchers and merchants in the second half of the nineteenth century will doubtless be bolted by Mr. Wey's countrymen with the same avidity and case with which a gander would gulp an oyster, were that agreeable bivalve presented to his bill. Frenchmen who have not been in England

are at all times ready to credit British originality to any extent. "The greatest contrast to an Englishman in his own country," says Mr. Wey, "is an Englishman abroad. From this contrast have arisen prejudices which one gets rid of on the other side of the Channel." Unquestionably Englishmen show to the best advantage in their own country, at least until such time as they have travelled sufficiently to be naturalised cosmopolites, a sort of citizenship to which they are long in acquiring a right. Abroad they exhibit stiffness and angularity of character, slowness to assimilate with the people they live amongst, and frequent taciturnity. They are set down as proud, surly, or mad, according to the mode in which their peculiarity of disposition shows itself, and they neither inspire sympathy nor win friendly attentions. Mr. Wey believes he has found out the reason of their habitual silence and apparent hauteur when amongst foreigners. An Englishman asked him why Shakespeare (of whom Mr. Wey has the good taste to be a great admirer-an admiration much less universal in France than in England and Germany) is so badly translated into French. "Because our translators know no language but English," was the witty reply, less paradoxical than it at first sight appears.

"French is difficult,' said the Eng. lishman, and when one speaks it badly, one is ridiculous. Such is our opinion here, and that is why we dare not talk to you in your language, and make believe not to understand you, in order not to have to answer. We are thought proud; we are only intimidated!'

"This explanation of a fact which had struck me as it strikes everybody, was extremely satisfactory to me. To risk making one's-self laughed at is an idea repugnant to Britannic dignity. Let us add the admission, that when we Frenchmen murder their language, not a symptom of raillery is ever to be detected upon the lips of Englishmen."

Altogether, and in spite of his undeniable tendency to exaggeration and slight burlesque, Mr. Wey is a sort of traveller in whose company it is not unpleasant to ramble, and

we willingly set out with him for Windsor on his way to Ascot. Like all foreigners, he is delighted with Windsor Castle, the only truly royal residence this country possesses, and bewildered by the scene upon the Heath. There is no such striking and novel sight in England for a Frenchman as one of our great racecourses on a Cup or Derby day. It is true that there are races in Franceat Chantilly, in the Champ De Mars, and elsewhere-but who that has seen them would think of naming them in the same day with Ascot or Epsom? It is a puddle to the Pacific. The difference in the running is not more remarkable than that in the whole scene, in the numbers assembled, in the enthusiasm displayed. This last point excited Mr. Wey's unbounded astonishment. He had no notion the phlegmatic English were capable of being so roused. But, to proceed in due order-as he himself says, when he finds himself, to his no small bewilderment, in the midst of the multitude thronging the Heath-we will take his first general impression of the scene.

This

"Ascot is an uneven heath, hilly, arid, in a desert which is picturesque by reason of its extreme desolation. At the highest point of the badlylevelled plateau stands a house, with benches, galleries, and platforms up to the very top of the roof. hive, full of the heads of spectators and of women dressed in a thousand bright tints, had from afar the appearance of a gigantic pyramid of animated flowers. At the foot of this human cascade, on both sides of the course, was a throng of fifteen, twenty, thirty, or forty thousand people: it is impossible, without long habit, to estimate such multitudes. On quit ting the carriage, we walked through a loose sand sprinkled here and there with stunted broom and tawny weeds. Beyond was a camp of two or three hundred tents taverns, kitchens, dancing-rooms, aud especially stables for the horses of the vehicles assembled there to the number of many thousands.

derives somewhat of a Flemish aspect from the multitude of drinking booths, tipsy men, kitchens in the open air, and girls dancing to the sound of the hurdygurdy, sometimes even of the bagpipe. A few steps farther off, the meeting assumes an aristocratic physiognomy: crowded together, four deep, landaus, calashes, carriages of every kind, emblazoned, elegant, and open, serve as platforms for families, and sustain swarms of pretty women. At certain moments of the day, every vehicle becomes a dining-room, and peeresses sip their champagne in the open air, at a few paces distance from mechanics, who pour down foaming ale, and gorge themselves with fried fish and grilled beef. . . . . Suddenly a bell rings; there is a great and general movement; the crowded course is rapidly cleared; everyone takes up a position, all throng to the barriers; some fight, others are stifled; the occupants of the carriages are on tiptoe; people climb upon each other, and those on foot cling in clusters to every object that gives them a little additional elevation. A race is at hand. . . . As soon as the confused murmur of distant voices announces the approach of the horses, the crowd bends forward and hangs over the solid railings that enclose the course. I saw persons throw themselves forward as if they were swimming, and remain in equilibrium, their feet off the ground, their bodies poised upon the rail, whilst their neighbours climbed upon their backs. The imperturbable policemen easily keep back the heaving crowd; a gesture, a word suffices; if it does not, you receive upon your head a rough tap from a smart black stick, thick and short, upon which are painted in yellow and scarlet the arms of Eng land, with the old device, Homi soit qui mal y pense. This misfortune was near happening to me; the policeman, with the blandest possible air, was already raising his staff, when a volley of fisticuffs received in rear made me abruptly turn about. It was an elderly lady, with teeth as long as those of the fairy Urgèle, who favour ed me with these marks of attention. Her appearance was that of an enraged monkey, and she pinched my arm blue. Get out of that,' she

cried: 'go away, you have no business here; you are not an Englishman.' The mob pushed her forward and weighed upon her shoulders; in front I opposed resistance; she bent: I saw her fingers, crooked like a lobster's claw, again approaching my arm, which I raised, and brought down upon her shoulder, pressing upon it a little; she disappeared, and I temporarily imprisoned her head between my knees, where she stretched herself out like a snake. She remained quiet upon her four paws, and, turning towards me a delighted counte nance from the depths of a damaged bonnet, she thanked me. For she could see the race!"

Nothing he saw in England surprised Mr. Wey so much as the enthusiasm shown by all classes for horse-racing. English phlegm is generally exaggerated by foreigners, and he little expected such noisy demonstrations, and so outrageous a departure from the habitual staid reserve of Britons. He expresses his astonishment, when describing the close of the race.

"Suddenly the clamour and fever of excitement redoubles; eleven horses, their necks and legs stretched out, their bellies near the ground, pass before us like a flight of arrows, their jockeys' thin jackets converted into balloons by the wind. As they disappear, the crowd again invades the course. In a few seconds, ten thousand madmen throng the space so lately bare; it is a Babel of words, a confusion of questions; English reserve has disappeared, the enthusiasm is at its height; and when, two minutes later, the proclaimed victor walks through the crowd, he is-surrounded, admired, caressed, almost carried in triumph. That moment, at the conclusion of the race, is one of delirium, intoxication, frenzy. Hats are tossed into the air, clamours ascend to the clouds; the electrified multitude abandons itself to an insane joy; the clapping of hands, the hurras, contribute to the wild and terrifying uproar. A strange spectacle is that of this people run mad. Such is the sole and powerful element of publie passions in this flourishing country. At last, I beheld them excited by something, and surpassing in the furio