desire for a few weeks climbing, I took pattern by the great Napier, and thought that when I had reduced my impedimenta to a piece of soap, a towel, and two

An Englishman and his Belongings, from the Meridian of Paris.

flannel shirts, I had done a clever thing. In this light marching order I had the audacity to return home by way of Paris; had I had the honour of

G. U.'s acquaintanceship, possibly I might have been received by courteous cut direct; but as I only know an inferior sort of people, who don't judge friends by their clothes, I happily escaped that infliction.

I must candidly confess that my own impressions of my fellow-countrymen abroad did not by any means tally with those of G. U., who is so very sensitive for the honour of his fellow-subjects. When I strolled up the Champs Elysées, if amid the crowd of natives in lacquered boots, dress coats, and the other etcetera appertaining to the full mufti in which Parisians will appear abroad before dinner, if, I say, I observed a particularly manly-looking fellow in a light loungingcoat and lace-up boots, I was pretty sure to find, on looking into his honest face, that he was a young Englishman. If a brighter young Hebe than usual passed by, in "maiden meditation fancy free," it was sure to be a dear young English girl.

Amid the arid faces of the Parisian fair, to my eye the bright cheek of our English rose was as the waters of some oasis to the traveller after the dreary desert. They might have had round hats, but what of that? I am quite sure they were not "battered," and also certain that they crowned the face with more grace than the best bonnet of Paris would have done.

It is pretty well conceded that the young Englishman is the best-dressed man in the world (a fact which G. U. evidently does not know); but I mean to assert, what will doubtless be contested, that the English gentlewoman carries the palm for the ease and simple elegance of her attire.

The grace of the

human frame is less disguised in her by the milliner; you see more of the woman and less of the mode. Possibly there may be a reason for this in the finer condition of the raw material, if we may be allowed such a phrase when speaking of the gentler sex. We know that cooking has arrived at such perfection in France as only to disguise the badness of the meat.

But letting this pass, and returning again to the sensitive feelings of G. U., let us see what evidence he has to give of the sneers of the Parisians at our slovenly appearance in their fair city. He tells us that we are caricatured in every printseller's window, and that the Palais Royal is full of plaster statuettes which jeer us as we pass. We may remark en passant that, in the caricature line at least, the Parisians-the acute, sarcastic Parisians-are the dullest dogs in Europe.

If an actor, taking the role of a Frenchman at the lowest theatre in London, were to talk of eating frogs, he would be hissed off the stage for the staleness of his joke; but in the best Parisian theatres the Englishman is still represented in top-boots and belcher-handkerchief, either beating his wife, or exhibiting her for sale in the market-place with a rope round her neck. This is considered capital fun in Paris to this day, and is sure to bring the house down. When Punch touches up the Frenchman, or when Wigan brings him on the boards, they hit him, we fancy, a little harder. But let us see what their caricaturists can do. G. U. tells us that our slovenly outlandish dressing is the constant theme of their pencil.

At the beginning of this chapter is the gentleman who holds the mirror up to Nature, and shows us just as we appear in that delightful spot, the Jardin Mabille.

At a glance the reader perceives there is not much of the cabman about him; on the contrary, in his dress at least, there is somewhat of the petit-maître. But where, by all that is gracious, did our English man get that hat? Could he obtain it at any price here? Did Lincoln and Bennett or Christy ever see such a specimen? That necktie, again. Come, now, G. U., confess that cabmen do not do the thing in that style. And the coat, waistcoat, and flowerwhy Jimmy Jessimy never turned out in brighter trim.

If this is the Frenchman's typical Englishman, he certainly is far removed from the "cabman" of G. U. The only ghost of a joke as far as we can see, is the delightful mixture that "Un Anglais" is indulging in-coffee, claret, and rum-and-water (by the lemon floating in it)-warranted, we should say, to take the bloom from his cheeks next morning. Is it a fact, we may ask, that the Adam's apple in the Englishman's throat is more prononcé than in other people's, or is the exaggeration of the picture another of our Parisian friend's brilliant jokes?

But what have our friends across the water to say to the English Ladies? This is the reply, in the shape of one of the innumerable clay statuettes, which abound in the shops of the Palais Royal, and a specimen of which will be found on a previous page.

Of

course, our critics don't neglect to hang the ladies on the arm of their conductor, like two panniers.

We know in good society this is voted dreadfully provincial, and we don't think well-bred people are guilty of such a solecism; nevertheless, the custom has its charm, the cavalier is nearer to his work, and no advantage of position is given to either fair. Moreover it is a very pretty position to find yourself, as it were, the battle ground across which the nimble fire of feminine tongues is exchanged. But let that pass; we will plead guilty to the possibility of Paris being shocked by this kind of coupling; but are these the round battered hats of our censor? Are these the slovenly English? The man is evidently a prig got up at a great expense by Mr. Moses; but he certainly runs into the opposite extreme to cabbyism. Of course, the Parisians must poke their fun at the English coiffure. In the majority of the statuettes, the English lady wears the hair in single ringlets down to the waist,-the French face can't stand the hair thus dressed; moreover, the French hair won't curl so kindly as ours; hence the sneer;-but here we have the very agony of dishevelled locks, and the very Quakerism of braids, not very true as to the ladies' coiffures, but yet not quite an absurd caricature.

But those waists, and those ridiculous polka jackets, falling over those crinolineless skirts! Are they a libel or not, fair reader, on English ladies' costume abroad? If I can believe my own eyes, they don't dress so in the ball-room-village of Interlachen, at