he face as nature or art can
supply, and all wear their hats very much on one side. Believe me, there
is on the face of this world no scamp like an English one, no blackguard
like one of these half-gentlemen, so mean, so low, so vulgar,--so
ludicrously ignorant and conceited, so desperately heartless and
depraved.

But why, my dear sir, get into a passion?--Take things coolly. As the
poet has observed, "Those only is gentlemen who behave as sich;" with
such, then, consort, be they cobblers or dukes. Don't give us, cries the
patriotic reader, any abuse of our fellow-countrymen (anybody else
can do that), but rather continue in that good-humored, facetious,
descriptive style with which your letter has commenced.--Your remark,
sir, is perfectly just, and does honor to your head and excellent heart.

There is little need to give a description of the good town of Boulogne,
which, haute and basse, with the new light-house and the new harbor, and
the gas-lamps, and the manufactures, and the convents, and the number
of English and French residents, and the pillar erected in honor of the
grand Armee d'Angleterre, so called because it DIDN'T go to England,
have all been excellently described by the facetious Coglan, the learned
Dr. Millingen, and by innumerable guide-books besides. A fine thing it
is to hear the stout old Frenchmen of Napoleon's time argue how that
audacious Corsican WOULD have marched to London, after swallowing Nelson
and all his gun-boats, but for cette malheureuse guerre d'Espagne and
cette glorieuse campagne d'Autriche, which the gold of Pitt caused to be
raised at the Emperor's tail, in order to call him off from the helpless
country in his front. Some Frenchmen go farther still, and vow that
in Spain they were never beaten at all; indeed, if you read in the
Biographie des Hommes du Jour, article "Soult," you will fancy that,
with the exception of the disaster at Vittoria, the campaigns in Spain
and Portugal were a series of triumphs. Only, by looking at a map, it
is observable that Vimeiro is a mortal long way from Toulouse, where,
at the end of certain years of victories, we somehow find the honest
Marshal. And what then?--he went to Toulouse for the purpose of beating
the English there, to be sure;--a known fact, on which comment would be
superfluous. However, we shall never get to Paris at this rate; let us
break off further palaver, and away at once....

(During this pause, the ingenious reader is ki