subject of artificial limbs,
and the perfection to which the art of making them had arrived in
England. We accidentally mentioned the case of Lord Anglesey. "Et qui
est ce Lord Anglesey?" said M.C., looking archly. "Un de nos plus grands
seigneurs, Monsieur." Still he persisted in inquiring how he lost his
leg. "C'etait in Flandres." "Ah, vous voulez dire a Vaterloo, n'est ce
pas?" said the old gentleman, with a smile, not displeased to observe
the motive of our hesitation. He would not allow us to use the word
_emprunter_, as applied to the conduct of his countrymen, with regard to
the Louvre collection, "Non, _voler_, voila le mot." The little
bourgeoise, who had lionized the Hermitage du Mont d'Or so eloquently,
grew very communicative on the strength of the display which she had
made, and M.C.'s good humour; and volunteered her sentiments on the
folly of reflecting too deeply, observing, that all but the old ought to
banish the idea of death and such dismal bugbears from their minds.
"Mais, songez, Mademoiselle," quoth he, interrupted in some observation
rather better worth hearing, "que tout le monde ne possede pas votre
force de caractere;" a compliment to which the young lady assented with
a grateful curtsy.

By the time F. had finished his sleep and digestion, as he had proposed
to do, and learned "Pescator dell' Onda," by repeated trials and
lessons, we arrived at the Pierre Incise, at the corner of which the
Saone enters Lyons. Tradition says that this spot, which reminded me of
St. Vincent's rocks, near Clifton, derives its Latinized name from the
great work performed by Agrippa in cutting through the solid rock, and
enlarging the channel of the river. The site of the castle of Pierre
Incise, formerly a prison, and destroyed at the Revolution, is still
visible on a strong height overhanging the river to the right; the
bottom of which appears to have been cut away artificially.

On another height, to the left, stands an old fort; on passing which, an
abrupt turn of the Saone brought us into the centre of dirt, bustle, and
business. Its course becomes in a moment confined between masses of
tall, smoky, old houses, and its azure colour stained by party-coloured
streams from dyers' shops, and a thousand other abominations, which
would defy the pen of a Smollett to describe, and all the breezes from
the Alps to purify. There are several bridges in this quarter, mostly
appearing from their paltry and irregular cha