's to Charing Cross, for lighting and paving, crowds going and
coming without respite, the rattle of coaches, and the cheerfulness of
shops? Have you seen a man guillotined yet? is it as good as hanging?
Are the women _all_ painted, and the men _all_ monkeys? or are there not
a _few_ that look like _rational_ of _both sexes_? Are you and the First
Consul _thick_? All this expense of ink I may fairly put you to, as your
letters will not be solely for my proper pleasure, but are to serve as
memoranda and notices, helps for short memory, a kind of Rumfordizing
recollection, for yourself on your return. Your letter was just what a
letter should be,--crammed and very funny. Every part of it pleased me,
till you came to Paris, and your philosophical indolence or indifference
stung me. You cannot stir from your rooms till you know the language!
What the devil! are men nothing but word-trumpets? Are men all tongue
and ear? Have these creatures, that you and I profess to know _something
about_, no faces, gestures, gabble; no folly, no absurdity, no induction
of French education upon the abstract idea of men and women; no
similitude nor dissimilitude to English? Why, thou cursed Smellfungus!
your account of your landing and reception, and Bullen (I forget how you
spell it,--it was spelt my way in Harry the Eighth's time), was exactly
in that minute style which strong impressions INSPIRE (writing to a
Frenchman, I write as a Frenchman would). It appears to me as if I
should die with joy at the first landing in a foreign country. It is the
nearest pleasure which a grown man can substitute for that unknown one,
which he can never know,--the pleasure of the first entrance into life
from the womb. I daresay, in a short time, my habits would come back
like a "stronger man" armed, and drive out that new pleasure; and I
should soon sicken for known objects. Nothing has transpired here that
seems to me of sufficient importance to send dry-shod over the water;
but I suppose you will want to be told some news. The best and the worst
to me is, that I have given up two guineas a week at the "Post," and
regained my health and spirits, which were upon the wane. I grew sick,
and Stuart unsatisfied. _Ludisti satis, tempus abire est_; I must cut
closer, that's all. Mister Fell--or as you, with your usual
facetiousness and drollery, call him, Mr. Fell--has stopped short in the
middle of his play. Some _friend_ has told him that it has not the least
m