girls in England was explained to me, by the great
emigration of young men--in other words, by the scarcity of husbands.
The French girl who wants a husband is ordinarily rather disdainful; the
English girl is by no means difficult.

A Frenchwoman walks negligently leaning on our arm, and we regulate our
steps by the timidity and uncertainty of hers; the Englishwoman walks
with the head erect, and takes large strides like a soldier charging. An
accident made me acquainted with the secret of the strange way of
walking which Englishwomen have. I was lately on a visit to the family
of a merchant, whose three daughters are receiving a costly education.
The French master, the drawing master, and the music master, had each
given his lesson, when I saw a sergeant of the Grenadiers of the Guard
arrive. He went into the garden, and was followed by the young ladies.

"Ah! mon Dieu!" I cried to the father; "these young ladies are surely
not going to learn the military exercise!"

"No," said he, with a smile.

"What, then, has this professor in a red coat come for?"

"He is the _master of grace_!"

"What! that grenadier who is as long as the column in Trafalgar-square?"

"Yes, or rather he is the _walking master_."

I looked out of the window and saw the three young ladies drawn up and
immovable as soldiers, and presently they began to march to the step of
the grenadier. They formed a charming platoon, and trod the military
step with a precision worthy of admiration. I asked for an explanation
of such a strange thing.

"We, in England," said my host, "understand better the duty of women
than you Frenchmen do. We can not regulate our manner of walking on that
of a being subjected to us. Our dignity forbids it. It is the woman's
duty to follow us; consequently she must walk as we do--we can't walk as
she does."

"_Ma foi!_" said I, "I must admit that in progress you are decidedly our
masters. In France the law, it is true, commands the wife to follow her
husband; but it does not, I confess, say that she must do so at the rate
of _quick march_!"

The contrasts between the two countries are in truth inexhaustible.
Indeed I defy the most patient observer to find any point of resemblance
between them. In France, houses are gay in appearance; in London, with
the exception of some streets in the centre, such as Regent-street or
Oxford-street, they are as dark and dismal as prisons. Our windows open
from the left to the right;