.

Among the high aristocracy, hospitality is a great and noble thing; but
it is more accessible to the wealthy tallow chandler than to a writer or
an artist of genius. In England, with the exception of Dickens and
Bulwer, the literary man is less considered than the comedian was in
France a century ago. In France, it is admirable to witness the fusion
of the aristocracies of family, money, and intelligence. Artists and
poets are invited to all the _fetes_ of high society. As soon as a
writer has raised himself somewhat above the vulgar, he perceives that
the great ones of this world occupy themselves with him, show him
protection and sympathy. But what is a man of intelligence here in
London? He is an animal less considered than the lowest coal-dealer in
the city. And what is the consequence of this neglect of arts and
literature? That England is almost reduced to the necessity of robbing
our artists and writers. The theatres in particular pirate from us with
unexampled effrontery.

But to return to the want of hospitality of the English to the foreign
bards who have come over to sing the marvels of the Great Exhibition.
You may meet in London at this moment a dozen literary phantoms who drag
the shroud of their _ennui_ and discouragement along Piccadilly. These
shadows, when they recognize each other, shake hands and relate their
disappointments. They are French journalists. Separated one from the
other, and not knowing on what chord of their lyres to celebrate the
virtues of a people who laugh in their faces, and who seem to be
ignorant of the men whose names are most known and admired at Paris,
these French journalists ask each other the same question--"Do you amuse
yourself at London?" And they all make the same reply, "I am bored at
the rate of twenty shillings a day!" To which they all exclaim in
chorus, "That's very dear!"

A year ago, when the Friends of Peace, those generous Utopian dreamers,
came to London, they were received at the station by the most celebrated
English economists, carried in triumph to the residences prepared for
them, taken to visit all that is curious in England--in a word, treated
as princes. But then they were the friends of the great Cobden! whereas
England cares not a straw for the mob of simple literary men, writers of
imagination! She would not even send their _confreres_ to bid them
welcome. Let them manage them as they can; let them lodge in bad hotels,
and dine ill; let them c