with the leader in "The Times," he struts about like an upstart
visiting the servants' hall, and expecting every possible demonstration
of respect in return for his condescension. Hence the unhappy disparity
between the situation of an Englishman and that of any other native
abroad. Instead of rejoicing at any casualty which presents to him a
chance-meeting with a countryman, he instinctively shrinks from it. He
sees the Frenchman, the Italian, the German, overjoyed at recognition
with some stranger from his own land, while _he_ acknowledges, in such a
contingency, only another reason for guardedness and caution. It is
not that our land is wanting in those sterling qualities which make men
respected and venerated--it is not that we are not, from principle and
practice, both more exacting in all the requisites of good faith, and
more tenacious of truth, than any people of the Continent;--it is simply
that we are the least tolerant to every thing that differs from what we
have at home, that we unscrupulously condemn whatever is un-English;
and, not satisfied with this, we expect foreigners to respect and admire
us for the very censure we pass upon their institutions.

There is, therefore, nothing so compromising to an Englishman abroad as
a countryman; except--_helas_ that I should say so!--a countrywoman!

Paris is very beautiful in spring. There is something radiant and
gorgeous in the commingled splendour of a great city, with the calmer
beauties of leafy foliage and the sparkling eddies of the bright river.
Better, however, not to dwell longer on this theme, lest my gloomy
thoughts should stray into the dark and crime-trodden alleys of the Bois
de Boulogne, or the still more terrible filets de St. Cloud! How sad
is it when one's temperament should, as if instinctively, suggest the
mournful view of each object! Rather let me jot down a little incident
of this morning--an event which has set my heart throbbing, and my pulse
fluttering, at a rate that all the Prussic acid I have learned to take
cannot calm down again.

There come now and then moments to the sick man, when to be well and
vigorous he would consent to be poor, unfriended in the world--taking
health alone for his heritage. I felt that half an hour ago--but it is
gone again. And now to my adventure, for, in my unbroken dream of daily
life, it seems such.

I have said I am lodged at the Hotel des Princes. How different are my
quarters from those I inhabited