Garsoon," said Jorrocks, after having composed himself a little during
which time he was also composing a French speech from his dictionary
and Madame de Genlis's[20] _Manuel du Voyageur_, "A che hora [ora] si
pranza?" looking at the waiter, who seemed astonished. "Oh, stop!" said
he, looking again, "that's Italian--I've got hold of the wrong column.
A quelle heure dine--hang me if I know how to call this chap--dine
[spelling it], t'on?" "What were you wishing to say, sir?" inquired the
waiter, interrupting his display of the language. "Wot, do you speak
English?" asked Jorrocks in amazement. "I hope so, sir," replied the
man, "for I'm an Englishman." "Then, why the devil did you not say so,
you great lout, instead of putting me into a sweat this 'ot day
by speaking French to you?" "Beg pardon, sir, thought you were a
Frenchman." "Did you, indeed?" said Jorrocks, delighted; "then, by Jove,
I do speak French! Somehow or other I thought I could, as I came over.
Bring me a thundering beef-steak, and a pint of stout, directly!" The
Hotel d'Orleans being a regular roast-beef and plum-pudding sort of
house, Mr. Jorrocks speedily had an immense stripe of tough beef and
boiled potatoes placed before him, in the well-windowed _salle a
manger_, and the day being fine he regaled himself at a table at an open
window, whereby he saw the smart passers-by, and let them view him in
return.

[Footnote 20: For the benefit of our "tarry-at-home" readers, we should
premise that Madame de Genlis's work is arranged for the convenience of
travellers who do not speak any language but their own; and it consists
of dialogues on different necessary subjects, with French and Italian
translations opposite the English.]

Sunday is a gay day in France, and Boulogne equals the best town in
smartness. The shops are better set out, the women are better dressed,
and there is a holiday brightness and air of pleasure on every
countenance. Then instead of seeing a sulky husband trudging behind a
pouting wife with a child in her arms, an infallible sign of a Sunday
evening in England, they trip away to the rural _fete champetre_, where
with dancing, lemonade, and love, they pass away the night in temperate
if not innocent hilarity. "Happy people! that once a week, at least,
lay down their cares, and dance and sing, and sport away the weights of
grievance, which bow down the spirit of other nations to the earth."

The voyage, though short, commenced a new e