t that disinterested politician
wants, for he certainly will not get it, as we cannot afford to part
with our Fourth Estate just yet, and suspect the motives of any one who
advises us to do so.

The Tourist makes these reflections with a little bitterness as he sits
in a _cafe_ waiting for breakfast. A beautiful lady, with a ravishing
little cap on the back of her head, is sitting at the receipt of custom.
Two or three smart waiters with long clean aprons are bustling about in
attendance on an elderly benevolent looking gentleman, with an
impediment in his French, who has ultimately succeeded in ordering a
_chop de mutton_ and _une bottel de Stout de Dublin_, solacing himself
meanwhile with _Galignani's Messenger_. Through a door is seen another
saloon, where bearded men are drinking _eau sucre_ and _liqueurs_.

The sage waiting for his chocolate turns again to the journals, and
gratifies himself by picking out the places where THEOPHILE or ALPHONSE
or EUGENE pitches into the English. What a useful thing it is to see
ourselves as others see us! We find out so much that we were ignorant
of. Your Tourist candidly confesses that he had no notion of the
wickedness and absurdity of his countrymen, or even of their manners and
customs, or the very localities of the country, until he read them,
detailed, in the pleasing pages of French feuilletonists. Until he read
M. MERY'S English sketches, he was ignorant, and he boldly affirms that
many others are ignorant too, of such common facts as that English
gentlemen hire post-captains in the Royal Navy to sail their yachts;
that Greenwich hospital is a retreat for old soldiers; and that the late
DUKE OF WELLINGTON, when COLONEL WELLESLEY, was Governor-General of
India. He has selected one _feuilleton_, entitled "SIR JOHN BULL _a
Paris_," for its masterly exposure of British foibles. It will be sent
to you, translated by his little brother at DR. SWISHAM'S, Turnhambrown,
who has made great progress in French, and is sure to do it justice. DR.
S. says the boy's English is remarkably pure and idiomatic. The author
is the well-known HIPPOLYTE CANARD, whose _bon mots_ are so successful,
and who wrote the noble apology for the massacres of February, which
gave such umbrage to the present despicable Government.

"I walk myself on the Boulevart. All the world regards me in smiling.
And for what? It is true that I have the insular air, at one time
respectable and ferocious. I carry the lo