praises. Even when he starts, as does our "American," feeling a little wroth at the sarcasms of our visiters from the old country, he generally finds that observation causes him to give up his prejudices. He looks upon the land as the home of his ancestry; and while viewing it in this light, he swells with pride that it is so. Are we treated as candidly?

Well, we are not the less ready to admire what is good, and to imitate what is worthy of imitation. There is much in England that may afford us benefit to consider, much to emulate, much to avoid. The government and its history are at the same time lessons and beacons to our legislators; her commerce, and its springs, to our merchants; her agriculture, and its perfection, to our farmers; her institutions, to our philanthropists. It may well be asked, whether we have done all we could, when regarding in their proper light these things in Great Britain. Have we not, in endeavouring to avoid what is objectionable, fallen into what is equally so? Have we not in many cases made extremes meet, and in others blindly pursued the same causes to the same end and errors? In our horror of a monarch, have we not hurried to the verge of man-worship and despotism? In our wish to increase our resources, have we not clogged ourselves with the same clogs as England? Are we not, by endeavouring to provide for the needy, taxing the labourer and the capitalist to pay premiums for poverty? These are questions for deep consideration; and questions, too, which, though they may startle our patriotism, are not so clearly to be answered in our praise.

Comparison with other countries, as afforded by means of well-written works of travel, is a wholesome and useful exercise. For this reason, we are always ready to offer to a tourist the meed of deserved praise. We rejoice that our citizens travel, if it is only to find out that we are not so unlike the rest of the world as some have supposed. There seems to be a rivalry between England and America, as to which shall write most books about the other. Besides authors, crowds of travellers have crossed the Atlantic, and stand ready to judge. Who has not sported a Stultz in Bond street? We have all tried to see London from St. Paul's, and have really seen it in the Colosseum. We have all gone to the Zoological Gardens, and been refused admittance to the King's Theatre, because, like foolish republicans as we are, we went thither in boots. No longer do we thrill at a description of Westminster Abbey; we all know, that when

"Sarvice is done; 'tis tuppence now,

To them as vonts to stop."

Our imaginations of the eloquence of parliament, have been

squeezed out of us in the half crown gallery. England is no longer a land of wonders; she has become familiar to us. Alas, that utility should always be the foe of romance! Already do we see Constantinople the "but" of an "excursion," and steamers smoking on the Egean. We could almost wish that the Moslem may maintain his sway, and dangers and dirks keep away the adventurous, rather than that pic-nics should take place on Mount Athos, or the Parthenon be in every "picturesque tourist's" sketch book, as "taken on the spot."

Our "American," whose work on Spain we had occasion to praise in a former number, tells us very modestly that he has in the present volumes simply attempted to give a faithful narrative of whatever he saw during a visit to England of a few weeks. We doubt not but that he has conscientiously done this. We may be permitted to regret, however, that he has, with some exceptions, confined himself to the same topics as his predecessors, and in consequence has started but little that is new. We regret, that one who is able to make what he has written so interesting, should not have produced a more novel work. We must believe that his observations and opportunities would have enabled him to extend it both in interest and matter.

He sails from New York; describes his voyage and its incidents in character, and with force; for, be it known, he is a sailor; arrives at Portsmouth, but, wishing to see the coast and channel between it and the mouth of the Thames, re-embarks for London. On his voyage thither, he falls into some reflections against the policy of England, in enthralling commerce with heavy tolls to light-houses, and instances the fact of Dungeness light paying Mr. Coke an enormous yearly profit. This has been condemned by many writers as shortsighted, especially in forcing foreign to pay more than native English ships, and not even exempting vessels driven into her ports by distress. He states the opinion of a distinguished merchant before a committee of the house of commons, as to the impossibility of sailing a vessel with profit in times like the present. To this he finds a ready answer in his voyage up the Thames, where he was surrounded by fleets of ships, clearly indicating that this opinion was not prevalent. And, indeed, those who have sailed up the Thames, or even those who have been rowed through the Pool, will all have the same answer to offer. We know not a more spirit-stirring sight, nor one better calculated to give man confidence in the energies of his fellows, and enlarge his ideas about commerce and wealth, than this view of the numberless vessels, from the huge East Indiaman down to the smallest craft, which crowd the river. Our American gives a decided preference to the superior appearance and sailing of VOL. XIX.-No. 37.

27

our coasters. He describes the Downs, lands at Gravesend, mounts a coach for London, arrives there, and takes up his quarters at the Colonnade hotel, where he is received with courtesy, though an "unfortunate outside."

His description of the coffee-room of the hotel is admirable and amusing, and given with much quiet humour.

"The coffee-room, into which I now entered, was a spacious apartment of oblong form, having two chimneys with coal fires. The walls were of a dusky orange; the windows at either extremity were hung with red curtains, and the whole sufficiently well illuminated by means of several gas chandeliers. I hastened to appropriate to myself a vacant table by the side of the chimney, in order that I might have some company besides my own musing, and be able, for want of better, to commune with the fire. The waiter brought me the carte, the list of which did not present any very attractive variety. It struck me as very insulting to the pride of the Frenchman, whom I had caught a glimpse of on entering, not to say extremely cruel, to tear him from the joys and pastimes of his belle France, and conduct him to this land of fogs, of rain, and gloomy Sundays, only to roast sirloins, and boil legs of

mutton.

"The waiter, who stood beside me in attendance, very respectfully suggested that the gravy-soup was exceedingly good; that there was some fresh sole, and a particularly nice piece of roast beef. Being very indifferent as to what I ate, or whether I ate any thing, and moreover quite willing to be relieved from the embarrassment of selecting from such an unattractive bill of fare, I laid aside the carte, not however before I had read, with some curiosity, the following singular though very sensible admonition, Gentlemen are particularly requested not to miscarve the joints.'

(

"I amused myself with the soup, sipped a little wine, and trifled with the fish. At length I found myself face to face with the enormous sirloin. There was something at least in the rencounter which conveyed the idea of society; and society of any sort is better than absolute solitude.

"I was not long in discovering that the different personages scattered about the room in such an unsocial and misanthropic manner, instead of being collected about the same board, as in France or my own country, and, in the spirit of good fellowship and of boon companions, relieving each other of their mutual ennuis, though they did not speak a word to each other, by which they might hereafter be compromised and socially ruined, by discovering that they had made the acquaintance of an individual several grades below them in the scale of rank, or haply as disagreeably undeceived by the abstraction of a pocket-book, still kept up a certain interchange of sentiment, by occasional glances and mutual observation. Man, after all, is by nature gregarious and social; and though the extreme limit to which civilisation has attained in this highly artificial country may have instructed people how to meet together in public places of this description without intermixture of classes or mutual contamination, yet they cannot, for the life of them, be wholly indifferent to each other. Though there was no interchange of sentiments by words then, yet there was no want of mutual observation, sedulously concealed indeed, but still revealing itself in a range of the eye, as if to ask a question of the clock, and in furtive glances over a book or a newspaper.

"In the new predicament in which I was now placed, the sirloin was then exceedingly useful. It formed a most excellent line of defence, an unassailable breast work, behind which I lay most completely intrenched, and defended at all points from the sharp-shooting of the surrounding observers. The moment I found myself thus intrenched, I began to recover my equanimity, and presently took courage-bearing in mind always the injunction of the bill of fare, not to miscarve the joints-to open an embrasure through the tender loin. Through this I sent my eyes sharp-shooting towards the guests at the other end of the room, and will, if the reader pleases, now furnish him with the result of my observations.

"In the remote corner of the coffee-room sat a party of three. They had finished their dinner, and were sipping their wine. Their conversation was carried on in a loud tone, and ran upon lords and ladies, suits in chancery, crim. con. cases, and marriage settlements. I did not hear the word dollar once; but the grander and nobler expression of thousand pounds occurred perpetually. Moreover, they interlarded their discourse abundantly with foreign reminiscences and French words, coarsely pronounced, and awfully anglicised.. I drew the conclusion from this, as well as from certain cant phrases and vulgarisms of expression in the use of their own tongue, such as "regularly done"-" completely floored,"-" split the difference," that they were not the distinguished people of which they laboured to convey the impression.

"In the corner opposite this party of three, who were at the cost of all the conversation of the coffee-room, sat a long-faced, straightfeatured individual, with thin hair and whiskers, and a bald head. There was a bluish tinge about his cheek-bones and nose, and he had, on the whole, a somewhat used look. He appeared to be reading a book which he held before him, and which he occasionally put aside to glance at a newspaper that lay on his lap, casting, from time to time, furtive glances over book or newspaper at the colloquial party before him, whose conversation, though he endeavoured to conceal it, evidently occupied him more than his book.

"Halfway down the room, on the same side, sat a very tall, rosy young man, of six-and-twenty or more; he was sleek, fair-faced, with auburn hair, and, on the whole, decidedly handsome, though his appearance could not be qualified as distinguished. He sat quietly and contentedly, with an air of the most thoroughly vacant bonhommie, never moving limb or muscle, except when, from time to time, he lifted to his mouth a fragment of thin biscuit, or replenished his glass from the decanter of black-looking wine beside him. I fancied, from his air of excellent health, that he must be a country gentleman, whose luxuriant growth had been nurtured at a distance from the gloom and condensation of cities. I could not determine whether his perfect air of quiescence and repose were the effect of consummate breeding, or simply a negative quality, and that he was not fidgety only because troubled by no thoughts, no ideas, and no sensations.

"There was only one table between his and mine. It was occupied by a tall, thin, dignified-looking man, with a very grave and noble cast of countenance. I was more pleased with him than with any other in the room, from the quiet, musing, self-forgetfulness of his air, and the mild and civil manner in which he addressed the servants. These were only two in number, though a dozen or more tables were spread around, each capable of seating four persons. They were well-dressed, decentlooking men, who came and went quickly, yet quietly, and without confusion, at each call for George or Thomas. The patience of the

guests seemed unbounded, and the object of each to destroy as much time as possible. The scene, dull as it was, furnished a most favourable contrast to that which is exhibited at the ordinaries of our great inns, or in the saloons of our magnificent steamers."

After all, we know not where the traveller can find so much real comfort in a hotel, as in England. No where else are there such attentive and noiseless servants, such all-pervading cleanliness. A coffee-room, with its scattered diners, may look unsocial, and even misanthropic; and a French table-d'hôte may be more lively and equally agreeable, but we most solemnly protest against any comparison in favour of our own style of hotel dining. Whoever has traveled in the United States, will remember the horrors of a public table; the anxious crowd around the bolted door; the rush to the table; the seizing and quick despatch of food; the impossibility of a clean plate, or of the services of a domestic. Then the misery of having to hurry from the pleasantest engagement in the world at the dinner hour, certain, that if twenty minutes have elapsed since the gong or bell sounded, the dinner has elapsed This is no exaggeration; and although in our cities. a private table is no longer unattainable, the general custom is as we describe it.

The comforts of traveling in England, maugre the expense, are very great. The ease of locomotion, the facility of making long or short journeys, as is wished, the minute punctuality, the speed, and the certainty of good accommodation, all render it an elysium to the tourist. Instead of lumbering along in a diligence, or still more slowly, in a "vettura," you fly over the ground, drawn by fleet and well-groomed horses, at the rate of from ten to twelve miles an hour, with a motion scarcely less easy than that of a cradle. The coach stops, you descend at a hotel; the waiter receives you at the door; the chamber maid stands in the entry to conduct you to a chamber, "Boots" following with your luggage. There you find carpets and comforts; above all, that greatest of luxuries to a traveller, a wellarranged and perfect washing apparatus, foot-bath, towels, &c. When you descend to dinner, you do not find persons ready to start a political discussion with you, nor the luxurious profusion of the French "carte;" but you do find a neat table, a complete service, and your meal when you choose, be it early or late, and under no risk of an indigestion from haste. In France the thing may admit a comparison. At Meurice's, par exemple," one dines like a king, with courses and servants, and even conversation, provided that he does not sit next to a newly landed "Anglais."

แ

It

Much may be said on the unsociability of the English. is true that their manner is cold and haughty, and perhaps