playing punch at the wrong booth. Potatoes rose in Covent-Garden market, Piazza high; but when the wind abated sunk basket-deep again. Mrs. Rundell's kitchen-garden suffered greatly. Cabbages, carrots, parsnips, and cauliflowers were floated from her premises into those of Mr. Murray, in Albemarle-street. Our reporter left the parties scrambling. A pike, measuring seven feet, was caught in Fludyer-street: it was claimed by a serjeant in the Guards. One Winifred Price lost a pail of milk which was upset at the stage-door of Covent-Garden theatre. The poor woman's commodity, mingled with the water, entered a new forthcoming comedy, and produced an effect too melancholy to detail. Colonel Drinkwater was seen in company with Lord Rivers in Port-soken ward. In several parishes the nave of the church was found in the pulpit. On the abatement of the tide, Mrs. Salmon was found dead upon Fish-street hill. The patentshot manufactory was saved by being dammed. SONG. MUST I drink a health to thee, With this revel all around me?-+ Mirth and noisy wit have bound me Must I drink a health to thee, With this revel all around?—- Thou art thinking now of me 'Midst far other scene and sound; Dream, and hie me to a sphere To that everlasting theme, C. LETTERS ON ENGLAND. BY M. DE SAINT FOIX. [These letters, we understand, are the production of a distinguished Frenchman, whose original MS. journal has been obligingly submitted to us by a friend for publication. The Editor admits them on account of the ability which they seem to possess. For this special consideration, he makes in this one instance a departure from bis general rule of not inserting any communications bearing the stamp of national prejudice. But he protests against being responsible for a single sentiment which they may contain.] LETTER I. Dieppe, Thursday, Sept. 18, 1817. MY DEAR CLAIRE,-Contrary to your predictions, the attractions of Paris did not detain us a single day from the ultimate object of our journey. Thus it turns out that you do not know us quite so well as you would have us believe. The truth is, that as neither C- nor I, pride ourselves on the strength of our resolutions when temptations are in the way, we were pretty sure that, if we allowed Paris to detain us one day, there would be no answering for the extent of its influence; so with a prospective prudence which you will no doubt think very creditable to us, at Ville-Juif we paid our postillions for three or four stages forward, and, bidding them drive through Paris, pulled up the blinds of the carriage, and, as it was getting dark, silently composed ourselves into our respective corners; thus contriving to slip through the fingers of the enemy, against whom we might, perhaps, have failed in making a successful resistance. There is no denying that one of us (I can only answer for one) did not sleep very soundly, as he felt himself rattling over the pavé of the metropolis of the world; and he has a faint recollection of having been once or twice on the point of waking his companion, to consult with him on the inexpediency of proceeding farther that evening, intending to hint at the little chance there was of meeting with fitting accommodation at a country village, and to expatiate on the dangers of damp beds, the miseries of short suppers, and so forth. But perhaps all this occurred to him in a dream. Certain it is, however, that we both retained our corners silently till we had passed the Barriere de St. Denis, and felt ourselves on the terre again. Probably it was this change from noise to silence that waked us both; for we now soon found that we both were awake, and ready to consult on where we should pass the night. In pursuance of a sudden thought of C- we agreed to turn out of our road and sleep at Montmorency, that we might idle away a few hours there in the morning, for the sake of him who idled away some of the least unhappy years of his life there. We left Montmorency in the middle of Monday, supped at Ecouis, and then travelled on for the rest of the night, to make up for what you will call our lost time, arriving at Rouen early on Tuesday morning, where we staid till to-day. You know Normandy is one of my chief favourites among our provinces, as Rouen is among the cities. There is infinite character about the latter, with its majestic cathedral, its noble boulevards, and its air of fresh, and as it were, youthful antiquity; and the former abounds in every variety of picturesque beauty. I hastened to the top of Mount St. Catherine as soon as we arrived, and found the view from thence, as it was when we saw it together five years ago,unrivalled by any thing I have seen elsewhere, or ever expect to see, for extent, richness, and variety; and the beautiful Seine still winds through the midst of it, studded with all her lovely little islands; one of which, as you may remember, a person whom you know, when he was a little more addicted to reading and acting romance than he is now, fell in love with, and talked of buying and building a house upon; and was only prevented from doing so, by accidentally learning that he must be content to put up with the slight inconvenience of having his meadow and garden under water all the winter, not to mention the lower rooms of his projected chateau. I paid a visit of compliment to the spot nevertheless, in return for the fancies and images (looking as fresh and green as itself) that it called back to me. The splendid costumes of the peasantry of this province also remain unchanged; and the females are still, without exception, the finest race in France. In both these respects a market-day at Rouen presents a more interesting subject for contemplation than perhaps any thing else of the kind. On leaving this city, and proceeding towards the coast, the extreme beauty of some of the female faces that you meet with has seemed even more striking to me now than when I first observed it. We have seen three or four that were absolute models of perfection, as to form, feature, complexion, &c. It is true, they are deficient in that peculiar expression which is so much sought after in France; but I am not at all sure that the perfectly tranquil and unconscious air which usually reigns in their divine faces is not superior in every respect to this boasted piquancy; and I am sure that it is infinitely more poetical. We reached Dieppe this morning, and intend sailing for Brighton tonight. On account of the extreme characteristicness of its costume, style of building, &c. Dieppe is certainly the best port we could have chosen to embark from. The last impressions we shall thus take with us from France will, no doubt, afford the more striking contrasts when we arrive on the other side: and it is from contrasts chiefly that the mere external and immediate excitement and pleasure of travelling arise. Adieu, till we find ourselves in England. D. S. F. LETTER II. Brighton, Friday, Sept. 19th, 1817. In spite of all the fools and philosophers that ever thought or wrote, bodily pain is the greatest evil attendant on humanity. Perhaps it is the only real one. For myself, I think it is. Against all the evils which spring from the mind of man, the mind itself, omnipotent in its own sphere, furnishes, or at least possesses, the antidote. In the evils, so called, which are engendered by the passions and affections, those who choose to look for them may recognize the elements of all that is beautiful in the human character: evils without which the moral world could no more preserve its healthfulness and perfection, than the physical world could without winds, thunderclouds, and earthquakes. But corporal pain, in its beginning, its continuation, and its end, is the source of unmixed mischief. It shuts up the winged spirit in the dark, narrow, and pestiferous dungeon of the flesh. It concentrates all the energies and emotions of the mind and heart upon the one indivisible point of self, where, not having space to breathe or to look abroad, they stagnate and corrupt and perish. In the violent extremes of danger, the mind and the affections frequently step forth in all their beauty: the friend looks to his friend, and is tranquil; the mother hangs over her child, and forgets there is any other being in the world; the lover clings to the form or the image of his mistress, and is happy. But in the torture of acute bodily pain, or the death-like languor of disease, every thing external is shut out: the charities of life wither; its very delicacies, which are an instinct in the female character, are forgotten; and the strengths of our nature become weaknesses, and its weaknesses rise up into strengths; and self-mean, miserable, bodily self-opens and spreads and covers every thing. If there is one general law of our nature in which wisdom is not apparent, it is that which makes disease the constant companion of a death-bed: thus depriving us of the best beauty of the human character precisely at the moment when we more than ever seem to need it, leaving nothing but its worst deformity. You will wonder how I have been led to make these reflections. But you will cease to wonder when you come to be imprisoned, as I have just been, for twenty-six hours in an English packet-boat. Let those who possess and would retain a tolerable opinion of human nature, avoid this earthly, or rather watery pandemonium: it is a test which nothing can withstand. We landed here two hours ago, and surrendered ourselves at discretion to the first persons who were in wait to lay hands on us. They conducted us to a hotel, where we now are: C with his unchangeable good humour; but I, ill, fatigued, spiritless, out of temper, and disposed to dislike every thing and every body about me. How is this? Shall I confess? My mind, and the weak frame to which it is linked, are on the shores of England; but half the energies that keep them healthful, and almost all the thoughts and affections that make them happy, have returned to the flowers, the trees, and the waterfalls of V"He will be better and happier to-morrow, if the sun shines," I hear A- say, and she is always right. She knows him better than he does himself. Good night!-I do not know why it is, but when my head is on my pillow, and my eyes are closed, and I hear nothing about me but my own breathings, wherever my body may be, my spirit is sure to be at V Saturday. A was right. I got up this morning and walked out; and the sun did shine, and the sea glittered under it, and the little children were bathing or playing about on the sands, or riding ponies or asses on the shore; gaily dressed people, with their morning faces, were passing and repassing here and there; the fishermen were spreading their nets to dry, and their wives sitting mending them, on a beautiful piece of turf in the centre of the town looking to the sea; the houses I thought had every where a peculiarly happy look, unlike any thing I had seen before;-and I was better and happier. I looked once or twice across the sea for the shores of France, but I could not see them; and I do not know whether I was not trying to be melancholy again: but just then I caught a glance of the sunshine upon the water, and C came up to me with his smiling spirit looking out from his eyes, and I was happy half against my will.“ Happy against his will! Now is not that nonsense?" I hear A- exclaim. May she never be able to understand the feelings which she is so apt and so welcome to make merry with! May a perpetual light from within continue to give, as it does now, life, beauty, and newness to every thing about her! I know, as well as she does, that this earth is, properly understood, a place about the surface of which we ought to glide as with wings; that the spirit ought to bear up the body from seeming to touch it; that we ought to pass over it as the bees pass over flowers-only to collect their sweets: I know all this, but I am constantly finding that I only know it ;—she feels it. Adieu, my dear Claire, P. S. You will remember that the letters I address to you are intended for all the home circle; and that the wishes and adieus I bid to you are offered for them all. LETTER III. Brighton, Monday, Sept. 22, 1817. Ir is an instinct of our nature to judge by externals. In the present state of the world, I know, this instinct is apt sometimes to lead us astray; but, it is, upon the whole, a very valuable one: and I generally, to a certain extent, yield myself up to it. I suffer it to influence, but not to fix me. No one can visit a foreign country with less prejudice against the inhabitants of it than I have against those of England; and yet my first impression is, that I do not like them, and that I never can. You will not, however, do them or me the injustice to take this as a deliberate opinion. It is merely an impulse, arising from the external indications of character which first present themselves to me. There is a hard coarseness of feature, and a repulsive coldness of manner, which, whatever of good or of beauty they may cover, are unequivocally bad in themselves and these the English appear to me to possess in a remarkable degree. There is, besides, in all they say and do, an awkward and blundering abruptness, which is peculiarly offensive to a Frenchman. One is accustomed in France, on all occasions, to give and receive a smile at meeting and at parting, even in one's intercourse with strangers. Perhaps these smiles do not mean much; but they are at least harmless. Here I never meet with any thing like a smile, except sometimes an awkward half-suppressed one at my foreign English. This is one of the worst of rudenesses, and one to which the people here are more addicted than to any other; or perhaps it may appear so to me, because it is one which a Frenchman never falls into, though our language possesses such an endless variety of delicacies, which foreigners, and above all the English, are perpetually violating. But for the present I willingly turn from the people to the country. We are extremely interested by this town. The features of it are not what can be called striking, but they are, I think, very remarkable. There is nothing about it in the slightest degree venerable or impressive, like some of the great French and Flemish towns. There is Do beauty or grandeur in the houses or public buildings. On the contrary, there is an air of smallness every where; but this is accompanied by a newness, a completeness, and a finish, which give to the whole the effect of a picture. Any part that can be taken in by the eye at |