LONDON DESCRIBED BY A PARISIAN.

M. Francis Wey, who is a college professor and litterateur of some eminence in Paris, has published for visitors from the continent to the Great Exhibition, a volume entitled Guides à Londres, composed, we believe, of a series of articles, Les Anglais chez Eux (the English at Home), which he had contributed to the Musée des Familles, an old and favorite Parisian journal. It is very amusing to see the manner in which these things are received by the British press. The sensitiveness of which the Americans are accused is quite equalled in that which is displayed in the London criticisms of Monsieur Wey. And just at this time it is all the more pleasant to us, for that our amiable Mother-Country critics are quoting with so much enjoyment the characterizations of us poor United-Statesers, done in the same way, by a gentleman of the same country. Even Blackwood does not seem to have a suspicion that a Frenchman could caricature or in any way exaggerate the publicities or domesticities of New-York; but all the independent, care-for-nothing John Bulls see only "rancor," "ill-will," and "absurdity" in the Frenchman's views of English society. The Literary Gazette, the Weekly News, and all the rest, have the same tone. French travellers, it is said—

"Instead of patiently collecting their facts, they invent them. Instead of representing social usages as they really are, they state them as what they choose to suppose. They mistake flippancy for wit, and imperturbable assurance for knowledge. They speak ex cathedra of matters of which they are profoundly ignorant. And the consequence of all this is that they commit the drollest blunders, make the most startling assertions, indulge in the most grotesque appreciations, and flounder in the most extravagant absurdities."

We wonder if a single British reviewer will introduce, with such a paragraph, his extracts from the Letters on America, by M. Xavier Marmier? Not a bit of it.

On the English language, M. Wey says—

"The Englishman has invented for himself a language adapted to his placid manners and silent tastes. This language is a murmur, accompanied by soft hissings; it falls from the lips, but is scarcely articulated; if the chest or throat be employed to increase the power of the voice, the words become changed and scarcely intelligible; if cried aloud, they are hoarse, and resemble the confused croaking of frogs in marshes."

"The English are passionately attached to their language. They have only consented to borrow one single word from us, and that is employed by their innkeepers—table d'hôte, which they pronounce taible dott. And yet we have taken hundreds of words from them!"

English women—

"English women give to us the preference over their own countrymen. Our gallantry is something new to them, and our politeness touches their hearts. But though they love us, we are not liked by their lords and masters. There is no exaggeration in all that has been said of the beauty of English women—an assemblage of them would realize the paradise of Mahomet."

Their dresses—

"Many white gowns are to be seen. White is a recherché luxury in that land of tallow and smoke, where linen becomes dirty in three hours. However, good taste is making some progress. Ladies may be met with who are well dressed, although, generally speaking, a sort of audacity is displayed in wearing the most irreconcilable colors. What gives English women a somewhat bizarre appearance, is the custom they have of swelling out their petticoats, by means of circles of whalebone or iron:—this causes them to resemble large bells in movement."

English manners—

"English manners, rigid and cold, and dominated by arid rationalism, are the work of Cromwell. His bigotry and hypocrisy, his exterior austerity, his narrow formalism, suit the Englishman; he keeps up Cromwell's character, and admires himself in his usages. But he has no pity for his model—he never forgives Cromwell for having made him what he is. His spite towards that man is the last cry of nature, and the vague regret of a liberty of imagination of which neither the joys or the aspirations have been known since his time." "They have no grace, no desinvoltura, no poesy in them, but are methodical, reasonable, indefatigable in work and in amassing lucre."

How the English love—

"They love nothing with the heart; when they do love, it is exclusively of the head."

English bankers—

"In France we have the love of display; but in London it is not so. There, some of the principal bankers go every morning to the butchers' shops to buy their own chops, and they carry them ostensibly to some tavern in Cheapside or Fleet Street, where they cook them themselves. Then they buy three pennyworth of rye-bread, and publicly eat this Spartan breakfast. The exhibition fills their clients with admiration. But in the evening these good men make up for this by taking in their own palaces suppers worthy of Lucullus."

Flunkeys—

"The English aristocracy are distinguished by the number, the canes, and the wigs of their lacqueys. Seeing constantly a footman, well powdered and bewigged, carry horizontally a large Voltaire cane behind certain sumptuous carriages, I asked for an explanation; it was soon given—wig, powder, and cane are aristocratic privileges. Not only must a man have a certain number of quarterings to be authorized to make his servants use such things, but he must pay so much tax for the lacquey, so much for the wig, so much for the tail to the wig, and so much for the cane."

What most strikes a Frenchman in London—

"The coldness of the men towards the fair sex, and their profound passion for horses."

Officers of the life and horse guards—

"Cupid seems to have chosen them—they are possessed of such ideal beauty."

English taverns—

"The Englishman likes to be alone, even at the tavern. He fastens himself up in a box, where none can see him. There he drinks with taciturn phlegm. He takes tea, boiling grog, porter of the color of ink, and beer not less black. He is very fond of brandy, and drinks large glasses of it at a draught. He does not go to the tavern to amuse himself, but because drinking is a grave occupation. The more he swallows the calmer he is. One can however scarcely decide if his obstinate moroseness be a precaution against drunkenness, or the effect of spirituous liquors taken in excess. At some of the taverns are three gentlemen, dressed in black, with white cravats, who sing after one of them has struck the table with a little hammer; they are as serious as Protestant ministers or money-changers."

English food—

"Thick stupefying beer, meat almost raw and horribly spiced; strong libations of port wine, followed by plum-pudding—such is the meat of these islanders."

How the English eat—

"They eat at every hour, every where, and incessantly. The iron constitution of their complaisant stomachs enables them to feed in a manner which would satisfy wolves and lions. The delicate repast of a fair and sentimental young lady would be too much for a couple of Parisian street porters."

Stables and museums—

"Stables are clean and brilliant as museums ought to be; and the museums are as filthy as stables in Provence."

The Queen's stables—

"They form a college of horses, with pedantic grooms for professors, and a harness room for a library:"

English omnibuses—

"The omnibuses of London are worn out, ill built, and remarkably dirty. Even in wet weather nobody is ever allowed to enter the interior so long as any places are vacant outside. We had expected to find them built of mahogany and lined with velvet."

London—

"London, wholly devoted to private interests, offers nothing to the heart or mind. The city is too large; a man is lost in it; you elbow thousands of people without the hope of meeting any one you know. Even if you have a large fortune you would be ignored. Originality is there without effect; vanity without an object; and the desire of shining is chimerical. Intelligence has therefore only one opening, politics; pride only one object, the national sentiment; but as the people must feel enthusiasm for something, they adore horses; and as they must admire somebody, they burn incense under Lord Wellington's nose."

After midnight—

"At midnight the English leave the taverns, the public gardens, the theatres, and the open air balls, and fill up the supper saloons (not very reputable places), and the oyster rooms, where they eat till morning. After sunrise, the policemen are occupied in picking up in the gutters drunkards of both sexes, and all conditions."

London rain—

"It is tallow melted in water, and perfectly black."

A bad quarter—

"Between Cornhill Street and Thames Street, there lives what is called the populace of London; there pauperism is frightful. The wretched inhabitants of that district are brawlers, drunkards, and prize-fighters."

At Westminster Abbey—

"Shakspeare slumbers at a few steps from Richard II. The tombs bear traces of Presbyterian mutilations; but in other places the Calvinists scattered the bones of the deceased Bishops of Geneva. Such is the intolerance of the Protestants that they have not admitted the statue of Byron to the Abbey, and his shadow may be heard groaning at the door."

At Her Majesty's Theatre—

"To go with a blue cravat is shocking. When the doors are open, blows with the fist and the elbow are given without regard to age or sex. It is the peculiar fashion of entering which the natives have. If a Frenchman be recognized the people cry French dog. In the pit, the man behind you will place his foot on your shoulder. The ladies are plunged up to the neck in boxes. In the theatre there is an echo, which produces an abominable effect; but such is the vile musical taste of the English that they have never found it out. In the saloon you hear the continual hissing of teakettles."

The English Parliament—

"The House of Commons at present meets in a hole. The peers are in their new chamber. It is small, not monumental, and heavily ornamented. It reminds one of our tea shops, or a boudoir. The lords, when assembled, are generally placed on their backs, or rather lean on the back of the neck, and keep their legs above their heads. The Queen's throne, like constitutional royalty, is a gilded cage."

The new Houses of Parliament—

"They are an immense architectural plaything, and the English only admire them because they cost a vast sum."

English love of titles—

"One of my friends gave me a letter of introduction to Sir William P——, Esquire. I left the letter with my card at the Reform Club, Pall Mall. Two hours after Sir William came to my residence; but as I was not at home he wrote a line, and addressed it to me with the flattering designation of Esquire. England is the country of legal equality; but this sort of equilibrium does not extend to social usages; and although our penchant for distinctions seems puerile to the English, it would be easy to prove that they are not exempt from it. They have not, as we have, the love of uniforms, laced coats, epaulettes, or decorations; their button-holes often carry a flower, but never a rosette or knot of ribbon. But every body pretends to the title of Sir, which was formerly reserved exclusively to members of the House of Commons, to Baronets, and to some public functionaries. As, however, the title Sir has become too vulgar, every body calls himself Esquire to distinguish himself from his neighbor. This remark, nevertheless, does not concern my friend Sir William, for he is really an Esquire."

English soldiers—

"The noise which announces their approach is very singular. Picture to yourself the monotonous music of a bear's dance, executed by twenty fifers, whilst a man beats a big drum. The coats of the infantry are too short, and are surmounted with large white epaulettes. The men sway their bodies about to the beating of the drum, and carry their heads so stiffly that they appear to be balancing spoons on their noses. All the officers and non-commissioned officers carry long sticks with ivory handles."

Resemblance of Englishmen one to another—

"All Englishmen are alike. They live in the same way, are subject to the same logical rules, condemned to the same amusements. The proof that there exists only one character amongst them, and that they have only one way of living, is, that it is impossible, on seeing them, to divine their profession. A lord, a minister, a domestic, a street singer, a merchant, an admiral, a soldier, a general, an artist, a judge, a prize-fighter, and a clergyman, have all the same appearance, the same language, the same costume, and the same bearing. Each one has the air of an Englishman, and nothing more. They live in the same way, work at the same hours, eat at the same time, and of the same sort of food, and are all sequestrated when away from home from the society of women."

The French at London—

"At London the French labor under two subjects of anxiety, caused by their national prejudices. Accustomed to consider themselves as the first people in the world, to dazzle some, to despise others, and to display every where the confident pride of their supremacy, they, on treading the British soil, experience the impression of a greatness not borrowed from them; they are astonished at finding a people as remarkable as ours, as original as we are, and carrying to a still prouder degree the sentiment of their pre-eminence. Then our countrymen become disquieted; the intolerance of their national faith becomes mitigated; they are ill at ease, and for the first time in their lives feel constraint. Ceasing to believe themselves amongst slaves as in Italy, amongst vassals as in Belgium, or amongst innkeepers as in Switzerland or Germany, they endeavor to resemble sovereigns visiting other sovereigns, and by forced politeness render them involuntary homage."

Feeling of the English toward the French—

"They honor us with a marked attention, though they are indifferent to the rest of mankind. Our opinions respecting them cause them anxiety. They either admire us enthusiastically, or disparage us bitterly; but, in reality, they are obsequious and servile toward us!"

After a good deal of the numerous statues to Wellington, this at English admiration of Waterloo—

"The trumpet of Waterloo which has been sounded in London every where incessantly, and in every tone, during thirty-five years, diminishes the grandeur of the English nation. This intoxication seems that of a people who, never having won more than one battle, and despairing to conquer a second time, cannot recover from their surprise, nor bear in patience an unhoped-for glory."

How the English judge Napoleon—

"Public opinion has avenged the prisoner of St Helena; but does it follow that in 1815 the English protested with sufficient energy against his imprisonment! No. Englishmen are naturally indifferent and indulgent as regards their foreign neighbors, so long as patriotism or private interest is not at stake. Napoleon was the most terrible of their enemies; he placed England within ten steps of bankruptcy, and seriously menaced national manufactures. Not possessed of military instinct, the English do not pretend to chivalrous generosity. On the fall of the Empire, caused by the implacable perseverance of coalitions, the nation remembered that the Hundred Days cost its government a million an hour, and so long as the deficit was not made up, their resentment underwent no diminution. But now if you celebrate his glory before them, they will not display hostility. You must not, however, touch the till of this tribe of tradesmen, or they will be your bitter enemies. And the proof that they are nothing but shopkeepers is that their first functionary sits in a gilded arm chair on a wool-sack."