matic authors kindly passed off this originality of our neighbours for generosity of heart, and even greatness of soul. True benevolence, like true magnanimity, has an air of simplicity and seriousness which is not incompatible with amiability. But while the anglomania prevailed, our dramatic authors and romance writers could not protect innocence or succour misfortune, but with the guineas of an English lord, whose character always exhibited an odd compound of capricious misanthropy, and liberal sentimentality. While the English were holding us up to the ridicule of Europe, by their comical caricatures, we were making John Bull the ideal perfection of human nature. Certainly every Englishman may be proud of Rousseau's Lord Edward! We have now, perhaps, fallen into the opposite extreme; but still we have the advantage of our neighbours in politeness.

The English themselves acknowledge that their eccentricity is often occasioned by the want of education. A certain noble lord makes a companion of his groom for the sake of singularity. One of the most innocent peculiarities of the English, and one which has given rise to many comic scenes, is that taciturn disposition which Ben Jonson has so ably pourtrayed in his character of Morose, in the comedy of Epicone. This habitual silence was carried to a ridiculous excess by the late Duke of Devonshire and his brother, Lord George Cavendish. These two noblemen would pass whole months together without uttering

a word, and expressing their liveliest emotions by signs and gestures. They were both travelling through Europe, in the same post-chaise, when stopping one evening at an inn in Germany, they were informed after supper, that they could only be accommodated with a chamber containing three beds, of which one was already occupied. They made no remark, but quietly retired to the apartment. They, however, felt some little curiosity about their fellow-lodger, and quietly drawing aside the bed curtains, they took a momentary peep at him. They then immediately got into bed and slept soundly. Next morning, after they had breakfasted and paid their bill, the duke could not refrain from saying to his brother: George, did you see the dead body?" "Yes,"

was the reply, and they both gravely got into their chaise and proceeded on their journey. Perhaps, madam, they lost a tale of horror by their obstinate silence.

The English generally endeavour to give themselves an air of independence by their whimsical humours, which are for the most part merely a trick to engage public attention. The man who pretends to brave public opinion is often a slave to it. There are some other general features in the English character which it would be interesting to point out; but lest I should be accused of ill-nature, it would be more prudent to support my observations by the remarks of some English writer. But, after all, this precaution is probably unnecessary, for if you reproach the English with any vice

or fault which they cannot deny, they immediately make a merit of it, and coolly reply, "It is in our nature. Our national character is marked by striking and distinct traits. The asperities of our surface have been compared to the well-cast impression on a medal; the French are like current coin, worn smooth by friction. We are proud, because we belong to the nation whose political pre-eminence is incontestable. Our pride is only the expression of conscious dignity, the dignity of the free man. We despise foreigners, whom we call slaves, as the republics of Greece and Rome regarded as barbarous all nations who had not the happiness, like them and us, to be burthened by an oligarchy, but at the same time enjoying the privilege of periodical saturnalia. It may be said that we despise the rest of Europe, rather than over-value ourselves. We should really be seriously sorry if the freedom of representative government should teach the French that they are our equals.* But if we are cold and reserved to strangers, we suffer the inconvenience of our unsociability. Enter one of our coffee-rooms, and you will probably find two Englishmen seated silently in a corner, instead of entering into conversation with each other. If, by chance, one of them, throwing off some of the national reserve, should venture to address a question to his neigh

* It is curious to observe the joy expressed by the English newspapers of all parties, whenever a ministerial measure provisionally annuls any of the free institutions which we owe to the charter. Should a truly free nation be jealous of the liberty of others?

bour, the latter will put on a grave look, and return at most a dry monosyllabic answer, for two talkative Englishmen seldom meet under the same roof."

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Thus does English pride justify and accuse itself in the same breath. If etiquette be necessary to any people, it is so to the French, who are perhaps too ready to make acquaintance with strangers. But we are regarded as hypocritical coxcombs by the English, who love comfort and hate constraint, who boast of their frankness, though it often degenerates into absolute rudeness, and who dread familiarity as the antidote to dignity.

I AM going to tell you about a young author, who, like yourself, is looking forward to a favourable turn of fortune, in the hope of gaining the double crown of Melpomene and Thalia. This young man is Henry B. Encouraged by his frank and obliging manners, I ventured to question him respecting his circumstances and occupations, with more freedom than a stranger

is generally warranted in using. Curiosity is artful; and, adopting the custom of the Scotch, I sometimes answered one of his questions by asking another, as though I attached a certain condition to my reply.

Henry B was intended by his parents for the legal profession: but the demon of poetry assailed him, and as soon as he could escape from business, he repaired to the theatre to spend his evenings. Like Piron's Victor, he raised the ideal edifice of his fortune and glory on the scenic boards. He soon found it impossible to absent himself from the theatre on the first night of any new performance. He secretly exercised this talent in dramatic composition, but his productions were known only to a few particular friends. Encouraged by their approbation, he was induced to submit his labours to the decision of the public; but he found Covent-garden and Drury-lane as difficult of access as our Parisian theatres. Like Tobin, he was doomed to sustain numberless repulses. He however possessed the perseverance of the author of the Honey Moon; and when he found himself supplanted by rivals, over whom he felt a conscious superiority, he still cherished the hope of one day surmounting every obstacle. For several years he had to contend against that distrust with which theatrical managers regard the inexperience of all young dramatic candidates, and which leads them to prefer known mediocrity to unknown genius.

Hence arises in London, as well as in Paris,