It is not long since the mirror held up to Nature--that is, English nature reflected by the French--revealed to us, at the Ambigû Comique and at the Théâtre des Variétés, in Paris, “that of ourselves which yet we knew not of”--dreamt not of. One gentleman who supported not only the character of a Prefect, but an enormous cocked-hat, assured us that when we were at home, we groaned under the tyranny of a feudal government, which ground us to the dust; that our Commonality was overridden and harrowed by tax-exacting aristocrats; that they died of starvation in heaps; that if they dared to call their souls their own, the latter were summarily released from their bodies by a perambulating police disguised as members of the Royal Humane Society. In another scene the same public instructor told us, that all Englishmen (of course including the starved Commonality) possess enormous wealth, which they usually employ in the purchase of “_Le titre de Lord_;”--an unnecessary outlay, as every person not a tradesman receives the title as a matter of course. Yet this avails them little, as the different orders of our nobility hold no communication with persons of higher or lower rank; our national pride preventing the one, and the best of all reasons--“because they can’t--” the other. Our patricians ride abroad followed by armed retainers; nor is any vulgar person allowed to come between the wind and their nobility: the streets being expressly cleared for them by constables. When at home, however, seated in a golden chair in company with the Spleen, the “jeune Miss,” his wife, and a “boulle-dog,” a native of our kingdom passes his time chiefly in drinking tea with lemon in it, and saying, “Hoh!--Hah!--Yeeas!--Gottam!--and ver gut!” Our ladies are a little too much given to fighting, and a little too lightly won. We sell our wives. This is a very common mercantile transaction indeed. A “pen” of no mean dimensions is appropriated in Smithfield for the interesting periodical auction. Our Queen makes away with many millions a year, and cuts off the heads of any persons to whom she may take a dislike, or hangs them, without the intervention of judge, jury, or any other functionary than the executioner, who--another Tristan the Hermit--is a regular member of the Royal Household. We are, however, for the most part, a harmless and ridiculous race, affording excellent sport to innkeepers and adventurers. We eat prodigiously. Indeed so great is our love for good cheer, that we name our children after our favourite dishes. If a person in good society is not called Sir Rosbif, he will probably answer to the name of Lord Bifstek--in honor of the two great national dishes, which we have spelt in that manner from time immemorial.