"It has arisen," replied the Frenchman, "from our great intimacy with England--where the month of November is passed by one half of the population in hanging themselves, and by the other half in cutting them down. The charcoal system has been an attempt to improve upon your insular mode of proceeding; and I believe it is, on the whole, considered preferable. But may I ask you in what reign the law was passed which permits every Englishman to beat his wife with a stick as large as his thumb; and also whether the law has made any provision for the case of a man's having the gout in that member to such a degree as to swell it to twice its ordinary size?" "It has been decided by a jury of physicians," said our able advocate, "that in all such cases of gout, the decrease of strength is in exact proportion to the increase of size in the pattern thumb, and therefore no especial law has passed our senate concerning its possible variation. As to the law itself, there is not a woman in England who will not tell you that it is as laudable as it is venerable." "The women of England must be angels!" cried the champion of France, suddenly starting from his chair and clasping his hands together with energy,--"angels! and nothing else, or" (looking round him) "they could never smile as you do now, while tyranny so terrible was discussed before them!" What the St. Denis thus politely called a smile, was in effect a very hearty laugh--which really and bonâ fide seemed to puzzle him, as to the feeling which gave rise to it. "I will tell you of what you all remind me at this moment," said he, reseating himself: "Did you ever see or read 'Le Médecin malgré Lui'?" We answered in the affirmative. "Eh bien! ... do you remember a certain scene in which a certain good man enters a house whence have issued the cries of a woman grievously beaten by her husband?" We all nodded assent. "Eh bien! ... and do you remember how it is that Martine, the beaten wife, receives the intercessor?--'Et je veux qu'il me batte, moi.' Voyez-vous, mesdames, I am that pitying individual--that kind-hearted M. Robert; and you--you are every one of you most perfect Martines." "You are positively getting angry, Sir Champion," said one of the ladies: "and if that happens, we shall incontestably declare you vanquished." "Nay, I am vanquished--I yield--I throw up the partie--I see clearly that I know nothing about the matter. What I conceived to be national barbarisms, you evidently cling to as national privileges. Allons! ... je me rends!" "We have not given any judgment, however," said I. "But perhaps you are more tired than beaten?--you only want a little repose, and you will then be ready to start anew." "Non! absolument non!--but I will willingly change sides, and tell you how greatly I admire England...."