throws his cloak on one sofa and his hat on the other, and spreads himself out for a lounge before this mere apology of a French fire. But, for eating and drinking! if they cook better in Paris, I shall have my passport altered. The next _prefet_ that signs it shall substitute _gourmand_ for _proprietaire_. I will profess a palate, and live to eat. Making every allowance for an appetite newly from sea, my experience hitherto in this department of science is transcended in the degree of a rushlight to Arcturus. I strolled about Havre from breakfast till dinner, seven or eight hours, following curiosity at random, up one street and down another, with a prying avidity which I fear travel will wear fast away. I must compress my observations into a sentence or two, for my fire is out, and this old castle of a hotel lets in the wind "shrewdly cold," and, besides, the diligence calls for me in a few hours and one must sleep. Among my impressions the most vivid are--that, of the twenty thousand inhabitants of Havre, by far the greater portion are women and soldiers--that the buildings all look toppling, and insecurely antique and unsightly--that the privates of the regular army are the most stupid, and those of the national guard the most intelligent-looking troops I ever saw--that the streets are filthy beyond endurance, and the shops clean beyond all praise--that the women do all the buying and selling, and cart-driving and sweeping, and even shoe-making, and other sedentary craftswork, and at the same time have (the meanest of them) an air of ambitious elegance and neatness, that sends your hand to your hat involuntarily when you speak to them--that the children speak French, and look like little old men and women, and the horses, (the famed Norman breed) are the best of draught animals, and the worst for speed in the world--and that, for extremes ridiculously near, dirt and neatness, politeness and knavery, chivalry and _petitesse_, of bearing and language, the people I have seen to-day _must_ be pre-eminently remarkable, or France, for a laughing philosopher, is a paradise indeed! And now for my pillow, till the diligence calls. Good night. LETTER IV.