At last he reached the termination of his journey, and having taken a long night’s repose, he dressed himself carefully, selected his letters of introduction, and, calling the waiter, showed him the inscriptions of these letters, and intimated that he wished to go to the persons to whom they were addressed. The man stared in the traveller’s face, and uttered a good deal of incomprehensible French. The American talked English, but all to no purpose. At last the waiter left the traveller in despair, and called his master. _He_ was as much puzzled as the servant, and finally, as the only resort, sent out for an Englishman living in the town, to come and see an American gentleman, who was out of his head. The Englishman came, and the American stated his grievance. “Here,” said he, showing his letters, “are some letters of introduction to several gentlemen in this city, and I want these stupid people to take me to them: but they only gaze in my face, shrug their shoulders, and cry ‘sacre-r-r-r,’ like a watchman’s rattle.” The Englishman stared at the American, as if he, too, thought him out of his head. At last he said to him, “Sir, these letters are addressed to a gentleman in Bourdeaux: where do you suppose you are?” “In Bourdeaux, to be sure,” said the American. “Not so,” said the Englishman: “you are in the city of Lyons, 700 miles from Bourdeaux.” The simple explanation of the whole scene was, that the traveller had entered the wrong coach, and instead of proceeding to Bourdeaux, had gone 400 miles in the opposite direction. This story shows the importance of looking well to the outset of a journey--or, if you please, to the commencement of, a discourse, or a dispute. In the one case, be sure to enter the right coach--in the other, start with a definition. If, unluckily, you should by any chance get into a dispute, the best way is to stop short, and ask your antagonist to enter into a consideration of what the point of debate is. This is apt to have a cooling effect upon both parties, and to result in a clear understanding of the real question. A few years since, I happened to be travelling in a stage coach, where, among half a dozen passengers, there were a Frenchman and an Englishman. There seemed to be a sort of cat-and-dog feeling between them; for if one opened his lips to speak, the other was sure to fly at the observation with the teeth and claws of dispute. As we were driving along, the Englishman spoke of a sheep he had seen in some foreign land, with a tail so long as to drag upon the ground. Thereupon, the Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, curled up his lip, lifted his eyebrows, and took a pinch of snuff. “What do you mean by that?” said the Englishman, not a little nettled at the contemptuous air of his rival. “Vat do I mean?” said the latter; “I means dat a sheap has not got von tail at all.” “A sheep hasn’t got a tail, ha?” said the Englishman. “No, not von bit,” said the Frenchman.