For some reason or other, the European has rarely been able to see America except in caricature. Would the first Review of the world have printed the _niaiseries_ of Mr. Maurice Sand as a picture of society in any civilized country? Mr. Sand, to be sure, has inherited nothing of his famous mother's literary outfit, except the pseudonyme. But since the conductors of the _Revue_ could not have published his story because it was clever, they must have thought it valuable for its truth. As true as the last-century Englishman's picture of Jean Crapaud! We do not ask to be sprinkled with rosewater, but may perhaps fairly protest against being drenched with the rinsings of an unclean imagination. The next time the _Revue_ allows such ill-bred persons to throw their slops out of its first-floor windows, let it honestly preface the discharge with a _gardez-l'eau!_ that we may run from under in season. And Mr. Duvergier d'Hauranne, who knows how to be entertaining! I know _le Français est plutôt indiscret que confiant_, and the pen slides too easily when indiscretions will fetch so much a page; but should we not have been _tant-soit-peu_ more cautious had we been writing about people on the other side of the Channel? But then it is a fact in the natural history of the American long familiar to Europeans, that he abhors privacy, knows not the meaning of reserve, lives in hotels because of their greater publicity, and is never so pleased as when his domestic affairs (if he may be said to have any) are paraded in the newspapers. Barnum, it is well known, represents perfectly the average national sentiment in this respect. However it be, we are not treated like other people, or perhaps I should say like people who are ever likely to be met with in society.