During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly polite and attentive to the lady at his side, and kindly communicated to her, as is the way with the best-bred English on their first arrival “on the Continent,” all his impressions regarding the sights and persons he had seen. Such remarks having been made during half an hour’s ramble about the ramparts and town, and in the course of a walk down to the custom-house, and a confidential communication with the commissionaire, must be, doubtless, very valuable to Frenchmen in their own country; and the lady listened to Pogson’s opinions: not only with benevolent attention, but actually, she said, with pleasure and delight. Mr. Pogson said that there was no such thing as good meat in France, and that’s why they cooked their victuals in this queer way; he had seen many soldiers parading about the place, and expressed a true Englishman’s abhorrence of an armed force; not that he feared such fellows as these—little whipper-snappers—our men would eat them. Hereupon the lady admitted that our Guards were angels, but that Monsieur must not be too hard upon the French; “her father was a General of the Emperor.” Pogson felt a tremendous respect for himself at the notion that he was dining with a General’s daughter, and instantly ordered a bottle of champagne to keep up his consequence. “Mrs. Bironn, ma’am,” said he, for he had heard the waiter call her by some such name, “if you WILL accept a glass of champagne, ma’am, you’ll do me, I’m sure, great honor: they say it’s very good, and a precious sight cheaper than it is on our side of the way, too—not that I care for money. Mrs. Bironn, ma’am, your health, ma’am.” The lady smiled very graciously, and drank the wine. “Har you any relation, ma’am, if I may make so bold; har you anyways connected with the family of our immortal bard?” “Sir, I beg your pardon.” “Don’t mention it, ma’am: but BiRONN and BYron are hevidently the same names, only you pronounce in the French way; and I thought you might be related to his lordship: his horigin, ma’am, was of French extraction:” and here Pogson began to repeat,— “Hare thy heyes like thy mother’s, my fair child, Hada! sole daughter of my ’ouse and ’art?” “Oh!” said the lady, laughing, “you speak of LOR Byron? “Hauthor of ‘Don Juan,’ ‘Child ’Arold,’ and ‘Cain, a Mystery,’” said Pogson:—“I do; and hearing the waiter calling you Madam la Bironn, took the liberty of hasking whether you were connected with his lordship; that’s hall:” and my friend here grew dreadfully red, and began twiddling his long ringlets in his fingers, and examining very eagerly the contents of his plate. “Oh, no: Madame la Baronne means Mistress Baroness; my husband was Baron, and I am Baroness.” “What! ’ave I the honor—I beg your pardon, ma’am—is your ladyship a Baroness, and I not know it? pray excuse me for calling you ma’am.”