M. Francis Wey, who is a college professor and litterateur of some eminence in Paris, has published for visitors from the continent to the Great Exhibition, a volume entitled Guides à Londres, composed, we believe, of a series of articles, Les Anglais chez Eux (the English at Home), which he had contributed to the Musée des Familles, an old and favorite Parisian journal. It is very amusing to see the manner in which these things are received by the British press. The sensitiveness of which the Americans are accused is quite equalled in that which is displayed in the London criticisms of Monsieur Wey. And just at this time it is all the more pleasant to us, for that our amiable Mother-Country critics are quoting with so much enjoyment the characterizations of us poor United-Statesers, done in the same way, by a gentleman of the same country. Even Blackwood does not seem to have a suspicion that a Frenchman could caricature or in any way exaggerate the publicities or domesticities of New-York; but all the independent, care-for-nothing John Bulls see only "rancor," "ill-will," and "absurdity" in the Frenchman's views of English society. The Literary Gazette, the Weekly News, and all the rest, have the same tone. French travellers, it is said—
"Instead of patiently collecting their facts, they invent them. Instead of representing social usages as they really are, they state them as what they choose to suppose. They mistake flippancy for wit, and imperturbable assurance for knowledge. They speak ex cathedra of matters of which they are profoundly ignorant. And the consequence of all this is that they commit the drollest blunders, make the most startling assertions, indulge in the most grotesque appreciations, and flounder in the most extravagant absurdities."
We wonder if a single British reviewer will introduce, with such a paragraph, his extracts from the Letters on America, by M. Xavier Marmier? Not a bit of it.
On the English language, M. Wey says—
"The Englishman has invented for himself a language adapted to his placid manners and silent tastes. This language is a murmur, accompanied by soft hissings; it falls from the lips, but is scarcely articulated; if the chest or throat be employed to increase the power of the voice, the words become changed and scarcely intelligible; if cried aloud, they are hoarse, and resemble the confused croaking of frogs in marshes."
"The English are passionately attached to their language. They have only consented to borrow one single word from us, and that is employed by their innkeepers—table d'hôte, which they pronounce taible dott. And yet we have taken hundreds of words from them!"
English women—
"English women give to us the preference over their own countrymen. Our gallantry is something new to them, and our politeness touches their hearts. But though they love us, we are not liked by their lords and masters. There is no exaggeration in all that has been said of the beauty of English women—an assemblage of them would realize the paradise of Mahomet."
Their dresses—
"Many white gowns are to be seen. White is a recherché luxury in that land of tallow and smoke, where linen becomes dirty in three hours. However, good taste is making some progress. Ladies may be met with who are well dressed, although, generally speaking, a sort of audacity is displayed in wearing the most irreconcilable colors. What gives English women a somewhat bizarre appearance, is the custom they have of swelling out their petticoats, by means of circles of whalebone or iron:—this causes them to resemble large bells in movement."