still, and vow that in Spain they were never beaten at all; indeed,
if you read in the Biographie des Hommes du Jour, article "Soult,"
you will fancy that, with the exception of the disaster at
Vittoria, the campaigns in Spain and Portugal were a series of
triumphs. Only, by looking at a map, it is observable that Vimeiro
is a mortal long way from Toulouse, where, at the end of certain
years of victories, we somehow find the honest Marshal. And what
then?--he went to Toulouse for the purpose of beating the English
there, to be sure;--a known fact, on which comment would be
superfluous. However, we shall never get to Paris at this rate;
let us break off further palaver, and away at once. . . .

(During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindly requested to pay
his bill at the Hotel at Boulogne, to mount the Diligence of
Laffitte, Caillard and Company, and to travel for twenty-five
hours, amidst much jingling of harness-bells and screaming of
postilions.)

. . . . . .

The French milliner, who occupies one of the corners, begins to
remove the greasy pieces of paper which have enveloped her locks
during the journey. She withdraws the "Madras" of dubious hue
which has bound her head for the last five-and-twenty hours, and
replaces it by the black velvet bonnet, which, bobbing against your
nose, has hung from the Diligence roof since your departure from
Boulogne. The old lady in the opposite corner, who has been
sucking bonbons, and smells dreadfully of anisette, arranges her
little parcels in that immense basket of abominations which all old
women carry in their laps. She rubs her mouth and eyes with her