To suppose that the American heroes, planning the Lone Star expedition
against Cuba, have any deeply-rooted antipathy to SPANISH.
[Illustration:
_A Pack of Knaves, or A "Packed" meeting of the "Knowing Cards" of the
Betting-Shop interest to consider & adopt the best Shuffling Tricks
to carry on their Game! A humble attempt in the "Pre Raphael" Style
by George Cruikshank._
]
MYSTERIES OF PARIS,
TOTALLY UNEXPLAINED, BY A REGULAR BRITON.
In the first place, I should like to know what they mean by wearing
those enormous fur hats? They may be an intelligent people. All I know
is—I never saw such a set of muffs as they look in all my life. And such
tight trousers! reducing the legs of Young France to next to nothing,
and presenting an appearance of top-heaviness that is absolutely
uncomfortable to contemplate. They talk of their stable government! The
heads of the nation could never have been in a more tottering condition
than they seem now—and I don't see how things can possibly go on long on
such a slender footing.
Why should such a difference exist between the civil and military
states? I have heard a great deal of the admirable discipline of the
French army; but in a great many regiments there appears to be no
recognisable head worth speaking of. Quite the contrary. Are we indeed
to believe the scandal that all the boasted cares and energies of the
saviours of France have only been directed to the basest ends?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
This is the baker! The circular article he holds in his right hand is a
loaf! So is the longitudinal ditto in his left! I am at a loss to
account for the singular expedients resorted to by the French for making
their bread. It is true that one species possesses the great
recommendation, to the heads of families, of going a very long way. But,
on the contrary, the other is a description of food which the smallest
child could get through in no time.
This gentleman is supposed to be conducting himself in this remarkable
manner from an excess of enjoyment and high spirits; the French,
generally, being supposed to be a gay and light-hearted people. Does a
close inspection of the expression of the gentleman's countenance, in
the height of his hilarity, warrant either supposition? Would it not
rather be thought that he is performing a terrible act of penance for
some sin that can never be wholly expiated?
[Illustration]
They have policemen in Paris, I suppose. Indeed I know they have. Why,
then, is so strong a detachment of the military necessary to conduct
that little boy to prison? Is it that the civil officers are less to be
trusted with a service of danger than our own gallant Blues, or that
juvenile delinquency exists in France to an extent unknown in our
favoured clime?
[Illustration:
Who is _he_, I wonder!!!
]
I should like to know why the French can't allow their trees to grow as
they like, instead of cropping and clipping them, like so many whiskers
on the face of Nature. These singular-looking ter-restrial spheres,
planted in square tubs, in the Luxembourg Gardens, I am told are
orange-trees. Very good. Their resemblance to oranges is certainly
striking. I should be happy to accept their appropriate rotundity as a
precedent for the invariable rule (as having an instructive tendency),
but that, on inspection, I do not find the neighbouring groves to
consist of pear-trees as, judging from appearances, I was induced to
imagine.
[Illustration]
The French, I am told, down to the lowest grades of society, are
proverbial for their gallantry and consideration for the fair sex.
Appearances are certainly deceptive; but there is no trusting to them in
Paris. For instance, these individuals, I have ascertained, belong to
the class _ouvrier_:—
[Illustration]
To avoid the slightest mistake, I have hunted up the dictionary meaning
of that word. I find it to be _homme qui travaille—industriel_.
[Illustration]
They are certainly a strange race. How anybody can sleep, with gentlemen
parading the streets about a hundred at a time, before daybreak, and
continuing their what's-his-name's tattoo every ten minutes, is a
puzzler.
[Illustration]
How anybody can sleep with _these_ gentlemen—is another question!
HARMLESS ACCOMPANIMENT TO MR. CRUIKSHANK'S
PLATE ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE.
A friend of ours (had we been writing in the last century, we should
have said a wag), was expressing himself in terms of the highest
indignation with, or rather without, respect to his shoe-maker for
presuming to emigrate to Australia, on the pitiful plea that he (our
friend) was the only customer he had left. We remarked that we could see
nothing reprehensible in his conduct—especially as all his former
patrons had deserted him. "What are his former patrons to me?" exclaimed
our friend; "I am the only one remaining to him—and a cobbler _ought to
stick to his last_."
We laughed. Gentle reader, drop a smile if you can possibly manage it.
[Illustration:
"_There's Nothing like Leather_"—
]
WANTED, A DIBDIN.
APPLY TO THE FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY.
We hear a great deal of the prevalence of discontent in the navy. It is
said that the sailors are constantly grumbling at the way they are
treated, in the matter of unwholesome food and unsafe ships.
A great many suggestions have been offered as to the best remedy for
this evil. Some weak-minded practical persons have proposed fresh
provisions and new ships.
We propose a DIBDIN!
It is a notorious fact, that the late Charles Dibdin, during the war,
did the State great service by his sea songs, which had the effect of
persuading the British sailor that fighting was a very jolly thing; that
Frenchmen ought to (and might easily) be exterminated; and that all the
unpleasantness of a tempest might be satisfactorily overcome by climbing
up into the rigging and thinking of an absent Sue or Polly.
Why not employ a competent person to do something of the same kind in
the present day? It would be much better to reconcile the British seaman
to existing hardship, than to encourage a mutinous and dissatisfied
spirit. Of course, we put removing the difficulty out of the question,
as totally opposed to all precedent.
We annex a specimen or two of the sort of thing on which the proposed
salt-water laureate might be advantageously employed.
Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see,
About dainties, and stews, and the like—
A chunk of salt horse and some biscuit give me,
And it isn't at maggots I'll strike.
Avast! and don't think me a milksop so soft,
To be taken by trifles aback,
What would turn a fine gentleman's nose up aloft
Will be quite good enough for poor Jack.