A GREAT MISTAKE.
To suppose that the American heroes, planning the Lone Star expedition against Cuba, have any deeply-rooted antipathy to Spanish.
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?
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?
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?
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.
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:—
To avoid the slightest mistake, I have hunted up the dictionary meaning of that word. I find it to be homme qui travaille—industriel.
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.
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.
"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.
Or in this style:—
Come all ye jolly sailors bold,
Who life as next to nothing hold,
While English glory I unfold,
Huzza for the Arethusa!
She is a frigate quite used up,
Leaky and cracked as an old tea-cup
Her sides are thin,
And the rot's got in;
So if your dauntless pluck you'd show
Now is your time a cruise to go
On board of the Arethusa
THE VULTURE:
AN ORNITHOLOGICAL STUDY.
AFTER THE LATE EDGAR A. POE.
The Vulture is the most cruel, deadly, and voracious of birds of prey. He is remarkable for his keen scent, and for the tenacity with which he invariably clings to the victim on whom he has fixed his gripe. He is not to be shaken off whilst the humblest pickings remain. He is usually to be found in an indifferent state of feather.—New Translation of Cuvier.
Once upon a midnight chilling, as I held my feet unwilling
O'er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four;
Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then outskipping,
Suddenly there came a ripping, whipping, at my chambers door.
"'Tis the second floor," I mutter'd, "flipping at my chambers door—
Wants a light—and nothing more!"
Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill November,
And each cuticle and member was with influenza sore;
Falt'ringly I stirr'd the gruel, steaming, creaming o'er the fuel,
And anon removed the jewel that each frosted nostril bore,
Wiped away the trembling jewel that each redden'd nostril bore—
Nameless here for evermore!
And I recollect a certain draught that fann'd the window curtain
Chill'd me, fill'd me with the horror of two steps across the floor,
And, besides, I'd got my feet in, and a most refreshing heat in,
To myself I sat repeating—"If I answer to the door—
Rise to let the ruffian in who seems to want to burst the door,
I'll be ——" that and something more.
Presently the row grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Really, Mister Johnson, blow it!—your forgiveness I implore,
Such an observation letting slip, but when a man's just getting
Into bed, you come upsetting nerves and posts of chambers door,
Making such a row, forgetting"—Spoke a voice beyond the door:
"'Tisn't Johnson"—nothing more.
Quick a perspiration clammy bathed me, and I uttered "Dammy!"
(Observation wrested from me, like the one I made before)
Back upon the cushions sinking, hopelessly my eyes, like winking,
On some stout for private drinking, ranged in rows upon the floor,
Fix'd—and on an oyster barrel (full) beside them on the floor,
Look'd and groan'd, and nothing more.
Open then was flung the portal, and in stepp'd a hated mortal,
By the moderns call'd a Vulture (known as Sponge in days of yore),
Well I knew his reputation! cause of all my agitation—
Scarce a nod or salutation changed, he pounced upon the floor;
Coolly lifted up the oysters and some stout from off the floor,
Help'd himself, and took some more.'
Then this hungry beast untiring fix'd his gaze with fond admiring
On a piece of cold boil'd beef I meant to last a week or more,
Quick he set to work devouring—plates, in quick succession, scouring—
Stout with every mouthful show'ring—made me ask, to see it pour,
If he quite enjoy'd his supper, as I watch'd the liquid pour;
Said the Vulture, "Never more."
Much disgusted at the spacious vacuum by this brute voracious
Excavated in the beef—(he'd eaten quite enough for four)—
Still, I felt relief surprising when at length I saw him rising,
That he meant to go surmising, said I, glancing at the door—
"Going? well, I wont detain you—mind the stairs and shut the door——"
"Leave you, Tomkins!—never more."
Startled by an answer dropping hints that he intended stopping
All his life—I knew him equal to it if he liked, or more—
Half in dismal earnest, half in joke, with an attempt at laughing,
I remarked that he was chaffing, and demanded of the bore,
Ask'd what this disgusting, nasty, greedy, vile, intrusive bore
Meant in croaking "Never more?"
But the Vulture not replying, took my bunch of keys, and trying
Sev'ral, found at length the one to fit my private cupboard door;
Took the gin out, fill'd the kettle; and, with a sang froid to nettle
Any saint, began to settle calmly down the grate before,
Really as he meant departing at the date I named before,
Of never, never more!
Then I sat engaged in guessing what this circumstance distressing
Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before
Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him that if sinking
In the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he'd find my door
Always open to receive him and it struck me now that door
He would pass p'raps never more!
Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture enshrouded
With the smoke of vile tobacco—this was worse than all before;
"Smith!" I cried (in not offensive tones, it might have been expensive,
For he knew the art defensive, and could costermongers floor);
"Recollect it's after midnight, are you going?—mind the floor."
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"
"Smith!" I cried (the gin was going, down his throat in rivers flowing),
"If you want a bed, you know there's quite a nice hotel next door,
Very cheap. I'm ill—and, joking set apart, your horrid smoking
Irritates my cough to choking. Having mentioned it before,
Really, you should not compel one—Will you mizzle—as before?"
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"
"Smith!" I cried, "that joke repeating merits little better treating
For you than a condemnation as a nuisance and a bore.
Drop it, pray, it isn't funny; I've to mix some rum and honey—
If you want a little money, take some and be off next door;
Run a bill up for me if you like, but do be off next door."
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"
"Smith!" I shriek'd—the accent humbler dropping, as another tumbler
I beheld him mix, "be off! you drive me mad—it's striking four.
Leave the house and something in it; if you go on at the gin, it
Wont hold out another minute. Leave the house and shut the door—
Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body through the door!"
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"
And the Vulture never flitting—still is sitting, still is sitting,
Gulping down my stout by gallons, and my oysters by the score;
And the beast, with no more breeding than a heathen savage feeding,
The new carpet's tints unheeding, throws his shells upon the floor.
And his smoke from out my curtains, and his stains from out my floor,
Shall be sifted never more!
