Here is the head of a Frenchman [shews the head], all levity and lightness, singing and capering from morning till night, as if he looked upon life to be but a long dance, and liberty and law but a jig. Yet Monsieur talks in high strains of the law, though he lives in a country that knows no law but the caprice of an absolute monarch. Has he property? an edict from the Grand Monarch can take it, and the slave is satisfied. Pursue him to the Bastile, or the dismal dungeon in the country to which a lettre de cachet conveys him, and buries the wretch for life: there see him in all his misery; ask him "What is the cause?"
"Je ne sçai pas, it is de will of de Grand Monarch." Give him a soupe maigre, a little sallad, and a hind quarter of a frog, and he's in spirits.—"Fal, lai, lai, vive le roy, vive la bagatelle." He is now the declared enemy of Great Britain: ask him, "Why?—has England done your country an injury?" "Oh no." "What then is your cause of quarrel?" "England, sir, not give de liberty to de subject. She will have de tax upon de tea; but, by gar, sir, de Grand Monarch have send out de fleet and de army to chastise de English; and, ven de America are free, de Grand Monarch he tax de American himself." "But, Monsieur, is France able to cope with England on her own element, the sea?" "Oh! pourquois non?" "Why not?"
Here is the head of a British Tar [shews the head]; and, while England can man her navy with thousands of these spirits, Monsieur's threats are in vain. Here is a man who despises danger, wounds, and death; he fights with the spirit of a lion, and, as if (like a salamander) his element was fire, gets fresh courage as the action grows hotter; he knows no disgrace like striking to the French flag; no reward for past services so ample as a wooden leg; and no retreat so honourable as Greenwich hospital. Contrast his behaviour with that of a French sailor, who must have a drawn sword over his head to make him stand to his gun, who runs trembling to the priest for an absolution—"Ah, mon bon pere, avez pitié de moi!" when he
should look death in the face like a man. This brave tar saw the gallant Farmer seated on his anchor, his ship in a blaze, his eye fixed on the wide expanse of the waters round him, scorning to shrink, waiting with the calm firmness of a hero for the moment when he was to die gloriously in the service of his country.
Here is the head of a Spaniard, [Shews the head.] But first I had better remove the Frenchman, for fear of a quarrel between the two allies. Now he has no dislike to England; he wishes, as Spain ever did, for peace with England, and war with all the world; he remembers the latter end of the last war, the British fleets thundering in their ports, and the whole nation abhorring the French for the calamities brought upon them by an intriguing Italian cabinet. He was taken prisoner by the gallant Sir George Rodney; and the only favour he asked, upon coming to England, was not to be imprisoned with a Frenchman, detesting all connexion with that superficial, dancing, treacherous people. The Frenchman, vain and sanguine to the last, encourages his ally to persevere. Attendre, attendre, mon cher ami.—"Wait, my good friend, we shall get the game yet." "Certainly," replies the grave Don, "for we get all the rubbers." But, whilst these two are mourning over their losses by the war, here comes another to complete the procession of madness and folly.
This is the head [shews it] of Mynheer Van Neverfelt Large Breecho Love Cabbecho Dutch Doggero, a great merchant at Rotterdam; who had amassed an immense fortune by supplying the enemies of Great Britain with hemp, and who, if he had his deserts, should die as he has lived by it. He considers treaties as mere court promises; and these, in the vulgar acceptation of a pie-crust, whenever they cover any advantage, it is but breaking them, and down with friendship and honour in a bite. He looks upon interest to be the true law of nature, and principal a Sinking Fund, in which no Dutchman should be concerned. He looks upon money to be the greatest good upon earth, and a pickled herring the greatest dainty. If you would ask him what wisdom is, he'll answer you, Stock. If you ask him what benevolence is, he'll reply, Stock: and should you inquire who made him, he would say, Stock; for Stock is the only deity he bows down to. If you would judge of his wit, his whole Stock lies in a pipe of tobacco; and, if you would judge of his conversation, a bull and a bear are his Stock companions. His conduct to all men and all nations is most strikingly typified by Hogarth's Paul before Felix, in true Dutch gusto, where the guardian angel, Conscience, has fallen asleep, which Avarice, in the shape of the devil, taking advantage of, saws asunder the legs of the stool upon which the apostle is exhibited standing. But the vengeance of Britain's insulted genius has overtaken him, in the east and in the west, and Holland has received blows, for her breach of compacts, she will remember as long as her dykes defend her from the encroachments of the ocean.