At the recent Meeting of the British Association, Professor Glimm, of Finsterberg, favoured Section A with the outlines of his plan for the better arrangement of the signs of the zodiac, which, as he truly remarked, were in a very unsatisfactory state, and not at all in accordance with the spirit of the age. "What occasion have we," he asked, "for Libra, the Balance, when we have already the scales of the Pisces?" He therefore proposes to remove Libra from its control over the harvest month, and to substitute for it Virga, which, as every school-boy knows, is the Latin for a threshing machine in common use. As Aquarius comes under the provisions of the New Cab Act, which declares that no water-man shall be allowed on the stand, he is to retire on a pension, and his berth is to be held over for Father Mathew.
The weapons of Sagittarius, and his mode of conducting the chase, have become quite obsolete, and can only excite ridicule in an age which has made so many improvements in fire-arms. He is therefore to share the honourable retirement of Aquarius, and his duties and emoluments are to be divided amongst a troop of shooting stars. These last have petitioned that Canis Venaticus (the hunting dog) may be allowed to attend them, but their request cannot be complied with until it has been ascertained that this celestial pointer will refrain from worrying Taurus and Aries, and barking at the heels of Virgo. Professor Glimm has also persuaded some distinguished members of the Peace Society to arbitrate between the Gemini, who have not been on visiting terms for many years. By the intervention of these gentlemen, it is hoped these discreditable squabbles will be stopped, and Castor and Pollux will be once more seen in company.
OUR TOURIST IN PARIS.—No. 3.
The Englishman in Paris lives one of two lives: a life of duty or a life of pleasure. In the former case he wanders drearily through the Louvre and the Luxembourg; he makes painful pilgrimages to churches, museums, and galleries, in the hope of picking up a knowledge of Art. He devotes this day to St. Denis, the next to Versailles, the third to St. Cloud. He fills his catalogue and guide-books with annotations, and perhaps spends a cheerful evening over a diary, in which desperate efforts are made to distinguish the styles of Rubens and Titian, and the eras of Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle. In the latter case he frequents the Opéra Comique, the theatres, and the public balls: he breakfasts in the Palais Royal, and dines at Philippe's, and makes a regular promenade in the Champs Elysées every afternoon. The well-balanced mind of your correspondent seizes the advantages of both these systems. He devotes his morning to the cultivation of his intellect, and the rest of the day to the gratification of his tastes.
Behold him, then, after a conscientious study of the pictures in the Louvre, prepared to refresh himself by an airing in the Elysian fields. What a panorama of superb points of view! The Rue de la Paix, the Place and Column Vendôme, the Attic Madeleine, the endless arcades of the Rue de Rivoli, the imperial facade of the Tuileries, its classic gardens, the noble opening of the Place de la Concorde, with its obelisk and fountains, and the avenue ending with the sublime Arch of the Star. Where else can such a group of beauties be found? No wonder the poor Parisians find London dull and ugly! But the less we talk about the appearance of our dingy city the better; we must forget Trafalgar Square and its monuments, and console ourselves with our pavement, our drainage, and our comfortable firesides.
The sun shines cheerfully, the air is pure, and the philosopher enters the Champs Elysées in a state of serene enjoyment, proposing to study the manners of the great nation. He observes an ancient man by the wayside in tattered garments, who plays soft tunes on a bass trombone. No one pays the least attention to this mild minstrelsy. It is a perfect image of Wisdom talking in the streets, and no man regarding her. Another poor creature seated on the ground, grinds a feeble tootling organ amid similar neglect. The French are evidently not a musical people. The observer passes on to a temple of Punch, at whose exhibition (in reverence to the august original in England) he is about to assist, when he is suddenly aroused to a sense of a cruel disappointment. He might just as well be in Hyde Park. It is the drive by the Serpentine over again. Why, there's Overalls, of the Blues. There's Swellings Swellings; you never can go anywhere without seeing him. That was Bob Hilton, driving the high-stepping grey horse. There goes Threadpaper of the Foreign Office, with his infant moustache (what the deuce does he want with a moustache, I should like to know?) There's old Gratings, who is such a bore at the Club; there's Charley Martingale of the Plungers, with Hooker (known by his friends as the Bravo) in his wonderful tight trousers. But who isn't here? Two men behind are talking about the Metropolitan Handicap and Grumbler's chance of the Derby. Really, really, this is too bad. The ancient poet asks, "What exile from his fatherland can leave himself behind?" The question now is what man, by departure from his country, can hope to be free from his countrymen? It is intolerable. How is it possible to take notes of Parisian manners when you are seized upon by Swellings Swellings and catechised about the prospects of the Haymarket Opera? You get rid of him by informing him, in confidence, that it has been taken by Mr. John Bright for a series of Bal Masqués and Ballet entertainments, when up come the Bravo and Martingale, who want to know when Pytchley's stud is to be sold. You profess a sulky ignorance of the subject, and try to get away, when Martingale enters upon a sketch of French character, which he holds very low, chiefly on grounds of a sporting nature. Ever see such dogs?—ever see such horses?—ever see such riding and driving?—ever see such grooms and coachmen? You should go to one of their steeple-chases and look at them tumbling about. The last time, at La Marche, white and red cap came pounding along fifty miles an hour, and pulled up short at the brook to inquire for the bridge.
"Ou est le pont, Messieurs? Mon Dieu, je vais perdre! De grace, ou est le pont?" and another man got with his horse on to the top of a bank, where he stopped for a quarter-of-an-hour without being able to get off again, until at last the crowd flicked the unfortunate animal with their pocket-handkerchiefs into a state of madness, when he jumped down, only it was on the wrong side, and his rider gave up the adventure. Martingale was also very severe on the cavalry, whom he described as tailors mounted on bad cart-horses, and unable to stand for a moment before British heavies.
Hooker endorsed the criticisms of his friend, and called attention to the cavaliers who pranced up and down the drive. Certainly it was rather a ludicrous contrast, both for men and cattle, with our exhibition in Rotten Row. The horses were mostly weedy, leggy, tucked up brutes, all mane and tail, and worth about two pound ten each. One young fellow, a tremendous dandy, galloped up and down on a gray Arab-looking pony that an English gentleman would have put his little boy of twelve upon. The styles of riding were various. There were the haute école men, who rode very long, and showed all their saddle in front of them, and the Anglo-maniacs, who rode very short, and showed all their saddle behind them. Some gentlemen seemed disposed to tie their legs together under their horse's belly; others projected them on each side of his chest like the cat-heads of a man-of-war. They all rode on the curb, with a grasp of iron, holding the snaffle in the other hand, perpetually nagging and spurring and hustling the wretched animals about, till they did not know what to be at. Hooker's honest Yorkshire heart swelled with bitterness all the time. "They oughtn't to be trusted out with a horse," he said. "It's a shame, by Jove! They drive like a butcher, and ride like a chummy on a moke" (Hooker meant to say, a sweep on a donkey; but he always prefers idiomatic expressions, which add great vigour to his discourse). "However, I won't be unjust to the Mossoos. They can cook a good dinner, and no mistake. Come to-night, old fellow, and dine with us in the Rue Montorgueil. There's Haycock of the 190th coming, and we shall have some of Clicquot's Champagne."