A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.

It was profoundly observed by a witty
member of the Court of Common Council, in
Council assembled in the City of London, in
the year of our Lord one thousand eight
hundred and fifty, that the French are a
frog-eating people, who wear wooden shoes.

We are credibly informed, in reference to
the nation whom this choice spirit so happily
disposed of, that the caricatures and stage
representations which were current in England
some half a century ago, exactly depict their
present condition. For example, we understand
that every Frenchman, without
exception, wears a pigtail and curl-papers. That
he is extremely sallow, thin, long-faced, and
lantern-jawed. That the calves of his legs
are  invariably undeveloped; that his legs fail
at the knees, and that his shoulders are always
higher than his ears. We are likewise assured
that he rarely tastes any food but soup
maigre, and an onion; that he always says,
"By Gar! Aha! Vat you tell me, Sare?" at
the end of every sentence he utters; and that
the true generic name of his race is the
Mounseers, or the Parly-voos. If he be not a
dancing-master, or a barber, he must be a
cook; since no other trades but those three
are congenial to the tastes of the people, or
permitted by the Institutions of the country.
He is a slave, of course. The ladies of France
(who are also slaves) invariably have their
heads tied up in Belcher handkerchiefs, wear
long ear-rings, carry tambourines, and beguile
the weariness of their yoke by singing in head
voices through their noses—principally to
barrel-organs.

It may be generally summed up, of this
inferior people, that they have no idea of
anything.

Of a great institution like Smithfield, they
are unable to form the least conception. A
Beast Market in the heart of Paris would be
regarded as an impossible nuisance. Nor
have they any notion of slaughter-houses in
the midst of a city. One of these benighted
frog- eaters would scarcely understand your
meaning, if you told him of the existence of
such a British bulwark.

It is agreeable, and perhaps pardonable, to
indulge in a little self-complacency when our
right to it is thoroughly established.   At the
present time, to be rendered memorable by a
final attack on that good old market which is
the (rotten) apple of the Corporation's eye,
let us compare ourselves, to our national
delight and pride, as to these two subjects of
slaughter-house and beast-market, with the
outlandish foreigner.

The blessings of Smithfield are too well
understood to need recapitulation; all who run
(away from mad bulls and pursuing oxen)
may read. Any market-day, they may be
beheld in glorious action. Possibly, the
merits of our slaughter-houses are not yet
quite so generally appreciated.

Slaughter-houses, in the large towns of
England, are always (with the exception of one
or two enterprising towns) most numerous in
the most densely crowded places, where there
is the least circulation of air. They are often
underground, in cellars; they are sometimes
in close back yards; sometimes (as in
Spitalfields) in the very shops where the meat
is sold. Occasionally, under good private
management, they are ventilated and clean.
For the most part, they are unventilated and
dirty; and, to the reeking walls, putrid fat
and other offensive animal matter clings with
a tenacious hold. The busiest slaughter-houses
in London are in the neighbourhood
of Smithfield, in Newgate Market, in Whitechapel,
in Newport Market, in Leadenhall
Market, in Clare Market. All these places
are surrounded by houses of a poor description,
swarming with inhabitants. Some of
them are close to the worst burial-grounds in
London. When the slaughter-house is below
the ground, it is a common practice to throw
the sheep down areas, neck and crop—which
is exciting, but not at all cruel. When it is
on the level surface, it is often extremely
difficult of approach. Then, the beasts have
to be worried, and goaded, and pronged, and
tail-twisted, for a long time before they can
be got in—which is entirely owing to their
natural obstinacy. When it is not difficult of
approach, but is in a foul condition, what they
see and scent makes them still more reluctant
to enter—which is their natural obstinacy
again. When they do get in at last, after no
trouble and suffering to speak of, (for, there is
nothing in the previous journey into the heart
of London, the night's endurance in Smithfield,
the struggle out again, among the