poisoning everybody else for fifty thousand
francs. At the Lyrique, I find on the stage
a portly old gentleman, a slender young
gentleman, and a piquante little woman with
sprightly eyebrows, all singing an extremely
short song together about fifty thousand
francs Lira lara, fifty thousand francs
Ting ting! At the Impérial, I find a
general with his arm in a bandage, sitting in
a magnificent summer-house, relating his
autobiography to his niece, and arriving at
this point: " It is to this ravishing spot then,
my dearest Julie, that I, thy uncle, faithful
always to his Emperor, then retired; bringing
with me my adorable Georgette, this
wounded arm, this cross of glory, the love of
France, remembrances ever inextinguishable
of the Emperor my master, and fifty thousand
francs." At this establishment the sum
begins to diminish, and goes on rapidly
decreasing until I finish at the Funambules and
find Pierrot despoiling a friend of only one
hundred francs, to the great satisfaction of
the congregated blouses. Again. Will any
Englishman undertake to match me that
generic French old lady whom I will
instantly produce against him, from the
private life of any house of five floors in the
French capital, and who is a mere gulf for
swallowing my money, or any man's money?
That generic French old lady who, whether
she gives me her daughter to wife, or sits next
me in a balcony at a theatre, or opposite to me
in a public carriage, or lets me an apartment,
or plays me a match at dominoes, or sells
me an umbrella, equally absorbs my
substance, calculates my resources with a
fierce nicety, and is intent upon my ruin?
That generic French old lady who is always
in black, and always protuberant, and always
complimentary, and who always eats up
everything that is presented to her—almost
eats her knife besides—and who has a
supernatural craving after francs which fascinates
me, and inclines me to pour out all I have
at her feet, saying " Take them and twinkle
at me with those hungry eyes no more ? "
We eminently a money-loving people! Why
do we talk such nonsense with this terrible
old woman to contradict us?

Why do we take conclusions into our heads
for which we have no warrant, and bolt with
them like mad horses, until we are brought
up by stone walls? Why do we go cheering
and shouting after an officer who didn't run
away—as though all the rest of our brave
officers did run away!—and why do we go
plucking hairs out of the tail of the identical
charger, and why do we follow up the
identical uniform, and why do we stupidly roar
ourselves hoarse with acclamation about
nothing? Why don't we stop to think? Why
don't we say to one another, " What have the
identical charger and the identical uniform
done for us, and what have they done against
us: let us look at the account." How much
better this would be than straining our
throats first, and afterwards discovering that
there was less than no reason for the same !

Why am I, at any given moment, in tears of
triumph and joy, because Buffy and Boodle
are at the head of public aifairs ? I freely
declare that I have not the least idea what
specific action Buffy and Boodle have ever in
the whole course of their existence done, that
has been of any appreciable advantage to my
beloved country. On the other hand, I no
less freely acknowledge that I have seen
Buffy and Boodle (with some small appearance
of trading in principles), nail their
colors to every mast in the political fleet.
Yet I swear to everybody—because everybody
swears to me—that Buffy and Boodle
are the only men for the crisis, and that none
of women born, but Buffy and Boodle, could
pull us through it. I would quarrel with
my son for Buffy and Boodle. I almost
believe that in one of my states of excitement
I would die for Buffy and Boodle. I
expect to be presently subscribing for statues
to Buffy and Boodle. Now, I am curious to
know why I go on in this way ? I am
profoundly in earnest; but I want to know
Why ?

I wonder why I feel a glow of complacency
in a court of justice, when I hear the
learned judges taking uncommon pains to
prevent the prisoner from letting out the
truth. If the object of the trial be to discover
the truth, perhaps it might be as edifying to
hear it, even from the prisoner, as to hear
what is unquestionably not the truth from
the prisoner's advocate. I wonder why I
say, in a flushed and rapturous manner, that
it would be "un-English" to examine the
prisoner. I suppose that with common fairness
it would be next to impossible to confuse
him, unless he lied; and if he did lie, I
suppose he could hardly be brought to confusion
too soon. Why does that word " un-English,"
always act as a spell upon me, and why do I
suffer it to settle any question? Twelve
months ago, it was un-English to abstain
from throttling our soldiers. Thirty years
ago, it was un-English not to hang people up
by scores every Monday. Sixty years ago, it
was un-English to be sober after dinner. A
hundred years ago, it was un-English not to
love cock-fighting, prize-fighting, dog-fighting,
bull-baiting, and other savageries. Why do
I submit to the word as a clincher, without
asking myself whether it has any meaning?
I don't dispute that I do so, every day of my
life; but I want to know why I do so ?

On the other hand, why am I meek in
regard of really non-English sentiments, if
the potent bugbear of that term be not
called into play? Here is a magistrate tells
me I am one of a nation of drunkards. All
Englishmen are drunkards, is the judicial
bray. Here is another magistrate propounding
from the seat of justice the stupendous
nonsense that it is desirable that every person
who gives alms in the streets should be fined