We see no reason in them, and we object to
them. We shall not spend our brains to save
our pockets. You shall get from us, if we
can have our own way, neither wit nor
wealth. Let us alone.

ENGLISH MILORDS.

THE writer of this piece lately, and in a
foreign land, suffering from an attack of the
meagrims, or diaboli cœruli, sought solace
and delectation in a place of public entertainment
situated on the Boulevard Montmartre,
in Paris, called the Salle Bonne-Nouvelle.
Here, for the consideration of one franc, he
was gratified by the view of a series of poses
plastiques; of a remarkably stupid ballet, in
which a floury-faced Pierrot went through the
ordinary tribulations incidental to Pierrots
when brought into collision with comic
fathers, jealous millers, and village maidens
in short petticoats; but all of which did not
in the least remind him of the only supportable
Pierrot in the tumbling world: the inimitable
Debureau. He was furthermore
entertained by a mysterious round or catch,
sung by three persons in three white waistcoats
and one pair and a half of white kid
gloves, which, together with the remaining
pair and a half of hands, would have been
none the worse for a little washing, and
in which a large tuning fork supported a
considerable part; by a "Juggler of the
Alps," than whom the author has seen many
better; and, finally, by a gentleman attired
in a short green coat, labelled, conspicuously,
"Patente" (sic), a pair of widely checked
trousers, also labelled "Patente" with the
addition of the royal arms of Great Britain
beneath the label; highlows and gaiters, a
white hat with a narrow brim and a black
hat-band, a huge shirt-collar, a gigantic
umbrella, red hair, green spectacles, a very
diminutive carpet bag and a long pig-tail,
each and all branded with the omnipresent
"Patente;" who, as an obliging neighbour of
the writer informed him, was made up to
represent a Milord Anglais, and looked the
character—as that neighbour further
volunteered to tell him—remarkably well.

This British nobleman sang a song to the
old tune of Malbrook, accompanied by some
feeble gesticulations imitative but not suggestive
of the noble art of self-defence. The
writer, on his affirmation, declares that, as
nearly as he can recollect, the first verse of
the English peer's song ran thus:—

      Malbrook s'en va-ti li BOXE
       L'ami de Pitt et Fox
                     Aow yes! Aow yes!

Each couplet being interpolated with an Aow
yes! and each stanza being concluded by a
facetious and profoundly ironical allusion to
one "Matinkosh," probably synonymous or
connected with that waterproof garment so
useful in travelling, or to the gentleman whose
place of residence was so strongly and inflexibly
negatived on his personal application
some years since. The Milord's song was
encored amidst the most enthusiastic
demonstrations of approval and delight; but the
writer, being momentarily diverted from the
stage and orchestra by a supplementary
entertainment, or pièce de circonstance, not in
the bill of the evening—consisting in the
scampering of three mice through the pit, and
the heroic efforts of the sapeur-pompier on
duty to capture and immolate them with his
sabre—did not enjoy the repetition of a ditty
so flattering to his national pride, and soon
afterwards left the Salle Bonne-Nouvelle, and
walked home.

Now I, who am the writer, as I walked
through the snow, thought of a certain
Emperor, who, like the man who won an
elephant in a raffle, won four hundred thousand
armed men in a coup, and didn't know
what to do with them; of the Peace
Congress; of the militia, our naval defences, the
Minié rifle, the conical bullet, screw steamers
and the Digue at Cherbourg; also, of the
stupendous amount of international ignorance
existing in the two greatest countries in the
world—of how little the English know about
the character and customs of the French, of
how much less the French know about those
of the English.

The origin of the English Milord, as brought
under French consideration, is either lost in
the mists of obscurity, or is beyond my ken.
But the English Milord was looked upon in
France as a species of drunken savage,
frequently cutting other people's throats, and
not unfrequently going raving mad, tyrannising
over his dependents, and mercilessly beating
his wife and children, until about the middle
of the reign of Louis Quatorze, the grand
monarque. In those days the restoration of
Charles the Second taking place, and the
exemplary Count Anthony Hamilton, and
others of his class being a good deal
backwards and forwards from Paris to London,
the French nobility condescended to discover
and admit that their brother peers in England
could be every whit as heartless, as politely
depraved, as fashionably blasphemous, as
genteelly corrupted, as urbanely insulting, as
wittily insolent, as  "honourably" dishonest,
as they were themselves. Thenceforth, and
for a time, the Milord looked up. The offensive
nickname was temporarily withdrawn,
and he became the "Seigneur—the grand
Seigneur Anglais." Molière condescended to
nod to him. La Fontaine patronised him.
Boileau would dedicate his next ode to him.
But one Milord Cavendish who threw an
insolent petit-maître on to the spikes of the
orchestra of the Opera House brought the
Milord into ill odour again. After the revolution,
after the numerous Jacobite conspiracies
of King William's time, after the first Scotch
rebellion, when the continent teemed with