are so
many satires upon the army: Hodge with his ribbons flaunting in his
hat, or with red coat and musket, drilled stiff and pompous, or at
last, minus leg and arm, tottering about on crutches, does not fill our
English artist with the enthusiasm that follows the soldier in every
other part of Europe. Jeanjean, the conscript in France, is laughed at
to be sure, but then it is because he is a bad soldier: when he comes to
have a huge pair of mustachios and the croix-d'honneur to briller on his
poitrine cicatrisee, Jeanjean becomes a member of a class that is more
respected than any other in the French nation. The veteran soldier
inspires our people with no such awe--we hold that democratic weapon the
fist in much more honor than the sabre and bayonet, and laugh at a man
tricked out in scarlet and pipe-clay.

That regiment of heroes is "marching to divine service," to the tune
of the "British Grenadiers." There they march in state, and a pretty
contempt our artist shows for all their gimcracks and trumpery. He has
drawn a perfectly English scene--the little blackguard boys are playing
pranks round about the men, and shouting, "Heads up, soldier," "Eyes
right, lobster," as little British urchins will do. Did one ever hear
the like sentiments expressed in France? Shade of Napoleon, we insult
you by asking the question. In England, however, see how different the
case is: and designedly or undesignedly, the artist has opened to us a
piece of his mind. In the crowd the only person who admires the soldiers
is the poor idiot, whose pocket a rogue is picking. There is another
picture, in which the sentiment is much the same, only, as in the former
drawing we see Englishmen laughing at the troops of the line, here are
Irishmen giggling at the militia.

We have said that our artist has a great love for the drolleries of
the Green Island. Would any one doubt what was the country of the merry
fellows depicted in his group of Paddies?

"Place me amid O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,
The ragged royal race of Tara;
Or place me where Dick Martin rules
The pathless wilds of Connemara."

We know not if Mr. Cruikshank has ever had any such good luck as to see
the Irish in Ireland itself, but he certainly has obtained a knowledge
of their looks, as if the country had been all his life familiar to him.
Could Mr. O'Connell himself desire anything more national than the scene
of a drunken row, or could Fat