n Irish
adventurer) "promenading in the Gardens of the Tuileries"; next, "real
life" in the galleries of the Palais Royal; next, Dick, the Captain,
Lady Halibut, and Lydia "enjoying a lounge on the Italian Boulevard." To
these succeed a representation of a dinner at Very's; Dick and his
companions "smashing the glim on a spree by lamplight"; Dick and the
Captain "paying their respects to the Fair _Limonadiere_ at the Cafe des
Mille Colonnes"; Dick introduced by the Captain to a _Rouge et Noir_
table; the same and his valet "_showing fight in a Caveau_"; "Life
behind the Curtain of the Grand Opera, or Dick and the Squire larking
with the _Figurantes_"; Dick and the Squire "enjoying the sport at the
Combat of Animals, or Duck Lane of Paris"; Dick and Jenkins "in a
Theatrical Pandemonium, or the Cafe de la Paix in all its glory"; "Life
among the Dead, or the Halibut Family in the Catacombs"; "Life among the
Connoisseurs," or Dick and his friends "in the Grand Gallery of the
Louvre"; "a Frolic in the _Cafe d'Enfer_, or Infernal Cellar"; "Life on
Tiptoe, or Dick quadrilling it in the Salons de Mars in the Champs
Elysees"; the "_Entree_ to the Italian Opera"; the "Morning of the Fete
of St. Louis"; the "Evening of the same, with Dick, Jenkins, and the
Halibuts witnessing the _Canaille_ in all their glory"; and, finally,
"Life in a Billiard-Room, or Dick and the Squire _au fait_ to the
Parisian Sharpers."

I have said that these illustrations are full of point and drollery.
They certainly lack that round, full touch so distinctive of George
Cruikshank, and which he learned from Gillray; but such a touch can be
given only when the shadows as well as the outlines of a plate are
etched; and the intent of an aquatint engraving is, as the reader may or
may not know, to produce the effect of a drawing in Indian ink.[C] Still
there is much in these pictures to delight the Cruikshankian
connoisseur,--infinite variety in physiognomy, wonderful minuteness and
accuracy in detail, and here and there sparkles of the true Hogarthian
satire.

But a banquet in which the plates only are good is but a Barmecide
feast, after all. The letter-press to this "Life in Paris" is the vilest
rubbish imaginable,--a farrago of St. Giles's slang, Tottenham Court
Road doggerel, ignorance, lewdness, and downright dulness. Mr. John
Cumberland, of Ludgate Hill, took, accordingly, very little by his
motion. The "Life" fell almost stillborn from the press; and