CHIPS.

THE INDIVIDUALITY OF LOCOMOTIVES.

It is a remarkable truth, and, well applied, it might be profitable to us, in helping us to make fair allowance for the differences between the temperaments of different men—that every Locomotive Engine running on a Railway, has a distinct individuality and character of its own.

It is perfectly well known to experienced practical engineers, that if a dozen different Locomotive Engines were made, at the same time, of the same power, for the same purpose, of like materials, in the same Factory—each of those Locomotive Engines would come out with its own peculiar whims and ways, only ascertainable by experience. One engine will take a great meal of coke and water at once; another will not hear of such a thing, but will insist on being coaxed by spades-full and buckets-full. One is disposed to start off, when required, at the top of his speed; another must have a little time to warm at his work, and to get well into it. These peculiarities are so accurately mastered by skilful drivers, that only particular men can persuade particular engines to do their best. It would seem as if some of these “excellent monsters” declared, on being brought out of the stable, “If it’s Smith who is to drive me, I won’t go. If it’s my friend Stokes, I am agreeable to anything!”

All Locomotive Engines are low-spirited in damp and foggy weather. They have a great satisfaction in their work when the air is crisp and frosty. At such a time they are very cheerful and brisk; but they strongly object to haze and Scotch mists. These are points of character on which they are all united. It is in their peculiarities and varieties of character that they are most remarkable.

The Railway Company who should consign all their Locomotives to one uniform standard of treatment, without any allowance for varying shades of character and opinion, would soon fall as much behind-hand in the world as those greater Governments are, and ever will be, who pursue the same course with the finer piece of work called Man.

THE OLDEST INHABITANT OF THE PLACE DE GRÈVE.

The Police Courts of London have often displayed many a curious character, many a strange scene, many an exquisite bit of dialogue; so have the Police Courts in Ireland, especially at the Petty Sessions in Kilrush; but we are not so well aware of how often a scene of rich and peculiar humour occurs in the Police tribuneaux of Paris. We will proceed to give the reader a “taste of their quality.”

An extremely old woman, all in rags, was continually found begging in the streets, and the Police having goodnaturedly let her off several times, were at last obliged to take her in charge, and bring her into the Court. Several magistrates were sitting. The following dialogue took place between the President and the old woman.

President. Now, my good woman, what have you to say for yourself? You have been frequently warned by the Police, but you have persisted in troubling people with begging.

Old Woman (in a humble quavering tone). Ah, Monsieur le President, it is not so much trouble to other people as it is to me. I am a very old woman.

Pres. Come, come, you must leave off begging, or I shall be obliged to punish you.

Old W. But, Monsieur le President, I cannot live without—I must beg—pardon me, Monsieur—I am obliged to beg.

Pres. But I say you must not. Can you do no work?

Old W. Ah, no, Monsieur; I am too old.

Pres. Can’t you sell something—little cakes—bonbons?—

Old W. No, Monsieur, I can’t get any little stock to begin with; and, if I could, I should be robbed by the gamins, or the little girls, for I’m not very quick, and can’t see well.

Pres. Your relations must support you, then. You cannot be allowed to beg. Have you no son—no daughter—no grandchildren?

Old W. No, Monsieur; none—none—all my relations are dead.

Pres. Well then, your friends must give you assistance.

Old W. Ah, Monsieur, I have no friends; and, indeed, I never had but one, in my life; but he too is gone.

Pres. And who was he?

Old W. Monsieur de Robespierre—le pauvre cher homme! (The poor, dear man!)

Pres. Robespierre!—why what did you know of him?

Old W. Oh, Monsieur, my mother was one of the tricoteurs (knitting-women) who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine, and I always stood beside her. When Monsieur de Robespierre was passing by, in attending his duties, he used to touch my cheek, and call me (here the old woman shed tears) la belle Marguerite:—le pauvre, cher homme!

We must here pause to remind the reader that these women, the tricoteurs, who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine on the mornings when it was at its hideous work, were sometimes called the “Furies;” but only as a grim jest. It is well known, that, although there were occasionally some sanguinary hags amongst them, yet, for the most part, they were merely idle, gossiping women, who came there dressed in neat white caps, and with their knitting materials, out of sheer love of excitement, and to enjoy the spectacle.

Pres. Well, Goody; finish your history.

Old W. I was married soon after this, and then I used to take my seat as a tricoteur among the others; and on the days when Monsieur de Robespierre passed, he used always to notice me—le pauvre cher homme. I used then to be called la belle tricoteuse, but now—now, I am called la vielle radoteuse (the old dotardess). Ah, Monsieur le President, it is what we must all come to!

The old woman accompanied this reflection with an inimitable look at the President, which completely involved him in the we, thus presenting him with the prospect of becoming an old dotardess; not in the least meant offensively, but said in the innocence of her aged heart.

Pres. Ahem!—silence! You seem to have a very tender recollection of Monsieur Robespierre. I suppose you had reason to be grateful to him?

Old W. No, Monsieur, no reason in particular; for he guillotined my husband.

Pres. Certainly this ought to be no reason for loving his memory.

Old W. Ah, Monsieur, but it happened quite by accident. Monsieur de Robespierre did not intend to guillotine my husband—he had him executed by mistake for somebody else—le pauvre cher homme!

Thus leaving it an exquisite matter of doubt, as to whether the “poor dear man” referred to her husband, or to Monsieur de Robespierre; or whether the tender epithet was equally divided between them.