1826, ] (495 ») 
FULL-LENGTHS, No» Il.—THE DRILL-SERJEANT. 
SHALL we view our subject through the glasses. of; philosophy ? 
Precious microscopic glasses, by which we look into the exquisite order 
of a bee’s weapon, which shames the ruggedness of that. vaunted wonder 
of man’s hands—a Whitechapel needle. By which the superfine coat of 
the unworthy appears but as a vile complication of coarse hemp-strings ; 
by which we look into the heart that to the naked eye displays a te- 
nanted cherub, with voice of music and wing of light, but find a weak- 
eyed little monster, with squeak of mouse and pinions of leather. O, 
glorious spectacles ! which shew palaces not entirely as resting-places for 
divinities—many laurels as nettles,’ stinging what they are fancied to 
adorn—Fame’s trumpet a penny-whistle, blown by Asthma—the awful 
person of Ceremony, a Merry-Andrew stricken grave—a grand review- 
day, a game at nine-pins on an extensive scale—a levee, a triumph of 
the laceman and jeweller—a court ode, a verbose receipt for wages— 
*« honourable gentleman,” convicted scoundrel—« learned friend,” stupid 
opponent—a prison, a temporary retirement from noise—a glass of spring 
water, a “cup of sack”—an ugly face, God’s own handiwork—a hand- 
some one, nothing more—noble blood, of the same hue ‘as a carter’s—a 
black parish-coffin, a couch of crystal—a grave, a place of rest—conse- 
crated earth, the whole globe—a tombstone, work for the mason—a 
pompous epitaph, the toil of a liar! This transformation—or rather, 
this shewing of reality—is the result of using the glasses of philo- 
sophy. Without the common microscope we could not know how cer- 
tain insects respired, whether at the mouth or shoulders; wanting 
philosophy’s optic, we should be in like ignorance of the source of being 
in some men—for all exist not by the same laws. To the naked eye, 
indeed, there appears no difference ; but to the spectacled orb of philo- 
sophy it is shewn that many men respire not by inward organization, 
but by external and adyentitious instruments. Let those who are scep- 
tical on this position, consider for a moment the bearing of a thorough- 
paced coxcomb: does he breathe from his lungs? No but from his 
habiliments. His coat; cravat, boots, yea, his spurs, are the sources of 
his being, his dignity, his action. Nay, some men take all their life from 
a riband at their button-hole, or a garter at their leg—Our Drill-Serjeant 
takes it from his rattan. 
I know that much of this may be deemed foreign to the purpose. 
To those who so conclude, I say—A common wire-dancer gives not his 
grand feat without many little nic-nack preparations. When we visit 
the Egyptian Hall, that grand emporium of monsters, we do not step 
from the pavement into the show-room, but are wisely made to thread 
two or three passages, for the better excitation of our feelings. And 
shall my Drill-Serjeant have not the common observance paid to a mer- 
maid? I trust I have more respect for my subject, and the army in 
general. If any one of my readers, when he glanced at the title, thought 
to meet with the Serjeant standing bolt upright at the beginning of the 
line, like the sentinel at Buckingham-gate, I luxuriate in his disappoint- 
ment. 
To be candid: I had laid down no form for my beginning; so I 
thought a caper or two upon philosophy would not be amiss, trusting 
eventually to drop upon my subject. This is a trick frequently played 
by ——. However, to business. 
