ras, all his good songs-Lalla Rookh, I opine, in economy-silks: Tom Campbell wrote his old affairs bareheaded, and without breeches-Ritter Bann, on the contrary, smells of natty stocking pantaloons, and a scratch wig: Lord Byron wears cossacks in spite of Almacks: Allan Cunningham sports a leathern apron: William Wordsworth rejoices in velveteens; and Willison Glass the same. It is long since I have seen Dr Southey, but I understand he has adopted the present fashion of green silk stockings with gold clocks: Barry Cornwall wears a tawny waistcoat of beggar's velvet, with silver frogs, and a sham platina chain twisted through two button holes. Leigh Hunt's yellow breeches are well known :-So are my own Wellingtons, for that mat

ter.

Marim Eighteenth.

Lord Byron recommends hock and soda-water in the crop-sickness. My own opinion is in favour of five drops of laudanum, and a tea-spoonful of vinegar, in a tumbler of fair spring water. Try this; although much may also be said in praise of that maxim which Fielding has inserted in one of his plays-the Covent-Garden Tragedy, I think,-videlicet, that "the most grateful of all drinks

"Is cool small-beer unto the waking drunkard."

Marim Nineteenth.

Nothing can be more proper than the late parliamentary grant of half a million for the building of new churches.

Marim Twentieth.

What I said in Maxim Third, of stopping punsters, must be understood with reservation. Puns are frequently provocative. One day, after dinner with a Nabob, he was giving us Madeira→

London-East India-picked-particular,

then a second thought struck him, and he remembered that he had a few flasks of Constantia in the house, and he produced one. He gave us just a glass a-piece. We became clamorous for another, but the old qui-hi was firm in refusal. "Well, well," said Sydney Smith, a man for whom I have a particular regard, "since we can't double the Cape, we must e'en go back to Madeira." We all laughed our host most of all-and he too, luckily, had his joke, "Be of good hope, you shall double it," at which we all laughed still more immoderately, and drank the second flask.

Marin Twenty-first.

What stuff in Mrs Hemans, Miss Porden, &c. &c. to be writing plays and epics! There is no such thing as female genius. The only good things that women have written, are Sappho's Ode upon Phaon, and Madame de Stael's Corinne ; and of these two good things the inspiration is simply and entirely that one glorious feeling, in which, and in which alone, woman is the equal of man. They are undoubtedly mistress-pieces.

Marim Twenty-second.

There is a kind of mythological jacobitism going just now which I cannot patronize. You see Barry Cornwall, and other great poets of his calibre, running down Jupiter and the existing dynasty very much, and bringing up old Saturn and the Titans. This they do in order to shew off learning and depth, but they know nothing after all of the sky gods. I have long had an idea of

writing a dithyrambic in order to shew these fellows how to touch off mythology. Here is a sample

Come to the meeting, there's drinking and eating
Plenty and famous, your bellies to cram;
Jupiter Ammon, with gills red as salmon,
Twists round his eyebrows the horns of a ram.

Juno the she-cock has harnessed her peacock,
Warming the way with a drop of a dram;
Phoebus Apollo in order will follow,

Lighting the road with his old patent flam.

Cuckoldy Vulcan, dispatching a full can,
Limps to the banquet on tottering ham;
Venus her sparrows, and Cupid his arrows,
Sport on th' occasion, fine infant and dam.

Mars, in full armour, to follow his charmer,
Looks as ferocious as Highlander Sam;
Jocus and Comus ride tandem with Momus,
Cheering the road with gibe, banter, and bam.

Madam Latona, the old Roba Bona,

Simpering as mild as a fawn or a lamb,
Drives with Aurora the red-nosed Signora,
With fingers as rosy as raspberry jam.

There is real mythology for you!

Marim Twenty-third.

The English really are, after all, a mighty 'cute people. I never went anywhere when I was first imported, that they did not find me out to be an Irishman, the moment I opened my mouth. And how think ye? Because I used at first to call always for a pot of porter; whereas, in England, they never drink more than a pint at a draught.

Marim Twenty-fourth.

I do not agree with Doctor Adam Clarke's translation of, in Genesis. I think it must mean a serpent, not an ourang-outang. Bellamy's Ophion is, however, a weak work, which does not answer Clarke, for whom he is evidently no match on the score of learning. There is, after all, no antipathy between serpents and men naturally, as is proved by the late experiments of Monsieur Neille in America.

Marim Twenty-fifth.

A man saving his wine must be cut up savagely. Those who wish to keep their expensive wines pretend they do not like them. You meet people occasionally who tell you it is bad taste to give champagne at dinner at least in their opinion-Port and Teneriffe being such superior drinking. Some, again, patronize Cape Madeira, and tell you that the smack is very agreeable, adding, sometimes, in a candid and patriotic tone, that even if it were not, it would become us to try to bring it into fashion, it being the only wine grown in his Majesty's dominions.

In Ireland and Scotland they always smuggle in the tumblers or the bowl. Now, I hold that if punch was raised by taxation or otherwise, (but Jupiter Ammon avert the day!) to a guinea a-bottle, everybody would think it the balmiest, sweetest, dearest, and most splendid of fluids-a fluid to which King Burgundy or Emperor Tokay themselves should hide their diminished heads, and it is, consequently, a liquor which I quaff most joyously-but never when I think it brought in from any other motive than mere affection to itself.

I remember dining one day with Lord -, (I spare his name,) in the south of Ireland, and my friend Charley Crofts was also of the party. The claret went lazily round the table, and his lordship's toad-eaters hinted that they preferred punch, and called for hot water. My lord gave in, after a humbug show of resistance, and whisky punch was in a few minutes the order of the night. Charley, however, to the annoyance of the host, kept swilling away at the claret, on which Lord - lost all patience, and said to him, "Charley, you are missing quite a treat-this punch is so excellent."-" Thank ye, my lord," said Charley; " I am a plain man, who does not want trates-I am no epicure, so I stick to the claret."

Marim Twenty-sixth.

When a man is drunk, it is no matter upon what he has got drunk.
He sucks with equal throat, as up to all,
Tokay from Hungary, or beer the small.

Marim Twenty-seventh.

POPE.

The great superiority of Blackwood's Magazine over all other works of our time is, that one can be allowed to speak one's mind there. There never yet was one word of genuine unsophisticated truth in the Edinburgh, the Quarterly, or indeed in any other of the Periodicals-in relation, I mean, to anything that can be called opinion or sentiment. All is conventional mystification, except in Ebony, the jewel, alone. Here alone can a man tell smack out that he is a Tory, an Orangeman, a Radical, a Catholic, anything he pleases to be, to the back bone. No necessity for conciliatory mincing and paring away of one's own intellect. I love whisky punch; I say so. I admire Wordsworth and Don Juan; I say so. Southey is a humbug; well, let it be said distinctly. Tom Campbell is in his dotage; why conceal a fact like this? I scorn all paltering with the public-I hate all shuffling, equivocating, trick, stuff, nonsense. I write in Blackwood, because there Morgan ODoherty can be Morgan ODoherty. If I wrote in the Quarterly, I should be bothered partly with, and partly without, being conscious of it, with a hampering, binding, fettering, nullifying sort of notion, that I must make myself, pro tempore, a bit of a Gifford-and so of everything else.

Marim Twenty-eighth.

Much is to be said in favour of toasted cheese for supper. It is the cant to say, that a Welsh rabbit is heavy cating. I know this; but have I, really, found it to be so in my own case?-Certainly not. I like it best in the genuine Welsh way, however-that is, the toasted bread buttered on both sides profusely, then a layer of cold roast-beef, with mustard and horse-raddish, and then, on the top of all, the superstratum of Cheshire thoroughly saturated, while in the process of toasting, with cwrw, or, in its absence, porter, genuine porter, black pepper, and shallot vinegar. I peril myself upon the assertion, that this is not a heavy supper for a man who has been busy all day till dinner, in reading, writing, walking, or riding-who has occupied himself between dinner and supper in the discussion of a bottle or two of sound wine, or any equivalent-and who proposes to swallow at least three tumblers of something hot, ere he resigns himself to the embrace of Somnus. With these provisos, I recommend toasted cheese for supper. And I bet half-a-crown that Kitchiner coincides with me as to this.

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