even now wholly superseded by the more corrupted Teutonic, called English.

4. The author of "Waverley" enters cordially upon his descriptions of good cheer and merry-making. With what a smack of the lips did he report the decanting of the Baron of Bradwardine's claret; and with what kindred jollity does he ac-, company the carouse of the Black Knight, and the Clerk of Copmanhurst! Oh, Christopher! rheumatism doth not seem to have made thee less esurient or sitient, when the hospitality of Glasgow, or of other gormandizing and boozing places, is within thy reach. How cordial also is the gout, with which thou dost embody, in a durable record, thy prowess in mastication and deglutition! Can he, who with such unction composed and partook of the Glasgow punch, be other than he in whose gifted ear the claret of Tully Veolan gurgled so melodiously as it left the cobwebbed magnum? Can he to whom kidneys and kipper were so grateful, be other than the very same who records with such complacency the rapid despatch of Dandie Dinmont in the same hearty cause?

5. There is quite sunshiny evidence, that the great Novelwriter is a Tory. But what shall we say of Christopher North? Has he not grappled with the Edinburgh Reviewers-taken the very bull of Whiggism by the horns, so that roar as he will, he can no longer do mischief? Surely there was proof suffi cient of high-minded Toryism in that hazardous but successful enterprise of yours. Well then, what else can we say, but that He who has instilled loyalty by the medium of fictitious narratives, and He who has wrought to the same good end in his own character as a political combatant, are two in semblance, but in reality alter et idem.

6. These unowned enchanting books, which I cannot help attributing to you, must have accumulated for their author quite a heap of gold. Now, is it not a strangely corroborative circumstance, that you confess that you are growing rich? The Magazine is referred to by you as the sole source of your wealth; but I fear you are like the lapwing which pretends to be most flurried and anxious about that place where her nest is not. Ah, Mr. North, is not your hyperbolical statement in No.

XLIII. of Mr. Blackwood's profits, a feint to withdraw our eyes from the real spot in which you have been reaping such a golden harvest! I apprehend that you are cater-cousin to the amusing hero of Shakspeare's Induction to the Taming of the Shrew, and are, as well as he-CHRISTOPHER SLY!

Well, I have done; and whether the author of “Waverley” be now deterré by these evidences, I leave (if you be not induced to confess) to impartial posterity to determine. Of one thing the present age may be assured, and this is, that I am, and ever shall continue to be, Yours very truly, &c.

GILES MIDDLESTITCH.

Drouthiness.*

I HAD a dream, which was not all-my-eye.
The deep weils were exhausted, and the pumps
Delivered nothing but a windy grean

To those who pied their nandes; and the clouds
Hung like exaccous sponges in the sky.

Mor

orn came and went-ani came and brought no rin,
And men forgot their hunger in the dread
of utter failure of all drink-their chops
Were all athirst for something potabie;

And they did swig, from hogsheads, brandy, wine,
Cider, brown-stout, and such like, meant to serve
For future merry-makings—cellars dim.
Were soon dismantled of the regular tiers,

Of bottles, which were piled within their binns;
Small beer was now held precious-yea, they gulp'd
Black treacle, daubing childish visages,
Gripe-giving vinegar, and sallad oil.

Nor were old phials, fill'd with doctor's stuff,

Things to be sneezed at now—they toss'd them off.
Happy were they who dwelt within the reach

Of the pot-houses, and their foaming taps.
Barrels were all a-broach-and hour by hour
The spigots ran—and then a hollow sound
Told that the casks were out-and the Red Cow,
The Cat and Bagpipes, or the Dragon Green,
Could serve no customers- their pots were void
The moods of men, in this unwatery,

Small-beerless time, were different. Some sat
Unbuttoning their waistcoats, while they frown'd,
Scarce knowing what they did; while hopeful, some
Button'd their breeches-pockets up, and smiled;
And servant lasses scurried to and fro,

With mops unwet, and buckets, wondering when
The puddles would be fill'd, that they might scrub
The household floors; but finding puddles none,
They deem'd their pattens would grow obsolete-
Things of forgotten ages. So they took

This parody on Byron's impressive poem of "Darkness" appeared in Blackwood for December, 1821, and was given as if written by Blaise Fitztrav esty, who dated from Ladle Court, near the Devil's Punch Bowl, Surrey. — M.

Through sliminess, man's grasp, were still indeed
Wriggling- —but dusty, they were skinn'd for food.
He who, by lucky chance, had wherewithal

To wet his whistle, took his drop apart,

And smack'd his lips alone; small love was left:
Folks had but then one thought, and that was drink,

Where to be had, and what? The want of it

Made most men cross, and eke most women too.

The patient lost their patience, and the sou

Grew still more crabbed, sharp-nosed, and shrill-voiced.
Even cats did scratch their maiden Mistresses,
Angry that milk forthcame not,―all, save one,

And he was faithful to the virgin dame

Who petted him;-but, be it not conceal'd,

The rumour ran that he his whiskers greased

From a pomatum-pot, and so he quell'd

The rage of thirst; himself sought naught to lap,
But, with a piteous and perpetual mew,

And a quick snivelling sneeze, sat bundled up,
And taking matters quietly he lived.

The crowd forsook our village; only two
Of the parishioners still tarried there,
And they were enemies; they met beside

(One only stood before and one behind)

The empty settle of a public-house,

Where had been heap'd a mass of pots and mugs

For unavailing usage; they snatch'd up,

And, scraping, lick'd, with their pounced-parchment tongues,
The porter-pots a-dust; their eager eyes
Dived into gin-bottles, where gin was not,
Labell'd in mockery, then they lifted up
Their eyes for one brief moment, but it was
To hang their heads more sillily, ashamed
Each of his futile quest; but 'twas enough

--

For recognition,—each saw, and leer'd and grinn’d. —
Even at their mutual sheepishness they grinn'd,