ley," the deuce is in it. But let me soberly show the parallelism under all the heads above stated.

1. You have no objection to play bopeep with the public; for we, who live at a distance, cannot forget, that for a long time you were only known to us, (if it can be called known,) as the Veiled Conductor. Just as a lamp of ground glass diffuses radiance, and yet suffers not any one to see the exact shape of the flame within; so, while the Veiled Conductor flourished, we saw that some one was edifying us, but his name and features we knew not; all that we were permitted to discern was that he was sensible and jocular; but this did not inform us whether his name was North or South; for you may recollect that acuteness and facetiousness have, in times past, been the property of persons bearing both these appellations. Dr. South was (saving your presence) as witty as you;-and the late Lord North was as ready at a repartee or a gibe, as even the great Edinburgh North of the present day. Now this hankering for the coy disguise of anonymity in you and in the Novelist, is very symptomatic of the identity of the two authors. For let us know in what degrees is the title of The Veiled Conductor a whit more explanatory than that of The Author of "Waverley?"

2. Let the different Tales be allowed to display as much versatility of genius as possible, yet they can hardly be pronounced to evince more than you possess; knowing, as we do, from your own confession, that most of the anonymous Articles in the Magazine are of your own writing. So that in this point, there is no bar to your being the author of whom we are in search; on the contrary, the likelihood is great and astounding.

3. The Novels demonstrate the writer's admirable acquaintance with the Scottish language. Now different references in your Magazine show that Dr. Jamieson's Etymological Dictionary is frequently at your elbow; and your occasional use of a word or two, proves your proficiency in that venerable tongue. Doubtless, you have possessed advantages for learning it, which do not fall to the lot of all; for I am told by a friend who has visited Edinburgh of late, that the use of that least corrupted dialect of the Anglo-Saxon, namely, the gude braid Scots, is not

even now wholly superseded by the more corrupted Teutonic, called English.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

*

Drink Away!

1.

COME draw me six magnums of claret,
Don't spare it,

But share it in bumpers around;

And take care that in each shining brimmer
No glimmer

Of skimmering daylight be found.

Fill away! Fill away! Fill away!

Fill bumpers to those that you love,

For we will be happy to day!

As the gods are when drinking above,

. Drink away! Drink away!*

2.

Give way to each thought of your fancies,
That dances,

Or glances, or looks of the fair;

And beware that from fears of to-morrow
You borrow

No sorrow, nor foretaste of care.

Drink away, drink away, drink away!
For the honour of those you adore:

Come, charge! and drink fairly to-day,
Though you swear you will never drink more.

3.

I last night, cut, and quite melancholy,

Cried folly!

What's Polly to reel for her fame?

Yet I'll banish such hint till the morning,
And scorning

Such warning to-night, do the same.
Drink away, drink away, drink away!
"Twill banish blue devils and pain;
And to-night for my joys if I pay,

Why, to-morrow I'll do it again.

From Blackwood for April, 1824.-Sung at THE NOCTES.-M.

Trouthiness.*

I HAD a dream, which was not all-my-eye.

The deep wells were exhausted, and the pumps
Delivered nothing but a windy groan

To those who plied their handles; and the clouds
Hung like exsuccous sponges in the sky.

Morn came and went-and came and brought no rain,
And men forgot their hunger in the dread
Of utter failure of all drink-their chops
Were all athirst for something potable;

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.