out, and pre-occupied the market. You need not wonder, therefore, at my ticke ling up the worthy Doctor,who himself enjoyed the fun, being a loyal fellow to the back-bone; a Tory tough and true. We are now the best friends in the world. Mullion. Well, let that pass-What song-writer of our days, think you, will live? Moore?

North. Moore! No, he has not the stamina in him at all. His verses are elegant, pretty, glittering, anything you please in that line; but they have defects which will not allow them to get down to posterity. For instance, the querulous politics, on your local affairs, Odoherty, which make them now so popular with a very large class of your countrymen, are mere matters of the day, which will die with the day; for I hope you do not intend to be always fighting in Ireland?

Odoherty. I do not know how that will be-better fighting than stagnating; but, at all events, I hope we will change the grounds somewhat-I hate monotony; I trust that my worthy countrymen will get some new matter of tumult for the next generation.

North. It is probable that they will-and then, you know, Moore's-"Oh! breathe not his name," " Erin, the tear," &c. &c. will be just as forgotten as any of the things in Hogg's Jacobite relics.

Tickler. Which will ever stand, or rather fall, as a memento of the utter perishableness of all party song-writing.

North. And then there's Moore's accursed fancy for showing off learning, and his botany, and zoology, meteorology, and mythology.

Odoherty. O ay, and the mixed metaphor, and the downright nonsensethe song you quoted just now could be finely amended.

North. What song ?

Odoherty. "Erin, the smile, and the tear in thine eyes, blend like the rainbow," &c. Now that is a washy, watery comparison for my hard-drinking country-I lay £5 that a jug of punch would be a more accurate and truly philosophical emblem; as thus. There's the Protestant part of the population inferior in quantity, superior in strength, apt to get at the head, evidently the whiskey of the compound. The Roman Catholics, greater in physical proportions, but infinitely weaker, and usually very hot, are shadowed forth by the water. The Orangemen, as their name implies, are the fruit, which some palates think too sour, and therefore reject, while others think that it alone gives grateful flavour to the whole.

Mullion. And what's the sugar?

Odoherty. Why, the copciliators dropped in among us to sweeten our acidi ity-and you know some think that they have supplied with too liberal a hand, -very much at the risk of turning the stomachs of the company.

North. A hopeful illustration-but in truth, Odoherty, your whole conversa tion is redolent of nothing but drink.

Odoherty. I am like Tom Moore's First Angel-the gentleman without a name, and admire compotation, not exactly "the juice of Earth," however, as Tom calls it, that being, I take it, ditch-water.

Mullion. You never saw the song Tom intended for this drunken angel of his after his fall?

Odoherty. Not I-parade it-Is it not in the poem ?

Mullion. No, Denman, who is Moore's doer of late, cut it out, just as he cut up the Fables. I have a copy, however, which I shall sing.

Song of a fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-punch. By T. M. Esq.

Here's the dear creature,
No skylights-a bumper;
He who leaves heeltaps

I vote him a mumper.

With hey cow rumble O,
Whack! populorum,
Merrily, merry men,
Push round the jorum

What are Heaven's pleasures
That so very sweet are?
Singing from psalters,

In long or short metre.
Flanked on a wet cloud
Without any breeches,
Just like the Celtic,

Met to make speeches.

With hey cow rumble, &c.

Wide is the difference,
My own boozing bullies,
Here the round punch-bowl,
Heap'd to the full is.
Then if some wise one

Thinks that up "yonder "

Is pleasant as we are,

Why he's in a blunder.

With hey cow rumble, &c.

North. A very hopeful and well-behaved angel, by my word.

Mullion. Enough of Moore. Campbell

North. Has written one song, which I hope will live as long as " the flag of Old England waves lordly in pride,"—that is, I hope, for ever. I mean the Mariners of England.

Tickler. A glorious song indeed! But Campbell has disgraced himself by a shabby song, in the New Monthly, about the Spaniards. It is not fit for a gentleman like Campbell to fall into the filthy slang of the blackguards of the press, and write low stuff about Prince Hilt, or to call the grand old stainless flag of France, (which he knows-the blackguards do not-is linked with so many splendid recollections) the "White emblem of white liver."

Dr. Mullion. Some of Sir Walter's songs will certainly live.

North. Perhaps those in his Poems and his Novels, if they are his; but 1 do not recollect anything particular of any other; and, in point of fact, you never do hear them sung by any body. Bishop, by the way, has very poorly set County Guy, very poorly indeed.

Odoherty. I like Bishop, a worthy pleasant fellow; but, somehow or other, I think his music generally but compilation,—a bar from this body and a bar from that-curiously indented and dovetailed, I admit, but still only joinery and cabinet-making.

North. Nobody has said a word about Byron.

Tickler. Dead as Harry the Eighth, and it is a pity. Heavens! who can think that the author of Childe Harold, and Manfred, and Don Juan, should have sunk to what he is now, a scribbler in a dirty magazine, and a patron of the Hunts! It, however, speaks volumes in favour of the morality of the country, after all, when we find, that even genius, such as his, must sink, if it dares oppose what we are still determined to call religion and loyalty.

Odoherty. (handing the Island to North.) I have brought down Christian. Would you wish to look at it?

Buller. Does it sell?

Odoherty. Not at all, though the third edition is advertised. I was told at Longman's, that they had not disposed of a hundred. It would have had a better chance with Murray; but he and his lordship have broken, after a furious quarrel. The correspondence between them is said to be curious.

'Buller. Of course we shall have an awful libel on Joannes de Moravia in due time.

Odoherty. I hope so from the bottom of my soul; for then Murray will take vengeance in turn. I had rather than a tenpenny, and that cash, that we could print Byron's Critique on the Pot of Basil.

Tickler. Faugh, don't mention it.

North. Christian, I see, is a poor thing, with a good bit here and there in it, but not the least originality. He is the old hero-the Lara, the Conrad, the fellow of whom his lordship found the germ in Miss Lee's Kruitzner, transported to Botany Bay, or thereabouts, where, instead of mosques, and kiosks, and tambourgis, and phingaris, we are entertained with Toobonai, and Boolootoo, Mooa, Figi, Hooni, Licoo, Guatoo, Goostrumfoo, et omne quod endeth in oo. And the womankind are the old womankind, not a bit the worse for the wear. Tickler. Yes, and you have the same amazing industry in transferring Bligh's Narrative, that he has shown so often before. But the introductionand indeed some other passages, remind us of the better days of Byron.—Listen.

"The morning watch was come; the vessel lay
Her course, and gently made her liquid way;
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow,
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough;
The waters with their worlds were all before;
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore.
The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane,
Dividing darkness from the dawning main;
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day,
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray;
The stars from broader beams began to creep,
And lift their shining eye-lids from the deep;
The sail resumed its lately shallow'd white,
And the wind flutter'd with a fresh'ning flight;
The purple ocean owns the coming sun,
But ere he break-a deed is to be done."

Odoherty. Very toploftical, to be sure.

Commend me to the panegyric on

what our friend Fogarty (from whom his lordship appears to have taken the idea) calls "Tobacco, lord of plants."

But here the herald of the self-same mouth

Came breathing o'er the aromatic south,

Not like a "bed of violets on the gale,

But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale,

Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown

Its gentle odours over either zone,

And puff'd where'er winds rise or waters roll.
Had wafted smoke from Partsmouth to the Pole,
Opposed its vapour as the lightning flashed,
And reeked, 'midst mountain-billows unabash'd,
To Æolus a constant sacrifice,

Through every change of all the varying skies.
And what was he who bore it? I may err,

But deem him sailor or philosopher.

Sublime tobacco! which from east to west
Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest;
Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides

His hours, and rivals opium and his brides;
Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand,

Though not less, loved, in Wapping or the Strand;
Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe,

When tipp'd with amber, mellow rich and ripe,
Like other charmers, wooing the caress

More dazzlingly when daring in full dress;
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far

Thy naked beauties-Give me a cigar!

And as we are talking of it, do hand us that paper of Cotton's best, until I

blow a cloud.

North. Why, Odoherty, you have scarcely brought us any news from London. Odoherty. How could you expect blood from a turnip? There's no news there. Parliament was just spinning down, when I quitted the city, as drowsily as a tetotum-nothing doing in the monde literaire-the Haymarket gay, to be sure, and our friend Terry, drollest of actors, as he is among the worthiest of men, making the populace laugh-but I brought you down a special article on London, from a friend of mine, which will tell you everything tellable, so you need not pump me.

North. You are not drinking anything, Tickler.
Tickler. I cannot say I like your wine.

It is souring on my stomach.
North. Cannot you get spirits then. I'll concoct a jug.
Tickler. So be it. (sings.)

Drink to me only from a jug,

And I will pledge in mine;

So fill my glass with whisky punch,
And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that in my throat doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sip,
That honour I'd resign.

The second verse is not worth parodying.

VARIETIES.

ORIGINAL ANECDOTES, LITERARY NEWS, INCIDENTS, &c.