ants generally rendering both processes unnecessary. If occasionally absent, the edge of a knife tapped against a wine glass forms a fairy bell quite sufficient to summon them to their posts, although I could never divine by what auricular sympathy they recognise the chime of every table. Shortly after dinner the guests call for coffee, and betake themselves, with a valedictory bow, to their own avocations or the theatres, in winter; to a promenade or a chair in some of the public gardens, if it be summer. Ladies of the first respectability are habitual diners at the restaurateurs, contributing, as might be expected, to the perfect decorum of the assemblage, and even (as might not be expected) to its silence. Surely some of these coffee-house amenities might be beneficially imported, especially the temperance, from a country where wine, instead of six or eight shillings, costs exactly that number of pence per bottle. I recommend to my countrymen that this " be in their flowing cups freshly remembered."

In the manners of France one may visibly trace the effects of the Revolution, which, by depressing the upper and elevating the lower classes, has approximated and ameliorated both, rendering the former less arrogant and the latter more independent. Aristocracy of wealth and pride of purse are now pretty much confined to England; although our brethren of America are understood to be rivalling us more successfully than could have been expected from Republicans. On the continent we render ourselves frequently ridiculous, and sometimes odious, by our arrogant

conduct to inferiors; while few of our natives return to their own country without inveighing against the familiarity of foreign servants, and the insolence of the lower classes. How scandalous, how impious of the French and Germans, and Italians, not to bow the knee to every golden calf that is worshipped in England! If, instead of their stars at the India House, and thousands in the Consols, these maltreated tourists were to be measured by their real worth, they would be safe from all imputation of hauteur towards their inferiors, for they might travel over the whole world without being able to find any.

PRINTED BY MISTAKE.

"Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies." Port.

I was sitting by my fire-side in a dozing, dreaming, Lethean sort of half-consciousness, with just thought enough to enable me to enjoy my thoughtlessness, a mood of mind in which I indulge with a particular complacency, when my servant abruptly entered to inform me that a porter had called for my contribution to the New Monthly. "The New Monthly !" I exclaimed, with an indignant surprise," I sent it a fortnight ago." "True, Sir, but that was for last month's." "Impossible !--what is to-day ?"" The tenth."-" Well, then, it is now too late-and when

he called last it was too early;-I will not be pestered: -I am determined to let my head lie fallow a little; -desire him to call again this day three months."

Really, I continued, stirring the sleepy fire, as if determined to make it share my annoyance,—really there is no satisfying this monstrous maw of the Monthly Minotaur,—(I love alliteration); I thought he was to demand but twelve sacrifices in the year, but his months spring up like mushrooms;-one might as well live in the planet Jupiter, where there are, or ought to be, a hundred and forty-four in the year. Besides, I am exhausted, used up; my head is a vacuum, my brains, with the pia-mater and pia-dura, cerebrum and cerebellum, have been seized by the press-gang, conveyed to Conduit-street, and poured into the printer's founts, those literary pitchers of the Belides. What! twelve crops in succession, and no respite allowed for manuring the mental soil, and putting my head in heart, (pardon the catachresis, ye agrestic readers!)—Va, via !—editorial reproaches, I give ye to the winds-fallow shalt thou lie, my overploughed pate, till " darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory," do choke thy furrows.

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Authors are said to be like flambeaux, which consume themselves in giving light to others; if so, I must have been a monstrous illuminator, for never was an intellect more effectually burnt out. Not that my faculties are extinct, but that I cannot find new materials for their exercise. Like Saturn, I have devoured all my own children (of the brain); what I have not written others have; I am worse off,

by all the subsequent authors, than the writer who complained that Shakspeare had taken all his good things. I am at a greater loss for subjects than an ex-king, and

"Never subject long'd to be a king,

As I do long and wish to find a subject:"

but it is in vain; every thing is stale, hackneyed, threadbare. There is nothing in heaven, or earth, or the waters under the earth, into which our pens have not dipped. Mind and matter have been equally ferreted, analyzed, turned inside out. Alexanders in literature, we have conquered the old world, and want a new one sadly.

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And, whereas before," said Jack Cade, upbraiding Lord Treasurer Say, our forefathers had no other book but the score and tally, thou hast caused Printing to be; and contrary to the King, his crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill, &c." What would this legitimate enemy to innovation say now, were he to sit down upon London stone, and hear a list of our new publications read to him?-I see it clearly---a crisis is approaching ;---there must be some great convulsion in the world of Ephemerides ;---this prodigious multiplication of Magazines and Periodicals can never endure, for how can their myriad and insatiable maws be replenished without generating a literary famine in the land? Already are the signs of this impending calamity but too apparent : the horrors of drought and dearth are ready to burst upon our heads: we are beginning to be driven to the cannibal

repast of the shipwrecked Don Juan. The reviewing moiety fall ravenously upon the other half of the literary crew, tearing to pieces, cutting up, gnawing, de vouring, and digesting every thing that comes within the reach of their fangs. We essayists, like modest Gouls, contented ourselves at first with fastening on the dead bodies of our predecessors, cooking them up and disguising them in every possible way, putting the hind part before, and dragging them into our dens backwards, as Cacus did his herds, to conceal the robbery. But this resource being exhausted, we have begun to cut Abyssinian collops from the living subject, and every scribbling John Bull carves plagiaristic steaks from his neighbour. Even this market of live food threatening to fail, in the extremity of our distress we turn pelicans, tearing open our own bosoms to supply flesh and blood to the ravenous brood of the public. Nay, we even join in their repast. Autophagi that we are! in the voracity of our egotism, we find a perpetual feast in our own heart and head. There is hardly a single essayist that has not stuck his pen into his own person, and dished it up before the public with all its accidents, accompani ments, and collaterals. Their birth, parentage, and education, life, character, and behaviour, have been already laid upon the table; nothing is wanting but their last dying speech and confession, and that cannot be much longer delayed. What is to be the end of all this? When the present race of writers have been squeezed, and peeled, and cut open, and eviscerated, and hung up on our bookshelves to dry, like so