ward Hebe, the goddess of youth and beauty, he could think of no higher compliment than dubbing her cup-bearer to Olympus. The greatest authors, both in ancient and modern times, have in like manner been the subtlest advocates of drinking. "We are told," says the historian of New York, "that the aboriginal Germans had an admirable mode of treating any question of importance: they first deliberated upon it when drunk, and afterwards reconsidered it when sober. The shrewder mobs of America, who dislike having two minds upon a subject, both determine and act upon it drunk, by which means a world of cold and tedious speculation is dispensed with." ing tale of our moral and patriotic deglutitions. Besides, let it never be forgotten that the pleasing idea of youth is connected with a carbuncled proboscis; for, as buds designate the spring of the year, so, by a corresponding analogy, a snout which flourishes with perpetual blossoms is equally typical of the spring of life: "Happy is the man that hath his nose full of them." 7 The art of drinking is furthermore imperative, inasmuch as it promotes the moral healthfulness of society. Without it, we are slaves to ennui; with it, superior intelligences. It is the mental prompter, that, standing behind our good qualities, spurs them to immediate action. The fumes, the vapoury influThe correctness of perpetual intoxica- ences, and all the thousand charms tion may be considered in a two-fold contained within the circumference of a light-in a religious as well as in a moral bottle, may be traced to this cause. sense. "Wine maketh glad the heart The fact is, that the generous Auid inof man," is the biblical apophthegm fused into our blood, drives it in quick from which an inference favourable to circulation to the heart, where, meeting inebrity is drawn. This passage a'mo- with a host of virtues slumbering like dern divine has illustrated with his usual porters at the India-house for want of ability. "Wine," says he, "that is, employ, it rouses them from inactivity, ⚫ one bottle, exhilarateth the heart of man, sends them gallopping through every two bottles augment his merriment, and fibre of the frame, and away they post, so on, till he reaches the summit of ter- one and all, to knock for admittance at • restrial felicity; from whence it is ob- the chambers of the intellect. The poor vious that intoxication is consonant to brain, stupified with the clamour and religious enjoyment. Q. E.D." For the confusion, is thus put to a complete edification of the unenlightened, this as-stand-still, which will account for the ́sertion may be further resolved into a partial cessation of mind during the rule-of-three sum. If one bottle (given praise-worthy periods of inebriety. its quality and vintage) makes a man The habitual drunkard is the most glad, what ratio of pleasure will four entertaining member of society. His bottles procure him? The solution, face is an unvaried index of good-huwith the aid of a dozen of old port and mour; for, immersed in pleasing trances, Cocker's Arithmetic, is obvious to the he has no time left to be wicked. His meanest capacity. blood, like his wine-merchant's bill, rich with continual inflammations, courses nimbly through his veins. His paunch, fraught with the contents of a cellar, seems proudly conscious of its corpulent circumference, and his nose 66 wags with historical protuberances." On the other hand, reflect but an instant on the character of your professed water-drinker. He is a poor shrivelled wretch, "a man made after supper of a cheese-paring." His face is as thin as a hatchet, and so sharp, that if you run against it, ten to one it would cut you. There is no trusting the brute; he would swindle his own father for a piece of toast to his water. If he ever indulges in his potations, he does it with mean timidity-a half-starved glass of negus, perhaps, "that effeminate compromise between the wish for wine and the propriety of water." What says Falstaff of such miscreants? "There's never any of these demure boys come to any proof In a moral sense, drunkenness is equally correct; for it is well known that, in these days of sobriety and wickedness, the revenue is injured by an atheistical affectation of temperance. Water, "hear it, ye gods!" supplies the place of wine. They will dispense with turtle-soup next, I suppose; and then, as Alderman Fatsides told me, with tears in his eyes, the constitutional liberty of England is ruined. If, then, we are desirous of supporting the character of moral citizens, (for the cause of our country is assuredly the cause of morality), let us get drunk with all due expedition, and restore the equilibrium of the revenue. Thus only can we expect the approbation of our own conscience, and when, in the evening of our days, we sit down to the pleasures of social life, with a rosy regiment of carbuncles glistening in their ruby uniforms on our nose, such excrescence will tell a blush for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness, and then when they marry, they get wenches: they are generally fools and cowards, which some of us should be too, but for inflammation. A good Sherris sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain, drives me there all the foolish, and dull, and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which delivered o'er to the voice, (the tongue), which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is, the warming of the blood. If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them should be to forswear thin potations, and addict themselves to sack." While thus advocating the virtues of drunkenness, I should be unjust to the cause, were I to prætermit (as Mr. Southey says) the mention of that invete rate high priest of Bacchus, the late Ebenezer Swill-tub,* my companion in propinose jocundities. He was a toper of the ruddiest complexion, none of your three-parts water drinkers, but a good half-and-half tippler. In form he resembled a sausage, with a physiognomical empyreum studded with constella tions. His eyes were as green as gooseberries, and his mulberry-tinted nose was sown with a flowery plantation, which, like toll-keepers on the highway, kept strict account of every bottle that had passed his lips. Not a carbuncle but had some tale attached to it: one was gained in a hard day's skirmish at the mayor's feast, while others blushed at the remembered prowess of a club, night. Punch was Ebenezer's favourite liquor; but as he felt a hydrophobia at the sight of water, it was penuriously used. His stories were delicious, his remarks acutely ingenious. Truth, he said, was supposed to lie at the bottom of a well; but he thought that her fittest resting-place would be found at the bottom of the punch-bowl. His mind, like his stomach, was capacious; and it was a favourite opinion with him, that though genius was the nurse of sensibility, yet that one great source of poetic melancholy was the sight of an empty bottle. I leave it to people of tender fancy to appreciate * Mr. Ebenezer Swill-tub, though a glorious and right valiant toper, must give way to a more experienced and ingenious bibber, recorded by the English opium eater, who, sooner than be deprived of his diurnal deglutitions, got drunk upon a beef-steak. "The force of genius could no further go." the insinuating pathos of this apophthegm, But, alas! for ill-fated Albion, the reign of intoxication, like this essay, is fast drawing to a close. We have no Ebenezer Swill-tubs now-a-days, no hosts who put the key of the dinner-room in their pockets, no sage philosophers who spend their happiest hours under the table. We are a good-for-nothing set, a crew of pale-blooded milk-sops, A nasal polypus is a rarity; a snout like Bardolph's is a thing not to be sneezed at; but a carbuncle is an optical phenomenon. The duty of getting drunk is superseded by the superior duty of the Excise; and what will be the melancholy result, Heaven alone can tell." The immediate consequences are awfully serious; our national character is degraded; and should the French threaten an inva sion, instead of meeting with jolly opponents, who, by reason of their seeing double, would naturally see with twofold acuteness, they will encounter a pack of skinny bloodless ghosts, the starved relics of the "olden tyme."Then will the reign of anarchy commence, a national bankruptcy ensue, the beef-eaters be reduced, the bishops be restricted to three bottles of wine per day, and the court of aldermen be compelled to give their turtle feasts upon credit. To prevent these afflicting consequences, I have yet one remedy to propose, Let the Serpentine River be forthwith commuted into punch, St. James's Canal be manufactured into Welch ale, for the army and navy, (those blessed bulwarks of the bottle), to tipple gratuitously. In the present depressed state too of agriculture, when every acre is of value, let the Lincolnshire fens be qualified with brandy, and my life on it they will speedily be drained. By these means alone can England again boast of her juicy aboriginals, and rear a hardknuckled progeny of fists that may floor even her stoutest opponents. ISADORE.-A TALE. there IN the church yard of ** is a grave covered with a plain slab of white marble, with no other inscription than "ISADORE D'EREILLO, aged nineteen." These few words speak histories to the heart; they tell of a beautiful soil, in the spring-day of its blossom; flower withered, far from its accustomed they tell the fate of a young and unhappy stranger, dying in a foreign country, remote from every early association, ber last moments unsoothed by affectionate solicitude,-no tender voice, whose lightest sound breathed happy memories, no eye of fondness on which the fainting mourner might look for sympathy-her very ashes separated from their native earth. "Might I not fancy myself a hero of fiction?" said Colonel Fitzallan, bending gracefully as he caught the small snow hand which had just arranged his sling; "Fair lady, henceforth I vow myself your true and loyal knight, and thus pledge my heart's first homage!" pressing the yielding fingers gently to his lips. Alas, thought Isadore, while those eloquent interpreters of the feelings, a blush, sigh, and smile, mingled together -he loves not passionately as I love, or he could not trifle thus; a light compliment was never yet breathed by love. Isadore was at that age when the deeper tenderness of woman first deepens the gaiety of childhood, like the richer tint that dyes the rose as it expands into summer loveliness. Adored by her father, for she had her mother's voice and look, and came a sweet remembrancer of his youth's sole warm dream of happiness, of that love whose joy departed ere it knew one cloud of care, or one sting of sorrow; a word of anger seemed to Don Fernando a sacrilege against the dead, and his own melancholy constancy gave a reality to the romantic imaginations of his child. She now loved Fitzallan with all the fervour of first excited attachment: she had known him under circumstances the most affecting, when the energies and softer feelings of woman were alike called forth; when the proud and fear less soldier became dependent on her he had protected; laid on the bed of sick ness; far from the affectionate hands that would have smoothed, the tender eyes that would have wept o'er his pillow. Isadore became his nurse, soothed with unremitting care the solitude and weariness of a sick-room; and when again able to bear the fresh air of heaven, her arm was the support of her too interesting patient. With Fitzallan the day of romance was over; a man above thirty cannot enter into the wild visions of an enthusiastic girl. Flattered by the attachment which Isadore's every look betrayed, he trifled with her, regardless or thoughtless of the young and innocent heart that confided so fearlessly. Love has no power to look forward-the delicious consciousness of the present, a faint but delightful shadow of the past, form its eternity; the possibility of separation never entered the mind of his Spanish love, till Fitzallan's instant return to England became necessary. They parted with all those gentle Vows which are such sweet anchors for hope to rest on in absence-but alas, such frail ones. For a time her English lover wrote very regularly. That philo sopher knew the human heart who said, "I would separate from my mistress for the sake of writing to her." A word, a look, may be forgotten; but a letter is a lasting memorial of affection. The correspondence soon slackened on his part. Isadore, tending the last moments of a beloved parent, had not one thought for herself; but when that father's eyes were closed, and her tears had fallen on the grave of the companion of her infancy, the orphan looked round for comfort, for consolation, and felt, for the first time, her loneliness and the sickness of hope deferred. Fear succeeded expectation; fear, not for his fidelity but his safety: was he again laid on the bed of sickness, and Isadore far away? She dwelt on this idea, till it became a present reality; suspense was agony : at length she resolved visiting England. She sailed, and, after a quick voyage, reached the land-a wanderer seeking for happiness, which, like the shadow thrown by the lily on the water, still eludes the grasp. It was not thus in the groves of Arragon she looked forward to the British shore; it was then the promised home of a beloved and happy bride. The day after her arrival in London, she drove to her agent's, (for her father, during the troubles in Spain, had secured some property in the English funds,) hoping from him to gather some intelligence of the Colonel. Passing through a very crowded street, her coach becoming entangled in the press, occasioned a short stoppage. Gazing round in that mood, when, anxious to escape the impressions within, the eye involuntarily seeks for others without, her attention became attracted to an elegant equipage. Could she be mistaken?-never in that form on it was surely Fitzallan! Well she remembered that graceful bend, that air of protection with which he supported his companion. The agitated Spaniard just caught a glimpse of her slight and delicate figure, of eyes blue as a spring sky, of a cheek of sunset; and, ere her surprise allowed the power of movement, the carriage was out of sight. Her entreaties to be allowed to alight, being only attributed to fear, were answered by assurances that she was safe. Gradually becoming more composed, she bade the coachman inquire who lived in the house opposite-it was the name she longed to hear-Colonel Fitzallan. She He arrived at the moment when she first comprehended that her lover's reason for wishing his letters restored, originated in his fear of a legal use being made of them. Her dark eyes flashed fire, her cheek burnt with emotion, her heart-beat became audible, as she hastily caught the letters, and threw them into the flames. "You have performed your mission," exclaimed she; "leave the room instantly." Her force was now exhausted, she sunk back on the sofa. The tender assiduities of Edward at length restored her to some degree of composure. It was luxury to have her feelings entered into; to share sorrow is to soothe it. She told him of hopes blighted for ever, of wounded affection; of the heart sickness which had paled her cheek, and worn to a shadow her once symmetrical form. She had in hand a few withered leaves. "It is," said she, "the image of my fate; this rose fell from my hair one evening; Fitzallan placed it in his bosom, by moonlight I found it thrown aside, it was faded, but to me it was precious from even that momentary caress; I have to this day cherished it. Are not our destines told by this flower? His was the bloom, the sweetness of love; my part was the dead and scentless leaves." Edward now became her constant companion; she found in him a kind and affectionate brother. At length he spoke of love. Isadore replied by throwing back her long dark hair with a hand whose dazzling whiteness was all that remained of its former beauty, and bade him look on her pale and faded countenance, and there seek his answer. "Yes, I shall wed, but my bridal wreath will be cypress, my bed the grave, my spouse the hungry worm!" Edward gazed on her face, and read conviction; but still his heart clung to her with all the devotedness of love, which hopes even in despair, and, amid the wreck of every promise of happiness, grasps at even the unstable wave. One evening she leaned by a window, gazing fixedly on the glowing sky of a summer sunset: the rich colour of her cheek, which reflected the carnation of the west, the intense light of her soft but radiant black eyes, excited almost hope: could the hand of death be on what was so beautiful? For the first time she asked for her lute; hitherto, she had shrunk from the sound of music; Fitzallan had loved it; to her it was the knell of departed love. She waked a few wild and melancholy notes. "These sounds," sighed she, "are to me fraught with tender recollections; it is the vesper hymn of my own country." She mingled her voice with the tones, so faint, so sad, but so sweet, it was like the song of a spirit, as the concluding murmur died away. She sunk back exhausted; Edward for a while supported her head on his shoulder; at length he parted the thick curls from off her face, and timidly prest her lips;—he started from their chilling touch-it was his first, his last kiss-Isadore expired in his arms!-Literary Gazette. 1 THE SOLDIER'S REWARD. Continued from p. 219. BUT if Eugene suspected the stability of his Mimili's affection, it was other wise with the dear girl, for she herself placed the fullest reliance on his honour. "Why should I," she asked, "ask for vows of constancy, from one that has been true to his sovereign and his country? he would not break a poor girl's heart, after his faith has been tried by them. Don't think I am so light-hearted a being as I would wish to seem; though I smile now, as soon as you are gone, I shall sorrow for your return, as my kids do for their dams, when separated from them. Now farewell! you will not forget, when in the gay camp, with your fellow officers, the poor simple girl that teased you so-you will not? Nay, fie-I had treasured these tears for your absence, and you call them forth before their time. Think sometimes of your poor little maiden, when surrounded by the court ladies. I know you will. Farewell. Farewell." It was about a fortnight after the battle of Waterloo, that a soldier wounded and faultering, was seen pacing through the valley of Lauterbrunn. His tattered uniform was hailed joyfully from a distance by Mimili, who sprung towards him with enthusiasm and joy. "News of Eugene!" she exclaimed, and before the old veteran could answer, had already plied him with a dozen questions. "Eugene-why, ma'amselle, surely you don't mean Eugene Montfiore? “The same," replied Mimili, in breathless agitation "Woe! woe! woe! he fell on the glorious 18th, on Waterloo, a glory to his country, and a favourite of his God." "Dead! is he dead!" exclaimed the poor girl; and she fell heavily in her father's arms, who had just approached in time to hear the heartrending recital. Mimili was borne senseless home; for awhile it seemed as if death had laid his hand upon her; yet she recovered, but only to feel the woes of life, without Eugene was quite overcome, and he reason. The dreadful shock the poor sank powerless in Mimili's arms; at length girl had experienced by the blunt and unhe burst from them, and snatching a prepared intelligence of the bearer of sweet, and rapturous embrace, he the melancholy news, had completely anmounted his horse, and in a second a nihilated her faculties. Her father wept huge mountain had hidden his Mimili over her; for she was the last lamb of from his view. a flock where the wolfish Death had glutted his fill. The gay-hearted girl was no longer: though the roses on her cheek had given place to the paleness of blighted hope, she looked as lovely as ever; indeed the wildness of her mind had a corresponding power over her external appearance and the generality of her actions. She took little or no nourishment, but attended by a lamb, whom she had nourished from its infancy, she would rove round the mountains side, and spend hours in the spot where she first met Eugene; at other times she would climb the fearful height of the mountains, and gazing on that point where her lover fell, would call frantically on his name, and when the echoes returned nothing but Eugene, and seemed to mock her wishes, she would throw herself on the earth, and complain to it of his wickedness. It is supposed that love, so far from exciting the nobler feelings of a man's nature, enervates or crushes them. Eugene, on the plains of Waterloo, proved the contrary. For a while Mimili was absent from his mind: the din of battle, the thunder of the artillery, the cries of the dying, and the shouts of the victorious, occupied his mind so fully, that it even refused admittance to its beloved object. "For his king and his country," was first his cry, till the dear image of his Mimili came flitting before him, and he changed the note to, "For Mimili, his country, and his king;" and he fought with a death-like fury; till at last, a friend that was fighting at his side, received him into his farms streaming with blood. The brave youth had evidently received his death warrant from the point of his enemy's bayonet "Jaques-here-take this locket-it contains Mimili's hair-bear it to her and tell her, I did not forget her when death was triumphing over me." Another discharge of musketry about this moment took place, and separated the two youths; one of whom saw his friend crushed as it were to death by the fallen horses of the defeated cavalry. ** When the winter arrived, the poor girl was unable to leave her chamber; her lunacy was not confirmed, it was no more than slight mental derangement. Among other proofs of her imbecility, she could not bring herself to the belief that Eugene was dead; she would invariably place a seat for him at the table on which their meals were placed, and wait a considerable time, as if in anxious |