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—The great orator of the Irish bar. I have heard both him and Lord Er---ne often, and can affirm, that in sublime, pathetic, and effective eloquence, Curran is superior beyond all comparison.

—My friend places Moore before Scott and Lord Byron, just as one would prefer Anacreon to Statius or Apollonius Rhodius. Because, though amatory poetry is of a less exalted species than epic, one would rather excel in the minor department, than be secondary in the superior.

—I hesitate to praise a prime minister; but this I may say, without being convicted of eulogy, that his Lordship has acquired the full confidence of the nation at large. This, in fact, is every thing.

—I have heard people of the finest taste and feeling declare, that they would never go to see this lady perform again. In fact, they felt so much affected, that they dreaded to suffer another such night of tears. Her powers in the pathetic, are, indeed, wonderful.

I wish a national theatre, with opera hours and prices, were established at the west end of the town, and then, perhaps, our fashionables would condescend to patronize a place of rational amusement. At present, the opera, or rather the ballet, engrosses all their favor; for though they are content with seeing the singers, they must hear the dancers. The moment the ballet begins, an instantaneous silence reigns through the house. Not a billet-doux can drop from a dowager unheard; so great is the respect paid to the majesty of toes. Occasional whispers, however, are ventured now and then. Vestris, for instance, is observed to be in much limb, as he has spun round once and a segment more than usual. Then the eloquence of an attitude, or the pathos of a pas de seul, is superb; and certain old cognoscenti admire the keeping of the groups of flower girls. Some of them, indeed, are kept long enough, as one may see by their wrinkles, while the fatness of others shews plainly, that they are, at least, kept well.

—I hope Mr. Sc*tt, (of whose powers I have a high opinion) will not consider me an enemy for giving him good advice. But, really, authors, now-a-days, write by the pound or by the foot. Mr. Sc*tt, I think, has dropped a good many of his wis's, and weens, and by my fays; neither has he yet adopted the new fashion of sanctifying his words. Saith for said, spake for spoke, brake for broke, unto for to, doth for does, are the capriccios of the day. I likewise see just cause and impediment against such marriages as, war-storm, death-storm, battle-fire. The best authorities for which are, pot-hooks, kitchen-stuff, cabbage-garden.

—I differ from my friend decidedly. Lord B*r*n is a metaphysician, not a poet. Sc*tt is to him, what Thompson is to Young. The one excels in describing things, the other in delineating thoughts. If the one swims too much on the surface, the other is overloaded and sinks too deep. Of Sc*tt, we seldom read a line twice, (though we may a passage) because he wants force; or of B*r*n, because he wants poetry. By poetry, I mean that nameless charm of expression, which raises it above prose. Whenever his Lordship tries metaphor, he fails most miserably. Take for instance, this distich.

Really, this is the most extraordinary curse (and in more ways than one) that ever came from the pen of a poet. It is a curse, in short, which first turns into a ray, then sets off from a bosom, returns back, becomes a flower, and at last suffers a curious blight enough,—a reflected blight. Now a flower which reflects, can, I think, be no other than Venus's looking-glass.

—

After these unfounded personalities, his Lordship can expect no mercy from me. I, however, have less occasion than others to complain of his licentious satire. His ‘Sketch from Private Life’ draws a portrait so diabolical, that I defy it to find a prototype in nature; and if it be meant for any human being, I thank my God I have not a heart capable of suggesting such vengeance, far less of laying the demoniac anatomy bare to the public gaze.

—In Italy the nightly question is, ‘have you sprinkled the bed?’ In Cumana, the first question in the morning is, ‘have we a cool river to-day?’

—Spurzeim, the man of skulls, has accommodated the human race with thirty-three faculties. His theory would be quite established, if he could prove that he himself possesses half the number.

—I take some merit to myself for having made this a Cabalistical term, and fixed it on these folks in perpetuity. But really 'tis quite delightful to hear them still talking of their talents, and of the confidence which the country feels in their powers of legislation. Why a whole generation—the third part of the people— have grown up under the present government. They know nothing about opposition as a ministry; save and except one disastrous trial of a year, a month and a day: Nine years, however, have since elapsed, without the least danger of another trial, even for an hour, a minute and a second.

—No man can now deny that it was the Spanish war which saved Europe. And here I must say a few words about the Spanish patriots. If ever we were justified in interfering between a government and its subjects, we should act as mediators for these unfortunate men. We fought conjointly with them, when their avowed object was constitutional, as well as national liberty. That liberty they have not obtained, but are exiled. Can we not possibly influence Ferdinand in the adoption of such a system as might unite both parties? This I know, that to preserve Spain from a civil war is our interest; and that the patriots, if not conciliated, may shake the Spanish throne to its foundation. At all events, as a mere matter of feeling, we should undertake the cause of our old companions in arms.

— Common sense, self-love, and even chance, all conspire to make a minister act for the public good. As often, therefore, as he does right, a systematical opposition must do wrong. Now in all human calculation, a minister, so actuated, must do right three times for once that he does wrong; and consequently, a systematical opposition must do wrong three times for once that it does right.

— ‘Now we shall ride rough-shod through Carlton house!’ was the immortal vociferation after Percival had fallen. But, it seems, asses have ears as well as hoofs. I could never learn, to a certainty, which of the two noble lords stood listening at the keyhole, while the other was closetted with the king. I only know, that the odium lies

—Mr. Pitt said of Sh*r---n, that ‘he drew on his memory for wit, and on his imagination for argument.’ However, I wish this interesting old stager back again with all my heart. His facetious philippics would, at least, answer as a relief to the supernatural anger and ferocious admonitions of the rest.

—I believe this calculation is rather under than over, at least for the last year. But let us trace the statement farther. Six thousands pounds per hour is a hundred pounds per minute, and about a guinea and a half per second. What a freezing piece of arithmetic for B*rd*tt to frighten a mob with! I wonder too, Sir J---n N*wp---t never brought in a bill for the reduction of two pounds per minute in the war expenditure; or the Marquis of L---d---ne, a budget of ways and means to meet the exigencies of the ensuing 31,556,940 seconds. It would be so new and pretty!

—How this patriotic person has fallen! Alas, for those proud days, when he was the idol of dirty South-wark, and when its merchants christened their children after him, in adoration. Soon came the time, however, when its butchers called their dogs by his name, in contempt. Even the house, with all his pasquinading algebra, now look upon him merely as a gay debater. He makes no impression, because they do not consider him in earnest. And yet he is a trifler from sheer desperation. Were the man easier in his mind, I am convinced he would improve.

—I verily believe, if his party could come into power, they would make him Chancellor of the Exchequer to-morrow! And yet, it is certain, he disappointed his friends sadly when they were in power before. But what can they do? They have not a financial man amongst them.

—Government had disappointed his Lordship, so he wrote a pamphlet to prove that grass would grow in the streets of London. But he knows himself that not even brooms thrive there. A barber too had disappointed him; so he wrote a poem predicting cropped heads and unpowdered hair. This prophecy was awfully fulfilled. His Lordship, therefore, has much more to boast as a fop than as a politician. It was on the strength of his pamphlet, I presume, that he too visited the First Consul. His reception was curious. He made his bow. Napoleon asked him if he spoke French; and then, turning round, took snuff. His Lordship, I suppose, took umbrage.

—During the Spanish war, his Lordship used to talk about the expediency of a nucleus in the heart of Spain. Many respectable men suspected that he meant a concentration of our forces there. However, all agreed that he meant something or other.

—Why may not a judge pun, as well as a bishop? The following is an extract from a sermon in the reign of James the First.

‘Here have I undertaken one who hath overtaken many. A Machiavellian, or rather a matchless villain. One that professeth himself to be a friend, when he is, indeed, a fiend.’

—The first act of the talented administration was to tell the country that its resources were drained almost dry. The next act was to double the Property Tax! Then came the Marquis with a magical budget of virtue to carry on the war for ever and ever, without any additional taxation. John Bull jumped with joy. Man-milliners and pig iron were happy. But, alas, it was soon recollected that M. Dumont (who afterwards assisted Mirabeau in dethroning Louis) had educated the Marquis; and it was suspected that he had also taught his pupil the financial system of his countryman Neckar. So as this system had already ruined France, plain men began to conjecture that it might like wise ruin England. To conjecture, I say, because nobody (no, not even the Marquis himself) could make head or tail of it. Some thought it was the sinking fund reversed; but all allowed that it resembled nothing so much as Darwin's scheme to replenish human arteries, by transfusing into them, with a syringe, the blood of a calf. His Lordship has never held up his head since.

—A most interesting and most unpremeditated scene was presented to the police, when they broke into Sir Fr*n**s's house, on the memorable occasion of his commitment. They found his dear little boy by his side, reading Magna Charta! O pencil of Wilkie! what inferior canvas was then detaining you?

—Editor of the Morning Chronicle. Sir Fr*n**s perpetually quotes this print in the House. He likewise picks up much of his information from a person, who eats his hebdomadal dinner with the whisperer of the man, who whispers to the whisperer of Fouche.

—Considering that Sir Fr*n**s talks so much about the purity of election, odd doings enough took place at Westminster, when he stood candidate. Mills were divided into shares, in order to qualify votes for him; and several wretches, who swore they had votes, were transported for perjury.

—The Duke of Portland was absolutely obliged, by a circular letter, to prohibit the admission of Sir Fr*nc*s into any jail whatever throughout the kingdom:—that is, as a visitor; for he afterwards received admission into the Tower as a culprit.

—Collot D'Herbois first became notorious by pleading the cause of deserters and renegadoes. I trust the parallel between the two men will never extend any farther.

—A man must, I confess, be kind and humane, who has useless old friends, useless old horses, and useless old cows; none of which animals he will either cast off, shoot, or sell. Nevertheless, several of Sir Fr*nc*s's friends were hanged in spite of him: others were sent to Botany Bay; two were tried for high treason; one got a thousand lashes, and another cut his throat.

It may not be generally known that the anagram of Sir Fr*nc*s B*rd*tt is Frantic Disturbers.

—About three years ago the people of Huddersfield seized this itinerant reformist as a suspicious character. What a pity one is not suffered to make a fuss in peace and quietness!