the intervals between their performances with pedantic disquisitions on music, and flooring every man who ventures to hazard an opinion on the subject.  These people, whether amateur or professional, must be extinguished; and the best way to accomplish their overthrow, and reduce them to their native insignificance, is, in the first instance, to take them at their word, and not urge them to sing.  By so doing, they immediately take the pet, and sport mum for the rest of the evening.  The same remarks apply to musical people in general, whether in the shape of fiddlers, fluters, horn blowers, thumpers on the pianoforte, &c.  These individuals can think of nothing else but their favourite pursuit, and imagine all the world to be equally interested in it.  Take a musician off music, and he is the most ignorant of animals.  A good story in illustration of this is told about Madame Catalani.  Being at a large party in Vienna, where Goethe was present, she was much surprised at the great respect with which that illustrious man was treated.  On inquiring his name, she was informed it was the celebrated Goethe.  “Celebrated!” said the siren; “what music did he ever compose?  Why, I never heard of him!”

An absurd prejudice prevails among many people against the skate.  If this fish is hung up and dried for a day or two, then cut in slices, done on the gridiron, and eaten with butter, it is most delicious.

N.B.  The female skate is more delicate than the male.

Persons who indulge in conundrums, charades &c. are invariably poor creatures; as are those who have a knack at finding out such trifles.  The same remark applies to punsters.  It is difficult for a man of sterling talent to perpetrate a pun, or to solve an enigma.  On the latter account, Oedipus must have been an ass.

A fact.—­Nine-tenths of the catsup which is sold in the shops is a vile compound of liver and the roan of fish, seasoned with vinegar, pepper, and other condiments.  If you wish the article genuine, you must procure mushrooms, and make it yourself.

* * * * *

FERDINAND VII.  OF SPAIN.

There is no court in Europe about which so little is known as that of Madrid, and certainly no European sovereign whose character and habits have been so studiously misrepresented as those of Ferdinand.  The first time we beheld this monarch, we could scarcely credit the evidence of our senses.  Walking in the gardens of the Retiro, at the time crowded with company, we encountered a portly old gentleman, quite unattended, habited in a plain, blue coat and nankeen trousers.  This was Ferdinand, El Rey absoluto, whom, in our mind’s eye, we had long sketched with the dark pencil of a Murillo.  On a countenance that we expected to have seen marked by all the dark and fiery passions of a Caesar Borgia, we beheld an expression of bonhomie—­a total absence