himself to his cogitations over a tankard of October, and expect to beat your true thin garret-haunting devil, with an inside like a pea-shooter, who can scarcely be said to be one remove from the ethereal, and who writes from that best of inspirations—­an empty pantry?  We shall presently see whether an author from below is better than one from above—­whether it will be more eligible that the Muses should have several more stories to descend, when their nine ladyships are invoked so to do—­and that the pen should be taken out of the scraggy hand of a gentleman in rags, and be placed in the plump gripe of a gentleman in tags.

Before we proceed to give an account of the book before us, we must yet take leave to indulge in a few reflections on the effect of this mental explosion in the noddles of John and James and Richard, upon reviewers, publishers, and the world in general.  This change of lodging in the author will turn many things topsy-turvy, and conjure the spirit out of much long-established facetiousness.  Pictures of poets in garrets will soon not be understood; bathos will be at a premium! the bard will be known, not by the brownness of his beaver, but by the gold band that encircles it.  The historian shall go about in black plush breeches; and the great inspired writers of the age “have a livery more guarded than their fellows.”  Authors shall soon be, indeed, even more easily known by their dress.  How often, too, shall we see Mr. Murray or Mr. Colburn descending “with the nine” to the hireling scribe, who is correcting the press and locking up the tea-spoons, against his coming; or they may have occasionally to wait below, while their authors are waiting above.  Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green (almost a batch of he-muses in themselves), will get a new cookery-book, well done, from a genuine cook,[5] who divides his time between the spit and the pen; and the firm need not, therefore, set Mrs. Rundell’s temper upon the simmer, as they are said to have done in days past.  Reviewers too!—–­will they ever dine together anon?—­surely not.  Authors are known to be in the malicious habit of speaking ill of their friends and judges behind their backs; and at dinner-time they will soon have every opportunity of so doing.  How unpleasant to call for beer from the poet you have just set in a foam; or to ask for the carving-knife from the man you have so lately cut up! We reviewers shall then never be able to shoot our severity, without the usual coalman’s memento of “take care below!” One advantage, however, from the new system must be conceded, and that is, that when an author waits in a great man’s hall, or stands at his door, he will be pretty sure of being paid for it; which, in the case of your dangling garreteers, has never hitherto happened.  Crabbe’s story of “The Patron” will become obsolete.  High Life will, indeed, be below stairs!

There is a lively spirit of banter in these observations, which is extremely amusing.  They are from the Athenaeum of last week, which, by the way, has more of the intellectual gladiatorship in its columns than any of its critical contemporaries.