If a renegade, like Sir Francis Burdett, is desirous of making his apostacy the theme of general remark—­of surprising the world with an exhibition of prostrated worth—­let him not seek the market-cross to publish his dishonour, whilst there remains the elevated chair at a dinner-table.  Let him prove himself entitled to be ranked as a man, by the elaborate manner in which he seasons his soup or anatomises a joint.  Let him have the glass and the towel—­the one to cool the tongue, which must burn with the fulsome praises of those whom he has hitherto decried, and the other as a ready appliance to conceal the blush which must rush to the cheek from the consciousness of the thousand recollections of former professions awakened in the minds of every applauder of his apostacy.  Let him have a Toole to give bold utterance to the toasts which, in former years, would have called forth his contumely and indignation, and which, even now, he dare only whisper, lest the echo of his own voice should be changed into a curse.  Let him have wine, that his blood may riot through his veins and drive memory onward.  Let him have wine, that when the hollow cheers of his new allies ring in his ears he may be incapable of understanding their real meaning; or, when he rises to respond to the lip-service of his fellow bacchanals, the fumes may supply the place of mercy, and save him from the abjectness of self-degradation.  Burdett! the 20th of August will never be forgotten!  You have earned an epitaph that will scorch men’s eyes—­

  “To the last a renegade."[2]
    * * * *

    [2] “Siege of Corinth.”

Who that possesses the least reflection ever visited a police-office without feeling how intimately it was connected with the cook-shop!  The victims to the intoxicating qualities of pickled salmon, oyster-sauce, and lobster salad, are innumerable; for where one gentleman or lady pleads guilty to too much wine, a thousand extenuate on the score of indigestion.  We are aware that the disorganisation of the digestive powers is very prevalent—­about one or two in the morning—­and we have no doubt the Conservative friends of Captain Rous, who patriotically contributed five shillings each to the Queen, and one gentleman (a chum of our own at Cheam, if we mistake not) a sovereign to the poor-box, were all doubtlessly suffering from this cause, combined with their enthusiasm for the gallant Rous, and—­proh pudor!—­Burdett.

How much, then, are we indebted to our cooks! those perspiring professors of gastronomy and their valuable assistants—­the industrious scullery-maids.  Let not the Melbourne opposition to this meritorious class, be supported by the nation at large; for England would soon cease to occupy her present proud pre-eminence, did her rulers, her patriots, and her heroes, sit down to cold mutton, or the villanously dressed “joints ready from 12 to 5.”  Justice is said to be the foundation of all national prosperity—­we contend that it is repletion—­that Mr. Toole, the toast-master, is the only embodiment of fame, and that true glory consists of a gratuitous participation in “Three courses and a dessert!”