other statues might do Mr. M——­ no harm.  Nor was any man more willing to own his defects, or more modest regarding his merits, than the sculptor himself, whom I met subsequently.  But oh! what a charming article there was in a Washington paper next day about the impertinence of criticism and offensive tone of arrogance which Englishmen adopted towards men and works of genius in America!  “Who was this man, who” &c. &c.?  The Washington writer was angry because I would not accept this American claret as the finest port-wine in the world.  Ah me!  It is about blood and not wine that the quarrel now is, and who shall foretell its end?

     * Written in July, 1861.

How much claret that would be port if it could is handed about in every society!  In the House of Commons what small-beer orators try to pass for strong?  Stay:  have I a spite against any one?  It is a fact that the wife of the Member for Bungay has left off asking me and Mrs. Roundabout to her evening-parties.  Now is the time to have a slap at him.  I will say that he was always overrated, and that now he is lamentably falling off even from what he has been.  I will back the Member for Stoke Poges against him; and show that the dashing young Member for Islington is a far sounder man than either.  Have I any little literary animosities?  Of course not.  Men of letters never have.  Otherwise, how I could serve out a competitor here, make a face over his works, and show that this would-be port is very meagre ordinaire indeed!  Nonsense, man!  Why so squeamish?  Do they spare you!  Now you have the whip in your hand, won’t you lay on?  You used to be a pretty whip enough as a young man, and liked it too.  Is there no enemy who would be the better for a little thonging?  No.  I have militated in former times, not without glory; but I grow peaceable as I grow old.  And if I have a literary enemy, why, he will probably write a book ere long, and then it will be his turn, and my favorite review will be down upon him.

My brethren, these sermons are professedly short; for I have that opinion of my dear congregation, which leads me to think that were I to preach at great length they would yawn, stamp, make noises, and perhaps go straightway out of church; and yet with this text I protest I could go on for hours.  What multitudes of men, what multitudes of women, my dears, pass off their ordinaire for port, their small beer for strong!  In literature, in politics, in the army, the navy, the church, at the bar, in the world, what an immense quantity of cheap liquor is made to do service for better sorts!  Ask Serjeant Roland his opinion of Oliver Q.C.  “Ordinaire, my good fellow, ordinaire, with a port-wine label!” Ask Oliver his opinion of Roland.  “Never was a man so overrated by the world and by himself.”  Ask Tweedledumski his opinion of Tweedledeestein’s performance.  “A quack, my tear sir! an ignoramus, I geef you my vort?  He gombose an opera!