We're a true Boeotian people after all: that's a fact. We may talk about Attic art and Doric strength; but in our habits, no less than in our climate, we certainly belong to the wrong side of the hills. We're a stuffing and guzzling race, if ever there was one; we doat on great hunks of meat and flagons of strong drink; and as truly as every Paddy has got a hot potato somewhere in his head, making him the queer, mad chap he is, so have we got a national brain compounded of pudding, and beef, and sausages, turning us into that stubborn and stolid people which we know ourselves to be. Sidney Smith expressed the fundamental idea of the English nation to a T, when he said that the ultimate end of all good government was a hot chop and plenty of claret; but, in saying so, he did no more than re-echo the burden of the old song, translated into more modern and fashionable language-- "Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!" Ah! he was a splendid fellow that indited this song, and so was that other clerical wight who broached the idea-- "When I go to bed, then of heaven I dream; But that is fat pullets and clotted cream;"-- A real Devonian or Somersettian parson; but they spoke from the heart,--or rather from the stomach, jolly, good comfortable souls as they were, and their words go right home to the stomachs and hearts of all, wherever the British lion has the privilege of lashing his tail or shaking his mane.