Alas! ye Coopers--ye Marryats--ye Charniers--ve historians of storm and sea-fight, how inferior are your triumphs compared with the descriptive eloquence of a law court. Who can pourtray the broken heart of blighted affection, like Charles Phillips in a breach of promise? What was Scott compared to Scarlett?--how inferior is Dickens to Counsellor O'Driscoll?--here are the men, who, without the trickery of trade, ungilt, unlettered, and unillustrated, can move the world to laughter and to tears. They ask no aid from Colburn, nor from Cruikshank--they need not “Brown” nor Longman. Heaven-born warriors, doctors, chemists, and anatomists--deep in every art, learned in every science--mankind is to them an open book, which they read at will, and con over at leisure--happy country, where we have you in abundance, and where your talents are so available, that they can be had for asking. [Illustration: 121] A NUT FOR THE IRISH. AN IRISH ENCORE. [Illustration: 122] We certainly are a very original people, and contrive to do everything after a way of our own! Not content with cementing our friendships by fighting, and making the death of a relative the occasion of a merry evening, we even convert the habits we borrow from other land into something essentially different from their original intention, and infuse into them a spirit quite national. The echo which, when asked “How d'ye do, Paddy Blake?” replied, “Mighty well, thank you,” could only have been an Irish echo. Any other country would have sulkily responded, “Blake--ake--ake--ake,” in _diminuendo_ to the end of the chapter. But there is a courtesy, an attention, a native politeness on our side of the channel, it is in vain to seek elsewhere. A very strong instance in point occurs in a morning paper before me, and one so delightfully characteristic of our habits and customs, it would be unpardonable to pass it without commemoration. At an evening concert at the Rotundo, we are informed that Mr Knight--I believe his name is--enchanted his audience by the charming manner he sung “Molly Astore.” Three distinct rounds of applause followed, and an encore that actually shook the building, and may--though we are not informed of the circumstance--have produced very remarkable effects in the adjacent institution; upon which Mr. Knight, with his habitual courtesy, came forward and sang--what, think ye, good reader? Of course you will say, “Molly Astore,” the song he was encored for. Alas! for your ignorance;--that might do very well in Liverpool or Manchester, at Bath, Bristol, or Birmingham--the poor benighted Saxons there might like to get what they asked so eagerly for; but we are men of very different mould, and not accustomed to the jog-trot subserviency of such common-sense notions; and accordingly, Mr. Knight sang “The Soldier Tired”--a piece of politeness on his part that actually convulsed the house with acclamations; and so on to the end of the entertainment, “the