In the chapel of Maria Zell, in Styria, there is a portly figure of St. Somebody, with more consonants than I find it prudent to venture on from mere memory; the priest is rolling his eyes very benignly on the frequenters of the chapel, as they pass by the shrine he resides in. The story goes, that when the saint ceases winking, some great calamity will occur to the commune and its inhabitants. Now, the last time I saw him, he was in great vigour, ogled away with his accustomed energy, and even, I thought--perhaps it was a suspicion on my part--had actually strained his eyeballs into something like a squint, from actual eagerness to oblige his votaries--a circumstance happily of the less moment in our days, as a gifted countryman of ours could have remedied the defect in no time. But to return; my theory is, that when we lose our tipsy friend it's all up with us; “Birnam wood will then have come to Dunsinane;” and what misfortunes may befal us, Sir Harcourt Lees may foresee, but I confess myself totally unable to predicate. Were I the viceroy, I 'd not sleep another night in the island. I 'd pack up the regalia, send for Anthony Blake to take charge of the country, and start for Liverpool in the mail-packet. Happily, however, such an event may be still distant; and although the Austrians have but one Metternich, we may find a successor to our “Knight of St. Patrick.” A NUT FOR “GENTLEMAN JOCKS.” [Illustration: 143] “The Honourable Fitzroy Shuffleton,” I quote _The Morning Post_, “who rode Bees-wing, came in a winner amid deafening cheers. Never was a race better contested; and although, when passing the distance-post, the Langar colt seemed to have the best of it, yet such was Mr. Shuffleton's tact and jockeyship, that he shot a-head in advance of his adversary, and came in first.” I omit the passages descriptive of the peculiar cleverness displayed by this gifted gentleman. I omit also that glorious outbreak of newspaper eloquence, in which the delight of his friends is expressed--the tears of joy from his sisters--the cambric handkerchiefs that floated in the air--the innumerable and reiterated cries of “Well done!--he's a trump!--the right sort!” &c. &c, so profusely employed by the crowd, because I am fully satisfied with what general approbation such proofs of ability are witnessed. We are a great nation, and nowhere is our greatness more conspicuous than in the education of our youth. The young Frenchman seems to fulfil his destiny, when, having drawn on a pair of the most tight-fitting kid gloves, of that precise shade of colour so approved of by Madame Laffarge, he saunters forth on the Boulevard de Gand, or lounges in the _coulisse_ of the opera.