Once more safe in his quarters at Dublin, our Prince lays down as an axiom that "nobody eats soup in England." "This," says his highness, "is the reason, by-the-bye, for which my old Saxon left me; he declared that he could not exist any longer in a state of barbarism--without soup." Now, that his highness's "Saxon" should have quitted "his ground" on this score seems odd,--inasmuch as his highness himself has just before told us, that "the luckless man who asked for soup twice at dinner" could be "no gentleman;" in other words, that such is an usual mark of what our superfine novelists call "vulgarity!" For the rest, his highness appears to have lived much more in coffee-houses than anywhere else; and, as everybody knows, whole seas of soup--black, grey, red, and green--are daily and hourly bubbling and smoking in all such quarters. Of one of these same coffee-houses, after denying the existence of soup, and explaining that the Irish boil their potatoes "in water," his highness thus continues his description:-- "But now follows the second stage:--the table-cloth is removed; clean plate, and knife and fork laid, wine and wine-glass, and a few miserable apples or pears, with stony ship biscuits are brought: and now the dinner seems to begin to enjoy tranquillity and comfort. His countenance assumes an expression of satisfaction; apparently sunk in profound meditation, leaning back in his chair, and looking fixedly straight before him, he suffers a sip of wine to glide down his throat from time to time, only breaking the death-like silence by now and then laboriously craunching his rocky biscuits. "When the wine is finished, follows stage the third--that of digestion. All motion now ceases; his appetite being satiated, he falls into a sort of magnetic sleep, only distinguishable from the natural by the open eyes. After this has lasted for half an hour or an hour, all at once it ceases; he cries out, as if under the influence of some sudden possession, 'Waiter, my slippers;' and seizing a candle, walks off gravely to his chamber to meet his slippers and repose." It appears to us very odd that the gallant prince should have, in this luculent sketch of "insular life," suppressed all mention of his "attracted" friends the chambermaids. He proceeds,--