The Athenæan Critic plays the Master with me,—and tops his part. “It is clear, he says, from every page of this book that the Author does not in vulgar parlance, think Small Beer of himself.” Right, my Master? certainly I do not. I do not think that the contents of this book would be truly compared to small beer, which is either weak and frisky, or weak and flat; that they would turn sour upon a sound, that is to say an orthodox stomach, or generate flatulence except in an empty one. I am more inclined, as my Master insinuates, to think Strong Beer of myself, Cwrw, Burton, Audit Ale, Old October,—what in his parlance used be called Stingo; or Porter, such as Thrale's Entire, and old Whitbread's, in days when the ingredients came from the malster and the hop merchant, not from the Brewer's druggist. Or Cider, whether of Herefordshire, Somersetshire or Devonshire growth, no matter; Stire, Cokaghee, or Fox-whelp, a beverage as much better than Champagne, as it is honester, wholesomer and cheaper. Or Perry, the Teignton-Squash. These are right old English liquors, and I like them all. Nay, I am willing if my Master pleases, to think Metheglin of myself also, though it be a Welsh liquor, for there is Welsh blood in my veins, and Metheglin has helped to make it, and it is not the worse for the ingredient. Moreover with especial reference to the present Opus, there is this reason why I should think Metheglin of myself,—that Metheglin is made of honey and honey is collected from all the flowers of the fields and gardens: and how should I have been able to render this tribute to the Philosopher of Doncaster, my true Master, if I had not been busy as a Bee in the fields and gardens of literature, yea in the woods and wilds also? And in the orchards,—for have I not been plying early and late amongst “the orchard trees Last left and earliest found by birds and bees?”[3] Of Bees however let me be likened to a Dumbledore, which Dr. Southey says is the most goodnatured of God's Insects; because great must be the provocation that can excite me to use my sting. [Footnote 3: EBENEZER ELLIOTT.] My Master's mention of Small Beer, in vulgar parlance Swipes, reminds me of Old Tom of Oxford's Affectionate Condolence with the Ultras, some years ago, whereby it appears that he thought Small Beer at that time of some very great Patriots and Queenites. I see your noble rage too closely pent; I hear you Whigs and Radicals ferment, Like close-cork'd bottles fill'd with fizzing barm. Now, Gentlemen, whose stopper is the strongest? Whose eloquence will bottle-in the longest? Who'll first explode, I wonder, or who last? As weak small Beer is sure to fly the first, Lo! poor Grey Bennet hath already burst, And daub'd with froth the Speaker as he past.