Let those do so who long for claret, Let those, who'd kiss a Frenchman's--toes; I'll not drink vinegar, nor Star it, For any he that wears a nose. I'll not go lounge out life in Calais, To dine at half a franc a head; To hut like rats in lanes and alleys-- To eat an exile's gritty bread. To flirt with shoeless Seraphinas, To shrink at every ruffian's shako; Without a pair of shirts between us, Morn, noon, and night to smell tobacco; To live my days in Gallic hovels, Untouched by water since the flood; To wade through streets, where famine grovels In hunger, frippery, and mud. _Monthly Magazine._ * * * * * THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS. * * * * * ART OF DRINKING WINE The order of taking wine at dinner has not been sufficiently observed in this country. "There is," as the immortal bard beautifully expresses it, "a reason in roasting eggs;" and if there is a _rationale_ of eating, why should there not be a system of drinking? The red wines should _always_ precede the white, except in the case of a French dinner, when the oysters should have a libation of Chablis, or Sauterne. I do not approve of white Hermitage with oysters. The Burgundies should follow--the purple Chambertin or odorous Romanee. A single glass of Champagne or Hock, or any other white wine, may then intervene between the Cote Rotie and Hermitage; and last, not least in our dear love, should come the cool and sweet-scented Claret. With the creams and the ices should come the Malaga, Rivesaltes, or Grenache; nor with these will Sherry or Madeira harmonize ill. Last of all, should Champagne boil up in argent foam, and be sanctified by an offering of Tokay, poured from a glass so small, that you might fancy it formed of diamond. _Literary Pocket-Book._ * * * * * STRATFORD-ON-AVON. I was detained at Stratford nearly two hours, and endeavoured to see whatever I could, in so short a time, relative to Shakspeare. The clean, quiet, _uncommercial_ appearance of the town pleased me; but I was interested beyond expression on seeing the great poet's house. When I entered the untenanted room where he first drew the breath of this world, I took off my hat with, I hope, an unaffected sentiment of homage. The walls and ceiling of this chamber are covered with names and votive inscriptions, among which I saw the signatures of Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Lockhaft, Washington Irving, and many others familiar to me, foreigners as well as English. I did not sign _my_ name, for I felt that it had no right in such a place; but I brought away a minute relic, in the shape of a bit of rotten wood, pinched from the beam that supports the chimney.