possessed of a subject about which very little has been said. Among the chief characters that figure in the “Memoirs,” and concerning each of whom the Baronet has a world of pithy anecdote, we note Pitt, Burke, Fox, Sheridan, Erskine, Louis the Sixteenth, George the Third, the Queen and royal family, Sir James Lowther, Lord Chesterfield, the late Marquis of Abercorn (John James Hamilton,) Lady Payne (Mademoiselle de Kelbel,) Lord North, Sir Philip Francis the reputed author of Junius, Sir William Draper the defeated antagonist of that writer, George Rose, (the indefatigable and faithful factotum of Pitt,) the Duke of Queensbury, Harry Dundas, Hastings with his agent Major Scott, Lord Eldon, Grey, Sidmouth, Thurlow, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord Liverpool, Marie Antoinette, the Duchess of Devonshire, the Duchess of Gordon, and (we should not have forgotten him) the late dirty Duke of Norfolk, then Earl of Surrey. Of this illustrious personage a laughable account is given. On one occasion—at a great whig dinner at the Crown and Anchor, (in February 1798, while all England was threatened with revolution, and when Ireland was on the brink of open rebellion,) his Grace, inspired as usual with wine, was fool enough to drink “The sovereign majesty of the people.” “Assuredly,” says the Baronet drolly enough, “it was not in the ‘Bill of Rights,’ nor in the principles on which reposes the revolution of 1688, that the Duke could discover any mention of such an attribute of the people. Their liberties and franchises are there enumerated; but their _majesty_ was neither recognized or imagined by those persons who were foremost in expelling James the Second.” His Grace accompanied the toast with some pithy observations relating to “the two thousand persons who, under General Washington, first procured reform and liberty for the thirteen American colonies.” Of course it is not very singular that his remarks were considered as savoring of sedition. Growing sober, next morning, he became apprehensive of having proceeded too far. Accordingly, a day or two afterwards, hearing that his words had excited much wrath at St. James's, he waited on the Duke of York with an excuse and an apology, concluding with a request that, in the event of invasion, his regiment of militia might be assigned the post of danger. His Royal Highness listened to him with much attention, and assured him that his desire should be made known to the king—breaking off the conversation abruptly, however, with “Apropos, my lord, have you seen Blue-Beard?” (the popular pantomime of the day.) In _two days_ after this interview the “dirty Duke” received his dismission both from the lord-lieutenancy and from his regiment.