described by the English Opium Eater. Marry, I have one of his Confessions with his own name and mark to it:--an apology for a certain stain on his MS., the said stain being a large purplish ring,--“Within that circle none durst drink but he,”--in fact the impression, coloured, of “a tumbler of laudanum negus, warm, without sugar.”[15] That smart active person opposite with a game-cock-looking head, and the hair combed smooth, fighter fashion, over his forehead--with one finger hooked round a glass of champagne, not that he requires it to inspirit him, for his wit bubbles up of itself--is our Edward Herbert, the Author of that true piece of Biography, the Life of Peter Corcoran. He is “good with both hands,” like that Nonpareil Randall, at a comic verse or a serious stanza--smart at a repartee--sharp at a retort, and not averse to a bit of mischief. ’Twas he who gave the runaway ring at Wordsworth’s Peter Bell. Generally, his jests, set off by a happy manner, are only ticklesome, but now and then they are sharp-flavoured,--like the sharpness of the pine-apple. Would I could give a sample. Alas! What a pity it is that so many good things uttered by Poets, and Wits, and Humorists, at chance times--and they are always the best and brightest, like sparks struck out by Pegasus’ own hoof, in a curvet amongst the flints--should be daily and hourly lost to the world for want of a recorder! But in this Century of Inventions, when a self-acting drawing-paper has been discovered for copying visible objects, who knows but that a future Niepce, or Daguerre, or Herschel, or Fox Talbot, may find out some sort of Boswellish writing-paper to repeat whatever it hears! There are other Contributors--poor Hazlitt for instance--whose shades rise up before me: but I never met with them at the Entertainments just described. Shall we ever meet anywhere again? Alas! some are dead; and the rest dispersed; and the days of _Social_ Clubs are over and gone, when the Professors and Patrons of Literature assembled round the same steaming bowl, and Johnson, always best out of print, exclaimed, “Lads! who’s for Poonch!” * * * * *