nating like the burst of a rocket in a bright silver spoon on the other side of the road. There is many a slip between the DICKEY and the lip. The empty glass hung in his hand droopingly, but was never replenished; he put the money into the goblet, gave it to the waiter without speaking, pointed to the spoon over the way, and doggedly remounted to his seat in the dickey. Possibly the demon of mischief was at work within me, or it might be an impulse to avenge the slight of the other female; but as he took his seat again, I could not help pointing to the dark track on the road, and quoting his own sentiment: "You see," said I, "a man never loses anything by civility." He answered by a grunt, turning himself a little towards the opposite side, and I remarked that from Crawley even unto Brixton, where he got down, he never bestowed a word, no, not even "a good evening" on the former partner of his gossip. "Gloomy he sat apart, nor speech vouchsafed To Eve, late partner in colloquial love." REVIEW. ARTHUR CONINGSBY. A Novel. 3 vols. London: Effingham Wilson. NOVEL reading is to some constitutions a sort of literary bulimy, or unnatural appetite, which regards quantity rather than quality. There are wholesale eaters who can devour a leg of mutton and trimmings at a sitting, and there are readers who will get through a novel of three volumes merely as a whet. We knew a lady whose ordinary ration was three novels a day; but then she was not particular as to the viands: she was contented, so she had a hearty meal, to go to the cook-shop of A. K. Newman. All she wanted was a stuff, though it might be only stuff and nonsense. We do not quarrel, therefore, with the caterers to this craving, but regard the issue of weak novels to these hungerers as a sort of charity-as a distribution of soup to the poor. Should any sharp-set lady, like our friend, be reduced to want, not having tasted a novel for twenty-four hours, let her go to Mr. Effingham Wilson for a meal, and "Arthur Coningsby" will serve for a stop-gap as well as most other novels of its class. In the meantime we will just lift up the cover of the work, and give her a sniff of the relish she may expect. It describes a lady of delicate constitution, who required a great deal of support, but neglected to take it. "Her features were regular and striking, and her dark grey eyes could not conceal their splendour," &c., &c. ODE TO MISS KELLY.* ON HER OPENING THE STRAND THEATRE. O BETTY-I beg pardon-Fanny K. ! In quite a friendly way I like your theatre, though but a minnikin ; * My father wrote several songs, &c., for Miss Kelly's entertainments, having made her acquaintance through his most intimate friend Lamb. Among these may be mentioned "Sally Simpkin's Lament,” in “Hood's Own." For though small stages Kean dislikes to spout où, The Minors are the Passions' proper schools. Find wisdom in the plan That keeps large reservoirs for little Pooles. I like your boxes where the audience sit I like your little stage, where you discuss And show us passengers so rich and rare, I like exceedingly your Parthian dame, I like your Governess; and there's a striking Tale of Two Brothers, that sets tears a-flowingBut I'm not going All through the bill to tell you of my liking. Suffice it, Fanny Kelly! with your art In "Free and Easy"-at my own bespeak— Drop in and make your pretty house my own! REVIEW. VEGETABLE COOKERY; WITH AN INTRODUCTION RECOMMENDING ABSTINENCE FROM ANIMAL FOOD. London: Effingham Wilson. THE editor of this work belongs to a society, upwards of one hundred of whom have abstained from animal food from ten to twenty years. We have heard of this society, and suspect that it holds its meetings in Covent Garden, and that the president has a lively interest in the sale of potherbs. There is a frontispiece, indeed, very like a fancy stall in the market. The hint is clearly taken from Grimaldi's old stage trick of building up a man of vegetables, and the authoress has wisely, or more herbally speaking, sagely, endeavoured to apply pantomime practice to real every-day life, and to support the human body with sour-krout, onions, parsneps, and split-peas. "The pernicious custom of eating animal food having become so general in this country," she feels called upon to make a stand against buttock of beef, set her own face against pork chops, and lift up her vegetable voice in a style enough to put Alderman Scales and his fraternity on their own tenterhooks. The lady's chapel is evidently not Whitechapel, and she declares more for Tabernacle than Meating. Dr. LAMBE VOL. VI. 19 very naturally declares with her against MUTTON; and Dr. Buchan says "the consumptions so common in England are in part owing to the great use of animal food;" but the dear lady does not perceive that the consumption here applies to the cattle, with whom it is really an hereditary disease. The late Sir Edward Berry "prevailed on a man to live on partridges, without vegetables," but after eight days' trial "he was obliged to give up the game." Nobody doubts it; but how long would a good strong hearty fellow hold out on a diet of "purslain, pennyroyal, and tarragon ?" "The Tartars," says Sir John Sinclair, " who live principally on animal food, possess a ferocity of mind and fierceness of character which forms the leading features of all carnivorous animals." Begging Sir John's pardon, the horseflesh has nothing to do with the matter,— A Tartar would be a Tarter if he only ate sorrel. The lady, however, goes a step beyond Sir John, and declares that the eaters of animal food are nothing less than Holloways and Haggertys, and that Dolly's chop-house is as infamous as Probert's cottage. She tells us "We must cease to degrade and bestialize our bodies, by making them the burialplaces for the carcases of innocent brute animals, some healthy, some diseased, and all violently murdered!" (p. 3.) And again (p. 4), "There can be no doubt, therefore, that the practice of slaughtering and devouring animals has a tendency to strengthen in us a murderous disposition, and a brutal nature, rendering us insensible to pity, and inducing us more easily to sanction the murdering of a fellow-creature." No such thing. Johnson, the last murderer, was a gardener, and certainly had more to do with vegetables than butcher's meat. The Irish, unfortunately adduced by the lady as examples, though they live mainly on potatoes, are not very remarkable for mild |