must digest in its waistcoat,' laughed Sheridan.

Where are the topers of yore? Jovial I will not call them, for every one
knows that

'Mirth and laughter.'

worked up with a corkscrew, are followed by

'Headaches and hot coppers the day after.'

But where are those Anakim of the bottle, who _could_ floor their two of
port and one of Madeira, though the said two and one floored them in
turn? The race, I believe, has died out. Our heads have got weaker, as
our cellars grew emptier. The arrangement was convenient. The daughters
of Eve have nobly undertaken to atone for the naughty conduct of their
primeval mamma, by reclaiming men, and dragging them from the Hades of
the mahogany to that seventh heaven of muffins and English ballads
prepared for them in the drawing-room.

We are certainly astounded, even to incredulity, when we read of the
deeds of a David or a Samson; but such wonderment can be nothing
compared to that which a generation or two hence will feel, when
sipping, as a great extravagance and unpardonable luxury, two
thimblefuls of 'African Sherry,' the young demirep of the day reads that
three English gentlemen, Sheridan, Richardson, and Ward, sat down one
day to dinner, and before they rose again--if they ever rose, which
seems doubtful--or, at least, were raised, had emptied five bottles of
port, two of Madeira, and one of brandy! Yet this was but one instance
in a thousand; there was nothing extraordinary in it, and it is only