the town-life leaven in it, we will now, 'paulo majora,' prattle a
little of literature in all its branches; and first of the
first--criticism. The Prince is at Brighton, and Jackson, the
boxer, gone to Margate, having, I believe, decoyed Yarmouth to see
a milling in that polite neighbourhood. Made. de Staël Holstein has
lost one of her young barons, who has been carbonadoed by a vile
Teutonic adjutant,--kilt and killed in a coffee-house at
Scrawsenhawsen. Corinne is, of course, what all mothers must
be,--but will, I venture to prophesy, do what few mothers
could--write an Essay upon it. She cannot exist without a
grievance--and somebody to see, or read, how much grief becomes
her. I have not seen her since the event; but merely judge (not
very charitably) from prior observation.

"In a 'mail-coach copy' of the Edinburgh, I perceive The Giaour is
second article. The numbers are still in the Leith smack--_pray,
which way is the wind?_ The said article is so very mild and
sentimental, that it must be written by Jeffrey _in love_;--you
know he is gone to America to marry some fair one, of whom he has
been, for several _quarters, éperdument amoureux_. Seriously--as
Winifred Jenkins says of Lismahago--Mr. Jeffrey (or his deputy)
'has done the handsome thing by me,' and I say _nothing_. But this
I will say, if you and I had knocked one another on the head in
this quarrel, how he would have laughed, and what a mighty bad
figure we should have cut in our posthumous works. By the by, I was
called _in_ the other day to mediate between two gentlemen bent
upon carnage, and,--after a long struggle between the natural
desire of destroying one's fellow-creatures, and the dislike of
seeing men play the fool for nothing,--I got one to make an
apology, and the other to take it, and left them to live happy ever