The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 288, Supplementary Number

And error gilding worst designs—
Like speckled snake that strays and shines—
Betrays his path by crooked lines.

And vice hath left his ugly blot—
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly began—but finish'd not.

And fruitless late remorse doth trace—
Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace—
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers—sense unknit—
Huge reams of folly—shreds of wit—
Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook,
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look,
Go—shut the leaves—and clasp the book!—

THE LITERARY POCKET-BOOK

Is this year resumed, but we think it is not so successful as, were its previous fasciculi. The "literary" is a good epithet for its sale among would-be authors, like the "Gentleman's" Magazine among a certain class of worthies. But of what use are such articles as the following to literary men:—The Seasons, by a Man of Taste, (like the carte of a restaurateur;) Sayings of a Man about Town; Remonstrance with J.F. Newton; Lines on Crockford's &c.—all amusing enough in their way, but, in a literary pocket-book, out of place, and not in good taste. The "lists," too, the only useful portion of the volume, are, in many instances, very incorrect. Apropos, how long has Morris Birbeck been dead? Our Illinois friend might be alive when the editor published his last pocket-book; but if he stands still, time does not. There is, too, an affectation of fashion about the work which does not suit our sober taste; but as a seasonable Christmas extract, we are induced to quote Winter from the Seasons:—

Now is the high season of beef; beef, which Prometheus killed for us at first, ere he filched the fire from heaven, with which to constitute it a beef-steak—that foundation of the most delightful of clubs, and origin of the most delightful of all memoirs of them. Nor be the sirloin, boast of Englishmen, forgot! nor its vaunted origin; which proves that the age of chivalry, despite of Burke, is not yet gone! Stewed beef too, and ample round, and filet de boeuf saute dans sa glace, and stewed rump-steaks, and ox-tail soup.

"Spirits of beef, where are ye? are ye all fled?"

Henry the Eighth.

No—when beef flies the English shores, then you may, as the immortal bard exquisitely expresses it, "make a silken purse out of a sow's ear." But mutton, too, invites my Muse. It is calculated that fifteen hundred thousand sheep are annually sacrificed in London to the carnivorous taste of John Bull. "Of roast mutton (as Dr. Johnson says) what remains for me to say? It will be found sometimes succous, and sometimes defective of moisture; but what palate has ever failed to be pleased with a haunch which has been duly suspended? what appetite has not been awakened by the fermentation that glitters on its surface, when it has been reposing for the requisite number of hours before a fire equal in its fervency?"

We quite agree with Dr. Johnson; but a boiled leg of mutton, its whiteness transparent through the verdant capers that decorate its candour, is not to be despised; nor is a hash, whether celebrated as an Irish stew, or a hachis de mouton, most relishing of rifacciamenti! Chops and garlic à la Francaise are exquisite; and the saddle, cut learnedly, is the Elysium of a gourmand.

Now also is the time of house-lamb and of doe-venison. Now is the time of Christmas come, and the voice of the turkey is heard in our land! This is the period of their annual massacre—a new slaughter of the innocents! The Norwich coaches are now laden with mortals; that, while alive, shared with their equally intelligent townsmen, fruges consumere nati, the riches of their agricultural county.

Let others talk as they will about the Greek and the Ottoman!—in cookery, I abhor Greece, and love Turkey. And yet how inconsistent I am in my politics! for I sometimes regard the partition of Turkey as a thing well purchased by the sacrifice of every Ottoman in the world—would they were all under my feet!—especially when I have the gout. I confess, the dismemberment of Poland did not affect me much. A man who is much accustomed to dismember fowls, will not care much about that of kingdoms.

Nor be the cod (a blessing on his head—and shoulders!) forgotten. Beautifully candid, his laminae separate readily before the tranchant silver, and each flake, covered with a creamy curd, lies ready to receive the affusion of molten (not oiled) butter, which, with its floating oyster-islands, seems in impatient agitation for the moment of overflowing the alluring "white creature," as a modern poet styles it.

TIMES TELESCOPE

Having transported the public for the term of fourteen years, our readers need not be told that the present is the fifteenth volume. We should say more in its praise had it said less in our own. In richness and variety it is quite equal to any of its predecessors; and we promise our readers an occasional sip of its original sweets.

The Keepsake and the Christmas-Box (the latter a juvenile annual) must stand over for an early number.

notes

1

We hope this epithet will not be considered ungallant—for, to say the truth, the ladies have contributed the best poetical portion of the feast. This display of female talent has increased in brilliancy year after year: and the Lords should look to it.