rises from
table, and adjourns to coffee and muffins. The carriages of the nobility
and guests roll back to the West. The Egyptian Hall, so bright just now,
appears in a twilight glimmer, in which waiters are seen ransacking the
dessert, and rescuing the spoons. His lordship and the Lady Mayoress
go into their private apartments. The robes are doffed, the collar and
white ribbons are removed. The Mayor becomes a man, and is pretty surely
in a fluster about the speeches which he has just uttered; remembering
too well now, wretched creature, the principal points which he DIDN'T
make when he rose to speak. He goes to bed to headache, to care,
to repentance, and, I dare say, to a dose of something which his
body-physician has prescribed for him. And there are ever so many men in
the city who fancy that man happy!

Now, suppose that all through that 9th of November his lordship has
had a racking rheumatism, or a toothache, let us say, during all
dinner-time--through which he has been obliged to grin and mumble his
poor old speeches. Is he enviable? Would you like to change with his
lordship? Suppose that bumper which his golden footman brings him,
instead i'fackins of ypocras or canary, contains some abomination of
senna? Away! Remove the golden goblet, insidious cupbearer! You now
begin to perceive the gloomy moral which I am about to draw.

Last month we sang the song of glorification, and rode in the chariot of
triumph. It was all very well. It was right to huzza, and be thankful,
and cry, Bravo, our side! and besides, you know, there was the enjoyment
of thinking how pleased Brown, and Jones, and Robinson (our dear
friends) would be at this announcement of success. But now that the
performance is over, my good sir, just step into my private room, and
see that it is not all pleasure--this winning of successes. Cast your
eye over those newspapers, over those letters. See what the critics say
of your harmless jokes, neat little trim sentences, and pet waggeries!
Why, you are no better than an idiot; you are drivelling; your powers
have left you; this always overrated writer is rapidly sinking to, &c.

This is not pleasant; but neither is this the point. It may be the
critic is right, and the author wrong. It may be that the archbishop's
sermon is not so fine as some of those discourses twenty years ago
which used to delight the faithful in Granada. Or it may be (pleasing
thought!) that the critic is a dullard, and does n