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.
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