its illusions, and throw away the garment in which
Nature has clothed her nakedness. No, no. There was sound philosophy
in Peter, in the "Tale of a Tub," who assured his guests that whatever
their frail senses might think to the contrary, the hard crusts were
excellent and tender mutton; but I see neither rhyme nor reason in
convincing us, that amid all the triumphs of turtle and white bait,
Ardennes ham and _pate de Strasbourg_, our food is merely coke and
glue, roach, lime, starch, and magnesia.

[Illustration]

A NUT FOR THE ARCHITECTS.

"God made the country," said the poet: but in my heart I believe he
might have added--"The devil made architects." Few cities--I scarcely
know of one--can boast of such environs as Dublin. The scenery,
diversified in its character, possesses attraction for almost every
taste: the woody glade--the romantic river--the wild and barren
mountain--the cultivated valley--the waving upland--the bold and
rocky coast, broken with promontory and island--are all to be found,
even within a few miles of the capital; while, in addition, the nature
of our climate confers a verdure and a freshness unequalled, imparting
a depth and colour to the landscape equal to the beauty of its
outline.

Whether you travel inland or coastwise, the country presents a
succession of sites for building, there being no style of house for
which a suitable spot cannot readily be found; and yet, with all this,
the perverse taste of man has contrived, by incongruous and
ill-conceived architecture, to mar almost every point of view, and
destroy every picturesque feature of the landscape.

The liberty of the subject is a bright and glorious prerogative; and
nowhere should its exercise be more freely conceded than in those
arrangements an individual makes for his own domestic comfort, and the
happiness of his home.

That one man likes a room in which three people form a crowd, and that
another prefers an apartment spacious as Exeter Hall, is a matter of
individual taste, with which the world has nothing whatever to do.
Your neighbour in the valley may like a cottage not larger than a
sugar-hogshead, with rats for company and beetles for bed-fellows;
your friend on the hill-side may build himself an imaginary castle,
with armour for furniture, and antique weapons for ornaments;--with
all this you have no concern--no more than with his banker's book, or
the thoughts of his bosom: but should the one or the other,