ately we cannot speak from experience, not being
ourselves an eminent author. The more general the intercourse between
men of taste, feeling, cultivation, learning, genius, the better; but
that intercourse should be brought about freely and of its own accord,
as fortunate circumstances permit, and there should be no impertinent
interference of selfish or benevolent go-betweens. It would seem that Dr
Kitchiner thought the commonest traveller, one who was almost, as it
were, bordering on a Bagman, had nothing to do but call on the publisher
of any great writer, and get a free admission into his house. Had the
Doctor not been dead, we should have given him a severe rowing and
blowing-up for this vulgar folly; but as he is dead, we have only to
hope that the readers of the Oracle who intend to travel will not
degrade themselves, and disgust "authors of eminence," by thrusting
their ugly or comely faces--both are equally odious--into the privacy of
gentlemen who have done nothing to exclude themselves from the
protection of the laws of civilised society--or subject their fire-sides
to be infested by one-half of the curious men of the country, two-thirds
of the clever, and all the blockheads.

DR KITCHINER.

THIRD COURSE.

Having thus briefly instructed travellers how to get a look at Lions,
the Doctor suddenly exclaims--"IMPRIMIS, BEWARE OF DOGS!" "There have,"
he says, "been many arguments, _pro_ and _con_, on the dreadful disease
their bite produces--it is enough to prove that multitudes of men,
women, and children have died in consequence of having been bitten by
dogs. What does it matter whether they were the victims of bodily
disease or mental irritation? The life of the most humble human being is
of more value than all the dogs in the world--dare the most brutal cynic
say otherwise?"

Dr Kitchiner always travelled, it appears, in chaises; and a chaise of
one kind or other he recommends to all his brethren of mankind. Why,
then, this intense fear of the canine species? Who ever saw a mad dog
leap into the mail-coach, or even a gig? The creature, when so
afflicted, hangs his head, and goes snapping right and left at
pedestrians. Poor people like us, who must walk, may well fear
hydrophobia--though, thank Heaven, we have never, during the course of a
tolerably long and well-spent life, been so much as once bitten by "the
rabid animal!" But what have rich authors, who loll in carriages, to
dread from dogs, who