thee:  I would (if it pleased God) I could not love thee so well as I do,’ and then he puts his finger in his eye and cries.  The sixth is martin-drunk, when a man is drunk, and drinks himself sober ere he stir; the seventh is goat-drunk, when in his drunkenness he hath no mind but on lechery.  The eighth is fox-drunk, when he is crafty-drunk, as many of the Dutchmen be, which will never bargain but when they are drunk.  All these species, and more, I have seen practised in one company at one sitting; when I have been permitted to remain sober amongst them only to note their several humours.”  These beast-drunkards are characterised in a frontispiece to a curious tract on Drunkenness where the men are represented with the heads of apes, swine, &c. &c.

A new era in this history of our drinking-parties occurred about the time of the Restoration, when politics heated their wine, and drunkenness and loyalty became more closely connected.  As the puritanic coldness wore off, the people were perpetually, in 1650, warmed in drinking the king’s health on their knees; and, among various kinds of “ranting cavalierism,” the cavaliers during Cromwell’s usurpation usually put a crumb of bread into their glass, and before they drank it off, with cautious ambiguity exclaimed, “God send this crum well down!” which by the way preserves the orthoepy of that extraordinary man’s name, and may be added to the instances adduced in our present volume “On the orthography of proper names.”  We have a curious account of a drunken bout by some royalists, told by Whitelocke in his Memorials.  It bore some resemblance to the drinking-party of Catiline:  they mingled their own blood with their wine.[166] After the Restoration, Burnet complains of the excess of convivial loyalty.  “Drinking the king’s health was set up by too many as a distinguishing mark of loyalty, and drew many into great excess after his majesty’s restoration."[167]

LITERARY ANECDOTES.

A writer of penetration sees connexions in literary anecdotes which are not immediately perceived by others:  in his hands anecdotes, even should they be familiar to us, are susceptible of deductions and inferences, which become novel and important truths.  Facts of themselves are barren; it is when these facts pass through reflections, and become interwoven with our feelings, or our reasonings, that they are the finest illustrations; that they assume the dignity of “philosophy teaching by example;” that, in the moral world, they are what the wise system of Bacon inculcated in the natural knowledge deduced from experiments; the study of nature in her operations.  “When examples are pointed out to us,” says Lord Bolingbroke, “there is a kind of appeal, with which, we are flattered, made to our senses, as well as to our understandings.  The instruction comes then from our authority; we yield to fact, when we resist speculation.”