Not a man, woman, or child in ten miles round Guildhall, who really believes this saying. The ior of it did not believe it himself. It was made in revenge by somebody, who was disappointed of a regale. It is a vile cold-scrag-of-mutton sophism; a lie palmed upon the palate, whiows better things. If nothing else could be said for a feast, this is suffit, that from the superflux there is usually somethi for the day. Morally interpreted, it belongs to a class of proverbs, which have a tendenake us undervalue money. Of this cast are those notable observations, that money is not health; riches ot purchase every thing: the metaphor which makes gold to be mere muck, with the morality which traces fine clothing to the sheeps back, and denounces pearl as the unhandsome excretion of an oyster. Heoo, the phrase which imputes dirt to acres -- a sophistry so barefaced, that eveeral sense of it is true only in a wet season. This, and abundance of similar sage saws assuming to inculcate tent, we verily believe to have been the iion of some ing borrower, who had designs upon the purse of his wealthier neighbour, which he could only hope to carry by force of these verbal jugglings. Translate any one of these sayings out of the artful metonyme whivelops it, and the trick is apparent. Goodly legs and shoulders of mutton, exhilarating cordials, books, pictures, the opportunities of seeing fn tries, independence, hearts ease, a mans own time to himself, are not much -- however we may be pleased to sdalise with that appellation the faithful metal that provides them for us.