The one writes the

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Snarler,' the other the Scourge;" Some think he writes Cinna -he owns to 'Panurge.' While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there was spinage and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty—was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it 's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian :
So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round:
But what vex'd me most, was that d-n'd Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue.
And "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on:

Pray a slice of your liver; though, may I be curst,
But I 've eat of your tripe till I 'm ready to burst.'

"The tripe!" quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week:

I like these here dinners so pretty and small;

But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."

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Oh, oh!" quoth my friend, "he 'll come on in a trice, He 's keeping a corner for something that 's nice:

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There's a pasty "-"A pasty!" repeated the Jew; "I don't care if I keep a corner for 't too."

"What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot;

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Though splitting, I 'll still keep a corner for thot." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; “We 'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,

Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out-for who could mistake her?That she came with some terrible news from the baker:

And so it turn'd out; for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on 't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it 's but labour misplaced,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You 've got an odd something-a kind of discerning-
A relish,—a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of things all your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

341. THE CANDID MAN.

SIR E. BULWER LYTTON.

[AMONGST the very popular novelists of our times must be reckoned Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. It is twenty years since his first novel, Falkland,' was published. Its reception was not eminently favourable; but Pelham,' from which the following is extracted, at once established a reputation for the young man of fashion, who brought from Cambridge a character of high promise. In various realms of fiction Sir Edward has since travelled. As a dramatist and a novelist his success has been large and enduring.]

What with the anxiety and uncertainty of my political prospects, the continued whirlpool in which I lived, and, above all, the unpropitious state of my belle passion, my health gave way; my appetite forsook me -my sleep failed me-a wrinkle settled itself under my left eye, and my mother declared that I should have no chance with an heiress; all these circumstances together were not without their weight. So I set out one morning to Hampton Court, for the benefit of the country air.

It is by no means an unpleasant thing to turn one's back upon the great city, in the height of its festivities. Misanthropy is a charming feeling for a short time, and one inhales the country, and animadverts on the town, with the most melancholy satisfaction in the world. I

sat myself down at a pretty little cottage, a mile out of the town. From the window of my drawing-room, I revelled in the luxurious contemplation of three pigs, one cow, and a straw yard; and I could get to the Thames in a walk of five minutes, by a short cut through a lime-kiln. Such pleasing opportunities of enjoying the beauties of nature are not often to be met with: you may be sure, therefore, that I made the most of them. I rose early, walked before breakfast, pour ma santé, and came back with a most satisfactory headache, pour mes peines. I read for just three hours, walked for two more, thought over Abernethy, dyspepsia, and blue pills, till dinner, and absolutely forgot Lord Dawton, ambition, Guloseton, epicurism-ay, all but of course, reader, you know whom I am about to except-the ladye of my love.

One bright laughing day, I threw down my book an hour sooner than usual, and sallied out with a lightness of foot and exhilaration of spirit, to which I had long been a stranger. I had just sprung over a stile that led into one of those green shady lanes, which make us feel that the old poets who loved and lived for nature, were right in calling our island "the merry England"—when I was startled by a short quick bark on one side of the hedge. I turned sharply round; and, seated upon the sward, was a man, apparently of the pedlar profession; a great deal box was lying open before him; a few articles of linen and female dress were scattered round, and the man himself appeared earnestly occupied in examining the deeper recesses of his itinerant warehouse. A small black terrier flew towards me with no friendly growl. Down," said I: "all strangers are not foes-though the English generally think so."

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The man hastily looked up; perhaps he was struck with the quaintness of my remonstrance to his canine companion; for, touching his hat, civilly, he said "The dog, sir, is very quiet; he only means to give me the alarm by giving it to you; for dogs seem to have no despicable insight into human nature, and know well that the best of us may be taken by surprise."

"You are a moralist," said I, not a little astonished in my turn by such an address from such a person. "I could not have expected to stumble upon a philosopher so easily. Have you any wares in your box likely to suit me? if so, I should like to purchase of so moralizing a vendor!"

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No, sir," said the seeming pedlar, smiling, and yet at the same time hurrying his goods into his box, and carefully turning the key"no, sir, I am only a bearer of other men's goods; my morals are all that I can call my own, and those I will sell you at your own price." You are candid, my friend," said I, "and your frankness, alone, would be inestimable in this age of deceit, and country of hypocrisy." Ah, sir!" said my new acquaintance, "I see already that you are one of those persons who look to the dark side of things; for my part, I think the present age the best that ever existed, and our country the most virtuous in Europe."

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"I congratulate you, Mr. Optimist, on your opinions," quoth I; "but your observation leads me to suppose that you are both an historian and a traveller: am I right?"

Why," answered the box-bearer, "I have dabbled a little in books, and wandered not a little among men. I am just returned from Germany, and am now going to my friends in London. I am charged with this box of goods: God send me the luck to deliver it safe!" Amen," said I; "and with that prayer and this trifle I wish you a good morning."

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"Thank you a thousand times, sir, for both," replied the man"but do add to your favours by informing me of the right road to the town of ****."

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“I am going in that direction myself: if you choose to accompany me part of the way, I can insure your not missing the rest."

"Your honour is too good!" returned he of the box, rising, and slinging his fardel across him—"it is but seldom that a gentleman of your rank will condescend to walk three paces with one of mine. You smile, sir; perhaps you think I should not class myself among gentlemen; and yet I have as good a right to the name as most of the set. I belong to no trade---I follow no calling: I rove where I list, and rest where I please: in short, I know no occupation but my indolence, and no law but my will. Now, sir, may I not call myself a gentleman ?"

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Of a surety!" quoth I. "You seem to me to hold a middle rank between a half-pay captain and the king of the gipsies."

"You have it, sir," rejoined my companion, with a slight laugh. He was now by my side, and, as we walked on, I had leisure more minutely to examine him. He was a middle-sized, and rather athletic

man; apparently about the age of thirty-eight. He was attired in a dark blue frock coat, which was neither shabby nor new, but ill-made, and much too large and long for its present possessor; beneath this was a faded velvet waistcoat, that had formerly, like the Persian ambassador's tunic, "blushed with crimson, and blazed with gold;" but which might now have been advantageously exchanged in Monmouth Street for the lawful sum of two shillings and ninepence; under this was an inner vest of the cashmere shawl pattern, which seemed much too new for the rest of the dress. Though his shirt was of a very unwashed hue, I remarked, with some suspicion, that it was of a very respectable fineness; and a pin, which might be paste, or could be diamond, peeped below a tattered and dingy black kid stock, like a gipsy's eye beneath

her hair.

His trousers were of a light gray, and the justice of Providence, or of the tailor, avenged itself upon them for the prodigal length bestowed upon their ill-assorted companion, the coat; for they were much too tight for the muscular limbs they concealed, and, rising far above the ankle, exhibited the whole of a thick Wellington boot, which was the very picture of Italy upon the map.

The face of the man was common-place and ordinary; one sees a hundred such, every day, in Fleet Street, or on the 'Change; the features were small, irregular, and somewhat flat; yet, when you looked twice upon the countenance, there was something marked and singular in the expression, which fully atoned for the commonness of the features. The right eye turned away from the left, in that watchful squint which seems constructed on the same considerate plan as those Irish guns, made for shooting round a corner; his eyebrows were large and shaggy, and greatly resembled bramble bushes, in which his fox-like eyes had taken refuge. Round these vulpine retreats was a labyrinthean maze of those wrinkles, vulgarly called crow's feet, deep, intricate, and intersected, they seemed for all the world like the web of a Chancery suit. Singular enough, the rest of the countenance was perfectly smooth and unindented; even the lines from the nostril to the corners of the mouth, usually so deeply traced in men of his age, were scarcely more apparent than in a boy of eighteen.

His smile was frank-his voice clear and hearty-his address open, and much superior to his apparent rank of life, claiming somewhat of

VOL. IV.

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