days, and almost weeks, upon ground which is, practically, common to all; which there are not people enough in the country to infest, and which no person thinks it worth his while to enforce a title to. Which way will you turn to get out of the haunts out of the troublesome presence of civilization and of men; to fancy yourself, if you had a whim to do so, for one hour, really lord of the creation ; and not find some "hardwareman," from Sheffield, with a steel-trap, or a spring-gun, and a board beginning, "TAKE NOTICE!" and ending with, "THE UTMOST RIGOUR OF THE LAW" -(all the boards stuck up in the island seem to have been written by the same painter) your rival, or more than your rival, in empire?

Where will you show your head in any corner of the kingdom, however remote, without finding some one lying in wait, open-mouthed, to devour you! I happened two days ago, to go upon business, into the White Horse Inn, in Friday-street, Cheapside and, even there, I found a swindler of fashionable appearance, regularly ensconced, and living in the house-living in the atmosphere of Friday-street-should not thrift after this be blessing ?-ready to catch clothiers, and other innocents, as they arrived by the "heavy coach" in town.

And the lawful dealing is not much better!--the danger of being made a prey of-tickled, unsuspectingly, by some woman-they have a fine finger at such doings-is one of the little cares that haunt me now. It is not the value of what is taken out of one's pocket, but the rage at being patted on the back while the pocket is picked. I am taking measures to have it understood here that I am poor, rather than otherwise; that the Edwards' estate was much dipped; that my father's debts are at least double what, in fact, they are; and I wish everybody knows you are rich, and so you can't be worse off-I wish you would put it about that you have won a large sum from me at play.

I shall keep a small establishment in town-that I am fixed on. The house that I have taken in Park-lane is a nutshell. One chariot-and that shall serve for travelling, and all; nothing expensive but my horses-and, of those, not one running one, believe me.

And, after all, I am not quite sure that I don't sometimes look back a

little to my poor half-tumble-down Quinta at Condeixa; with the delicious weather, (except the rainy season, certainly) and the solitude-and my fine gardens-and the glorious woods and mountains which surrounded me and, still more, the absence from observation !-that there was none to look at-none to comment on--or interfere with me. I could get on horseback with my gun, and my single servant, throw my reins on my horse's neck, as freely as though I had been a real knight-errant, roving in the desert; and it mattered not which way I went, for there was room enough to ride without harming any man's property; and, if I rambled to a village a dozen miles off, where a priest and a barber probably were the only trading characters, and neither of these, perhaps, had ever stirred, the one beyond his native hills, the other beyond his native province-if I came only where there was a farm-house, I was sure of a welcome—if where there was an apothecary, he was a man of science, and a traveller, especially a foreigner, was an important personage to himI had a chat-the news of the country

a supper and a mattress if I wouldand a promise to visit me, cheerfully, with all his family-half a dozen women, riding (as women should ride) upon asses-in return. And then, at home, there was my garden, my stable, and, if I made a vile noise with the guitar sometimes, no one took the trouble to laugh at me. And there was a game at chess, and a walk, and discussion upon faith, or miracles, or witchcraft, on the crops of the season, or the ravages of the war, with the Padre. I was a happier man, and a far more important one, with my limited income at Condeixa, (though I did now and then long for some change,) than I shall ever be again. I quitted my six years' residence with regret, and, I think, regretted, for I had the power of doing good very easily, and I did no great mischief, at least never any wantonly. If I were going back to-morrow, I would go only just as I was; no desire to return triumphant-splendour and insult, and all that detestable feeling, with which I am going to favour a few of my old acquaintances in this quarter of the world very shortly!

But this is over, and your "privacy" is but the darling nurse of false self-estimate and affectation neither.

I must bustle with the crowd, and find something to do in it, though, as to what, I find it easier to question than come to any satisfactory conclusion. There is a great change, I don't know whether you observe it, in the faces upon the paré, since we were here together last. And, contrary to the natural progress of things, it is the young countenances chiefly that have disappeared.

Some of our coffee-room acquaintance have taken up, and married. One or two-they make a sad history altogether-have been taken up ; and narrowly escaped the other lot arranged for man by destiny. Several are lite rally beggared-starving in gaols and bridewells-whom I recollect, and you must recollect also, rioting in this very house. Some have married prostitutes, and eat the" allowances" of fools as gross, and blackguards almost as filthy, as themselves. Many rub on still, and contrive to be seen in the circle by a little game, where anybody will bet, and a little swindling, where anybody will trust. And some of the elder and stouter thrive by a sort of-seeing young gentlemen fairly through their property-lacqueying, bullying, and fighting, for the worst of the new beginners.

In truth, it would seem odd, I dare say, that a man should turn virtuous for such a currish reason as that other people chose to be knaves as well as himself; but I do begin to think, since I have been this time in London, that disrespectability is not so desirable as it used to be. With all the advantages which large means afford; and the greatest, as I take it, is the means they give of shutting out the world -of escaping always from the offence that a compulsory commixture with any class or portion of society reflects upon you-With all the power which they give of commanding this solitude; and, moreover, that constant leisure, which is almost worth the privacy-it is much! and, in England, wealth only can supply it-With all the means of having no such thing as an obligation upon one for years together; of pursuing any absurdity which whim, passion—no matter what-suggests, without hinderance or impediment; of finding all the petty inconveniences of life smoothed down to your hand-every knave meeting you with a delighted smile-you know he would cut your throat, if he could

but he can't-and, in the meantime the dog is so silken, and so obedient

and that very same ready compliance which is intolerable in people whom one would desire to value, is so excellent in the minor ministers to comfort, from whom we only expect that they should do, without caring for the motive! In spite of all this inconvenience, I want something-in short, I have earned none of it-it does not flatter my vanity-I want a "character "-and I wish I had staid ten years ago with you in the army.

It is the very devil to be growing old as a person of no peculiarity; known only as Mr So and So, who has an estate worth "so much." Mixed up-and no

resource-with the crowd who lose money at Newmarket belonging to the clubs-keep opera girls-drive good carriages and might have sold soap and whipcord, instead of doing any of these things, if some one else had not acquired the means which they are worthlessly dissipating. I protest, I think there is not a footman who raises himself by his own works to any place, or estimation, who is not-in the mere scale of creation-an incomparably nobler thing than any of these drones, with whom I am in a fair way to be included.

And then, for the means of notoriety within the circle that endures us-what a circle it is, and what a notoriety when all is done! The wearing always a very particular dress-the uglier by far the better-riding in a particularly absurd vehicle; or being at play a particular dupe. Figuring in the eighteenth intrigue of a new actress-say it is the first after she becomes known in London-the former seventeen having occurred, without any figuring at all, when she travelled, by caravan, through the country, and had no more dream of "settlement," or "equipage," than of being translated to the skies; or perhaps exposing a man's own person to be laughed at, at a shilling per head, on the stage at some watering-place, -(for in town the fear of pippins is before the eyes of rogues, and they don't venture)-doing that-and as a matter to be proud of-which would not produce thirty shillings a-week, if it were done as a matter of profit ; and which, for fifteen, half the people at Bartlemy fair would do better, or would not be permitted to do at all!

Here's enough almost to drive a man into being "sober and honest." And I wish again, that I had staid in the army; or, that there could spring up another Waterloo, which a man might thrust his head into, and so gain a little reputation within ten days after the date of his commission; for, to stand as a soldier, in the presence of men who have fought twenty campaigns-that's worse even than obscurity. Something I'll soon attempt, that's certain; but whether to become a legislator-that's not a bad pursuit for a man to take up, who knows nothing of any pursuit all-or to commit some very unheard-of outrage, that people may say "That's Mr Edwards, who is suspected to have stolen Blackfriars'-bridge," when I come into a room-which I have not yet deter

mined.

Absolutely, I am tired-if I could but escape from it-of mere worthlessness and futility; and when I meet men who make brilliant speeches write glorious books-conduct nego

tiations or have seen the Russian campaign-I envy, and, what is worse, honour the caitiffs-to my own great personal disparagement and admitted disqualification.

All the feats that I ever did in my life-they are immeasurably great; but there are so very few I dare confess to: If anything should strike you, by which a man (with an easy leap) might achieve honour or dignity, mention it when you write again; for, or else, I shall be obliged to retire, as a country gentleman. Meantime, with thanks to the Lady Susan, for so far honouring me, I believe I know sufficient of the language to return her inclosure in a practicable state. If I might "advise," however-seeing she is resolved to patronise letters-a collection kept the wrong way-noting down the absurdities of people rather than their beauties, would be far more easily maintained than that which she proposes; and, I should think, more entertaining.

VOL. XIX.

D

Ir certainly does appear a little extraordinary that England at the present day should be unable to boast the possession of a single distinguished novelist, and that the higher honours of that department of literature should so long have rested in abeyance. Mrs Radcliffe and Miss Austin (the very antipodes to each other) are gone; and Madame d'Arblay, in the "Wanderer," has afforded convincing proof of the decay of her literary powers, at no time very varied or extensive. It is true, Theodore Hook is yet at his Perihelion, but much as we admire this gentleman's talents, and sympathize in his virtuous antipathy to steel forks, and servants in cotton stockings; and cordially as we applaud his persevering exertions to reform the Criminal Code by imposing signal punishment on the depravity of drinking porter, and eating with a knife, we are not quite convinced that the brilliance of anything he has yet said or done, entitles him to be quoted as an exception. Ireland can at least produce one name, and Scotland several, (we do not speak of the author of Waverley, for he is like a star, and dwells apart,") with which England has absolutely none to put in competition. Where, we should be glad to know, is the English Miss Edgeworth? Or what production of the present age will they oppose to "The Inheritance ?" A work which, when considered as the production of a female, stands unrivalled in our national literature, and unites the originality and power sometimes, though rarely, to be met with in our sex, with the more delicate and softer beauties peculiar to her own. We trust that the effect of the applause she has already gained, has been to stimulate, not to satiate, the ambition of this accomplished lady; that she will not suffer her talent to slumber, nor rest her sickle from its task till she has fully reaped that abundant harvest of fame, with which her perseverance must undoubtedly be crowned.

But Matilda-we confess we allow ed these volumes to lie a whole month on our table unread. To the lynx eye of a critic, the title did not seem very

*

promising. There appeared to us something Lane-and-Newmanish about it, a certain indescribable redolence of Leadenhall Street, by no means tempting to a nearer approach. Above all, the book had been enveloped from its birth in so dense an atmosphere of puff; and Colburn had so disgustingly besmeared it with his slime and slaver, that we involuntarily set it down for one of those catchpenny "Works of Importance" with which that most imaginative bookseller so frequently delights to surprise us, and the claims of which are always to be estimated in an inverse ratio to the inflation of the panegyric by which they are announced. We did, however, read the book at last. The story we found to be perhaps the most hackneyed and commonplace in the whole circle of novel-writing, and one which had already fifty times at least run the gauntlet of the Circulating Library. The characters appeared to put forth but trifling claims to originality or vigour of conception, and the incidents to be very few, and not very skilfully arranged. Out of such unhopeful materials, however, has the author managed to construct a tale of no ordinary interest and beauty. He seems to have encountered difficulties merely for the sake of surmounting them, to have voluntarily multiplied the obstacles to success only to render his triumph the more signal and complete. He leads us along a beaten track, but is continually laying open new beauties to our view. He launches his little skiff against wind and current, and it is impossible not to admire the grace with which she breasts the waters, and stretches gallantly for her destined haven.

The secret of all this is, that the author of these volumes is a very clever and accomplished person. There is an air of elegance diffused over the whole work, and he has far more than compensated for the want of novelty in his materials, by the fineness of his tact, and the felicity of his execution. His pictures of high life, in particular, though drawn with a light and sketchy pencil, and not very carefully finish