CHAPTER X.

THE HONEY-MOON.

The weak at Fontingblow past quickly away; and at the end of it, our son

and daughter-in-law--a pare of nice young tuttle-duvs--returned to their

nest, at the Hotel Mirabew. I suspeck that the COCK turtle-dove was

preshos sick of his barging.

When they arriv'd, the fust thing they found on their table was a large

parsle wrapt up in silver paper, and a newspaper, and a couple of cards,

tied up with a peace of white ribbing. In the parsle was a hansume piece

of plum-cake, with a deal of sugar. On the cards was wrote, in Goffick

characters,

Earl of Crabs.

And, in very small Italian,

Countess of Crabs.

And in the paper was the following parrowgraff:--

“MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.--Yesterday, at the British embassy, the Right

Honorable John Augustus Altamont Plantagenet, Earl of Crabs, to Leonora

Emilia, widow of the late Lieutenant-General Sir George Griffin, K. C.

B. An elegant dejeune was given to the happy couple by his Excellency

Lord Bobtail, who gave away the bride. The elite of the foreign

diplomacy, the Prince Talleyrand and Marshal the Duke of Dalmatia on

behalf of H. M. the King of France, honored the banquet and the marriage

ceremony. Lord and Lady Crabs intend passing a few weeks at Saint

Cloud.”

The above dockyments, along with my own triffling billy, of which I have

also givn a copy, greated Mr. and Mrs. Deuceace on their arrivle from

Fontingblo. Not being present, I can't say what Deuceace said; but I can

fancy how he LOOKT, and how poor Mrs. Deuceace lookt. They weren't much

inclined to rest after the fiteeg of the junny; for, in 1/2 an hour

after their arrival at Paris, the hosses were put to the carridge

agen, and down they came thundering to our country-house at St. Cloud

(pronounst by those absud Frenchmin Sing Kloo), to interrup our chaste

loves and delishs marridge injyments.

My lord was sittn in a crimson satan dressing-gown, lolling on a sofa at

an open windy, smoaking seagars, as ushle; her ladyship, who, to du her

justice, didn mind the smell, occupied another end of the room, and

was working, in wusted, a pare of slippers, or an umbrellore case, or a

coal-skittle, or some such nonsints. You would have thought to have sean

'em that they had been married a sentry, at least. Well, I bust in upon

this conjugal tator-tator, and said, very much alarmed, “My lord, here's

your son and daughter-in-law.”

“Well,” says my lord, quite calm, “and what then?”

“Mr. Deuceace!” says my lady, starting up, and looking fritened.

“Yes, my love, my son; but you need not be alarmed. Pray, Charles, say

that Lady Crabs and I will be very happy to see Mr. and Mrs. Deuceace;

and that they must excuse us receiving them en famille. Sit still, my

blessing--take things coolly. Have you got the box with the papers?”

My lady pointed to a great green box--the same from which she had taken

the papers, when Deuceace fust saw them,--and handed over to my lord a

fine gold key. I went out, met Deuceace and his wife on the stepps, gave

my messinge, and bowed them palitely in.

My lord didn't rise, but smoaked away as usual (praps a little quicker,

but I can't say); my lady sat upright, looking handsum and strong.

Deuceace walked in, his left arm tied to his breast, his wife and hat on

the other. He looked very pale and frightened; his wife, poar thing! had

her head berried in her handkerchief, and sobd fit to break her heart.

Miss Kicksey, who was in the room (but I didn't mention her, she was

less than nothink in our house), went up to Mrs. Deuceace at onst, and

held out her arms--she had a heart, that old Kicksey, and I respect her

for it. The poor hunchback flung herself into Miss's arms, with a kind

of whooping screech, and kep there for some time, sobbing in quite a

historical manner. I saw there was going to be a sean, and so, in cors,

left the door ajar.

“Welcome to Saint Cloud, Algy my boy!” says my lord, in a loud, hearty

voice. “You thought you would give us the slip, eh, you rogue? But

we knew it, my dear fellow: we knew the whole affair--did we not, my

soul?--and you see, kept our secret better than you did yours.”

“I must confess, sir,” says Deuceace, bowing, “that I had no idea of the

happiness which awaited me in the shape of a mother-in-law.”

“No, you dog; no, no,” says my lord, giggling: “old birds, you know, not

to be caught with chaff, like young ones. But here we are, all spliced

and happy, at last. Sit down, Algernon; let us smoke a segar, and talk

over the perils and adventures of the last month. My love,” says my

lord, turning to his lady, “you have no malice against poor Algernon, I

trust? Pray shake HIS HAND.” (A grin.)

But my lady rose and said, “I have told Mr. Deuceace, that I never

wished to see him, or speak to him, more. I see no reason, now, to

change my opinion.” And herewith she sailed out of the room, by the door

through which Kicksey had carried poor Mrs. Deuceace.

“Well, well,” says my lord, as Lady Crabs swept by, “I was in hopes she

had forgiven you; but I know the whole story, and I must confess you

used her cruelly ill. Two strings to your bow!--that was your game, was

it, you rogue?”

“Do you mean, my lord, that you know all that past between me and Lady

Grif--Lady Crabs, before our quarrel?”

“Perfectly--you made love to her, and she was almost in love with

you; you jilted her for money, she got a man to shoot your hand off in

revenge: no more dice-boxes, now, Deuceace; no more sauter la coupe. I

can't think how the deuce you will manage to live without them.”

“Your lordship is very kind; but I have given up play altogether,” says

Deuceace, looking mighty black and uneasy.

“Oh, indeed! Benedick has turned a moral man, has he? This is better and

better. Are you thinking of going into the church, Deuceace?”

“My lord, may I ask you to be a little more serious?”

“Serious! a quoi bon? I am serious--serious in my surprise that, when

you might have had either of these women, you should have preferred that

hideous wife of yours.”

“May I ask you, in turn, how you came to be so little squeamish about

a wife, as to choose a woman who had just been making love to your own

son?” says Deuceace, growing fierce.

“How can you ask such a question? I owe forty thousand pounds--there

is an execution at Sizes Hall--every acre I have is in the hands of

my creditors; and that's why I married her. Do you think there was any

love? Lady Crabs is a dev'lish fine woman, but she's not a fool--she

married me for my coronet, and I married her for her money.”

“Well, my lord, you need not ask me, I think, why I married the

daughter-in-law.”

“Yes, but I DO, my dear boy. How the deuce are you to live? Dawkins's

five thousand pounds won't last forever; and afterwards?”

“You don't mean, my lord--you don't--I mean, you can't-- D---!” says he,

starting up, and losing all patience, “you don't dare to say that Miss

Griffin had not a fortune of ten thousand a year?”

My lord was rolling up, and wetting betwigst his lips, another segar; he

lookt up, after he had lighted it, and said quietly--

“Certainly, Miss Griffin had a fortune of ten thousand a year.”

“Well, sir, and has she not got it now? Has she spent it in a week?”

“SHE HAS NOT GOT A SIX-PENCE NOW: SHE MARRIED WITHOUT HER MOTHER'S

CONSENT!”

Deuceace sunk down in a chair; and I never see such a dreadful picture

of despair as there was in the face of that retchid man!--he writhed,

and nasht his teeth, he tore open his coat, and wriggled madly the stump

of his left hand, until, fairly beat, he threw it over his livid pale

face, and sinking backwards, fairly wept alowd.

Bah! it's a dreddfle thing to hear a man crying! his pashn torn up from

the very roots of his heart, as it must be before it can git such a

vent. My lord, meanwhile, rolled his segar, lighted it, and went on.

“My dear boy, the girl has not a shilling. I wished to have left you

alone in peace, with your four thousand pounds: you might have lived

decently upon it in Germany, where money is at 5 per cent, where your

duns would not find you, and a couple of hundred a year would have kept

you and your wife in comfort. But, you see, Lady Crabs would not listen

to it. You had injured her; and, after she had tried to kill you and

failed, she determined to ruin you, and succeeded. I must own to you

that I directed the arresting business, and put her up to buying your

protested bills: she got them for a trifle, and as you have paid them,

has made a good two thousand pounds by her bargain. It was a painful

thing to be sure, for a father to get his son arrested; but que

voulez-vous! I did not appear in the transaction: she would have you

ruined; and it was absolutely necessary that YOU should marry before I

could, so I pleaded your cause with Miss Griffin, and made you the happy

man you are. You rogue, you rogue! you thought to match your old father,

did you? But, never mind; lunch will be ready soon. In the meantime,

have a segar, and drink a glass of Sauterne.”

Deuceace, who had been listening to this speech, sprung up wildly.

“I'll not believe it,” he said: “it's a lie, an infernal lie! forged

by you, you hoary villain, and by the murderess and strumpet you have

married. I'll not believe it; show me the will. Matilda! Matilda!”

shouted he, screaming hoarsely, and flinging open the door by which she

had gone out.

“Keep your temper, my boy. You ARE vexed, and I feel for you: but don't

use such bad language: it is quite needless, believe me.”

“Matilda!” shouted out Deuceace again; and the poor crooked thing came

trembling in, followed by Miss Kicksey.

“Is this true, woman?” says he, clutching hold of her hand.

“What, dear Algernon?” says she.

“What?” screams out Deuceace,--“what? Why that you are a beggar, for

marrying without your mother's consent--that you basely lied to me, in

order to bring about this match--that you are a swindler, in conspiracy

with that old fiend yonder and the she-devil his wife?”

“It is true,” sobbed the poor woman, “that I have nothing; but--”

“Nothing but what? Why don't you speak, you drivelling fool?”

“I have nothing!--but you, dearest, have two thousand a year. Is that

not enough for us? You love me for myself, don't you, Algernon? You have

told me so a thousand times--say so again, dear husband; and do not, do

not be so unkind.” And here she sank on her knees, and clung to him, and

tried to catch his hand, and kiss it.

“How much did you say?” says my lord.

“Two thousand a year, sir; he has told us so a thousand times.”

“TWO THOUSAND! Two thou--ho, ho, ho!--haw! haw! haw!” roars my lord.

“That is, I vow, the best thing I ever heard in my life. My dear

creature, he has not a shilling--not a single maravedi, by all the gods

and goddesses.” And this exlnt noblemin began laffin louder than ever: a

very kind and feeling genlmn he was, as all must confess.

There was a paws: and Mrs. Deuceace didn begin cussing and swearing at

her husband as he had done at her: she only said, “O Algernon! is this

true?” and got up, and went to a chair and wep in quiet.

My lord opened the great box. “If you or your lawyers would like to

examine Sir George's will, it is quite at your service; you will see

here the proviso which I mentioned, that gives the entire fortune to

Lady Griffin--Lady Crabs that is: and here, my dear boy, you see the

danger of hasty conclusions. Her ladyship only showed you the FIRST PAGE

OF THE WILL, of course; she wanted to try you. You thought you made a

great stroke in at once proposing to Miss Griffin--do not mind it, my

love, he really loves you now very sincerely!--when, in fact, you

would have done much better to have read the rest of the will. You were

completely bitten, my boy--humbugged, bamboozled--ay, and by your old

father, you dog. I told you I would, you know, when you refused to lend

me a portion of your Dawkins money. I told you I would; and I DID. I had

you the very next day. Let this be a lesson to you, Percy my boy; don't

try your luck again against such old hands: look deuced well before you

leap: audi alteram partem, my lad, which means, read both sides of the

will. I think lunch is ready; but I see you don't smoke. Shall we go

in?”

“Stop, my lord,” says Mr. Deuceace, very humble: “I shall not share your

hospitality--but--but you know my condition; I am penniless--you know

the manner in which my wife has been brought up--”

“The Honorable Mrs. Deuceace, sir, shall always find a home here, as if

nothing had occurred to interrupt the friendship between her dear mother

and herself.”

“And for me, sir,” says Deuceace, speaking faint, and very slow; “I

hope--I trust--I think, my lord, you will not forget me?”

“Forget you, sir; certainly not.”

“And that you will make some provision--?”

“Algernon Deuceace,” says my lord, getting up from the sophy, and

looking at him with sich a jolly malignity, as I never see, “I declare,

before heaven, that I will not give you a penny!”

Hereupon my lord held out his hand to Mrs. Deuceace, and said, “My dear,

will you join your mother and me? We shall always, as I said, have a

home for you.”

“My lord,” said the poar thing, dropping a curtsy, “my home is with

HIM!”

. . . . . .

About three months after, when the season was beginning at Paris, and

the autumn leafs was on the ground, my lord, my lady, me and Mortimer,

were taking a stroal in the Boddy Balong, the carridge driving on slowly

ahead, and us as happy as possbill, admiring the pleasant woods and the

goldn sunset.

My lord was expayshating to my lady upon the exquizit beauty of the

sean, and pouring forth a host of butifle and virtuous sentaments

sootable to the hour. It was dalitefle to hear him. “Ah!” said he,

“black must be the heart, my love, which does not feel the influence

of a scene like this; gathering as it were, from those sunlit skies,

a portion of their celestial gold, and gaining somewhat of heaven with

each pure draught of this delicious air!”

Lady Crabs did not speak, but prest his arm and looked upwards. Mortimer

and I, too, felt some of the infliwents of the sean, and lent on our

goold sticks in silence. The carriage drew up close to us, and my lord

and my lady sauntered slowly tords it.

Jest at the place was a bench, and on the bench sate a poorly drest

woman, and by her, leaning against a tree, was a man whom I thought I'd

sean befor. He was drest in a shabby blew coat, with white seems and

copper buttons; a torn hat was on his head, and great quantaties of

matted hair and whiskers disfiggared his countnints. He was not shaved,

and as pale as stone.

My lord and lady didn tak the slightest notice of him, but past on to

the carridge. Me and Mortimer lickwise took OUR places. As we past, the

man had got a grip of the woman's shoulder, who was holding down her

head sobbing bitterly.

No sooner were my lord and lady seated, than they both, with igstream

dellixy and good natur, burst into a ror of lafter, peal upon peal,

whooping and screaching enough to frighten the evening silents.

DEUCEACE turned round. I see his face now--the face of a devvle of hell!

Fust, he lookt towards the carridge, and pinted to it with his maimed

arm; then he raised the other, AND STRUCK THE WOMAN BY HIS SIDE. She

fell, screaming.

Poor thing! Poor thing!

MR. YELLOWPLUSH'S AJEW.

The end of Mr. Deuceace's history is going to be the end of my

corrispondince. I wish the public was as sory to part with me as I am

with the public; becaws I fansy reely that we've become frends, and feal

for my part a becoming greaf at saying ajew.

It's imposbill for me to continyow, however, a-writin, as I have

done--violetting the rules of authography, and trampling upon the fust

princepills of English grammar. When I began, I knew no better: when I'd

carrid on these papers a little further, and grew accustmd to writin, I

began to smel out somethink quear in my style. Within the last sex weaks

I have been learning to spell: and when all the world was rejoicing at

the festivvaties of our youthful Quean--*when all i's were fixed upon

her long sweet of ambasdors and princes, following the splendid carridge

of Marshle the Duke of Damlatiar, and blinking at the pearls and dimince

of Prince Oystereasy--Yellowplush was in his loanly pantry--HIS eyes

were fixt upon the spelling-book--his heart was bent upon mastring the

diffickleties of the littery professhn. I have been, in fact, CONVERTID.

* This was written in 1838.

You shall here how. Ours, you know, is a Wig house; and ever sins his

third son has got a place in the Treasury, his secknd a captingsy in the

Guards, his fust, the secretary of embasy at Pekin, with a prospick

of being appinted ambasdor at Loo Choo--ever sins master's sons have

reseaved these attentions, and master himself has had the promis of a

pearitch, he has been the most reglar, consistnt, honrabble Libbaral, in

or out of the House of Commins.

Well, being a Whig, it's the fashn, as you know, to reseave littery

pipple; and accordingly, at dinner, tother day, whose name do you think

I had to hollar out on the fust landing-place about a wick ago? After

several dukes and markises had been enounced, a very gentell fly drives

up to our doar, and out steps two gentlemen. One was pail, and wor

spektickles, a wig, and a white neckcloth. The other was slim with a

hook nose, a pail fase, a small waist, a pare of falling shoulders, a

tight coat, and a catarack of black satting tumbling out of his busm,

and falling into a gilt velvet weskit. The little genlmn settled his

wigg, and pulled out his ribbins; the younger one fluffed the dust of

his shoes, looked at his whiskers in a little pockit-glas, settled his

crevatt; and they both mounted upstairs.

“What name, sir?” says I, to the old genlmn.

“Name!--a! now, you thief o' the wurrld,” says he, “do you pretind

nat to know ME? Say it's the Cabinet Cyclopa--no, I mane the Litherary

Chran--psha!--bluthanowns!--say it's DOCTHOR DIOCLESIAN LARNER--I think

he'll know me now--ay, Nid?” But the genlmn called Nid was at the botm

of the stare, and pretended to be very busy with his shoo-string. So the

little genlmn went upstares alone.

“DOCTOR DIOLESIUS LARNER!” says I.

“DOCTOR ATHANASIUS LARDNER!” says Greville Fitz-Roy, our secknd footman,

on the fust landing-place.

“DOCTOR IGNATIUS LOYOLA!” says the groom of the chambers, who pretends

to be a scholar; and in the little genlmn went. When safely housed,

the other chap came; and when I asked him his name, said, in a thick,

gobbling kind of voice:

“Sawedwadgeorgeearllittnbulwig.”

“Sir what?” says I, quite agast at the name.

“Sawedwad--no, I mean MISTAWedwad Lyttn Bulwig.”

My neas trembled under me, my i's fild with tiers, my voice shook, as

I past up the venrabble name to the other footman, and saw this fust of

English writers go up to the drawing-room!

It's needless to mention the names of the rest of the compny, or to

dixcribe the suckmstansies of the dinner. Suffiz to say that the two

littery genlmn behaved very well, and seamed to have good appytights;

igspecially the little Irishman in the whig, who et, drunk, and talked

as much as a duzn. He told how he'd been presented at cort by his

friend, Mr. Bulwig, and how the Quean had received 'em both, with a

dignity undigscribable; and how her blessid Majisty asked what was the

bony fidy sale of the Cabinit Cyclopaedy, and how be (Doctor Larner)

told her that, on his honner, it was under ten thowsnd.

You may guess that the Doctor, when he made this speach, was pretty far

gone. The fact is, that whether it was the coronation, or the goodness

of the wine (cappitle it is in our house, I can tell you), or the natral

propensaties of the gests assembled, which made them so igspecially

jolly, I don't know; but they had kep up the meating pretty late, and

our poar butler was quite tired with the perpechual baskits of clarrit

which he'd been called upon to bring up. So that about 11 o'clock, if I

were to say they were merry, I should use a mild term; if I wer to say

they were intawsicated, I should use a nigspresshn more near to the

truth, but less rispeckful in one of my situashn.

The cumpany reseaved this annountsmint with mute extonishment.

“Pray, Doctor Larnder,” says a spiteful genlmn, willing to keep up the

littery conversation, “what is the Cabinet Cyclopaedia?”

“It's the littherary wontherr of the wurrld,” says he; “and sure your

lordship must have seen it; the latther numbers ispicially--cheap as

durrt, bound in gleezed calico, six shillings a vollum. The illusthrious

neems of Walther Scott, Thomas Moore, Docther Southey, Sir James

Mackintosh, Docther Donovan, and meself, are to be found in the list of

conthributors. It's the Phaynix of Cyclopajies--a litherary Bacon.”

“A what?” says the genlmn nex to him.

“A Bacon, shining in the darkness of our age; fild wid the pure end

lambent flame of science, burning with the gorrgeous scintillations of

divine litherature--a monumintum, in fact, are perinnius, bound in pink

calico, six shillings a vollum.”

“This wigmawole,” said Mr. Bulwig (who seemed rather disgusted that his

friend should take up so much of the convassation), “this wigmawole

is all vewy well; but it's cuwious that you don't wemember, in

chawactewising the litewawy mewits of the vawious magazines, cwonicles,

weviews, and encyclopaedias, the existence of a cwitical weview and

litewary chwonicle, which, though the aewa of its appeawance is

dated only at a vewy few months pwevious to the pwesent pewiod, is,

nevertheless, so wemarkable for its intwinsic mewits as to be wead, not

in the metwopolis alone, but in the countwy--not in Fwance merely,

but in the west of Euwope--whewever our pure Wenglish is spoken, it

stwetches its peaceful sceptre--pewused in Amewica, fwom New York to

Ningawa--wepwinted in Canada, from Montweal to Towonto--and, as I am

gwatified to hear fwom my fwend the governor of Cape Coast Castle,

wegularly weceived in Afwica, and twanslated into the Mandingo

language by the missionawies and the bushwangers. I need not say,

gentlemen--sir--that is, Mr. Speaker--I mean, Sir John--that I allude

to the Litewary Chwonicle, of which I have the honor to be pwincipal

contwibutor.”

“Very true; my dear Mr. Bullwig,” says my master: “you and I being

Whigs, must of course stand by our own friends; and I will agree,

without a moment's hesitation, that the Literary what-d'ye-call'em is

the prince of periodicals.”

“The pwince of pewiodicals?” says Bullwig; “my dear Sir John, it's the

empewow of the pwess.”

“Soit,--let it be the emperor of the press, as you poetically call it:

but, between ourselves, confess it,--Do not the Tory writers beat your

Whigs hollow? You talk about magazines. Look at--”

“Look at hwat?” shouts out Larder. “There's none, Sir Jan, compared to

ourrs.”

“Pardon me, I think that--”

“It is 'Bentley's Mislany' you mane?” says Ignatius, as sharp as a

niddle.

“Why, no; but--”

“O thin, it's Co'burn, sure! and that divvle Thayodor--a pretty paper,

sir, but light--thrashy, milk-and-wathery--not sthrong, like the

Litherary Chran--good luck to it.”

“Why, Doctor Lander, I was going to tell at once the name of the

periodical, it's FRASER'S MAGAZINE.”

“FRESER!” says the Doctor. “O thunder and turf!”

“FWASER!” says Bullwig. “O--ah--hum--haw--yes--no--why,--that is

weally--no, weally, upon my weputation, I never before heard the name

of the pewiodical. By the by, Sir John, what wemarkable good clawet this

is; is it Lawose or Laff--?”

Laff, indeed! he cooden git beyond laff; and I'm blest if I could kip

it neither,--for hearing him pretend ignurnts, and being behind the

skreend, settlin somethink for the genlmn, I bust into such a raw of

laffing as never was igseeded.

“Hullo!” says Bullwig, turning red. “Have I said anything impwobable,

aw widiculous? for, weally, I never befaw wecollect to have heard in

society such a twemendous peal of cachinnation--that which the twagic

bard who fought at Mawathon has called an anewithmon gelasma.”

“Why, be the holy piper,” says Larder, “I think you are dthrawing a

little on your imagination. Not read Fraser! Don't believe him, my lord

duke; he reads every word of it, the rogue! The boys about that magazine

baste him as if he was a sack of oatmale. My reason for crying out, Sir

Jan, was because you mintioned Fraser at all. Bullwig has every

syllable of it be heart--from the pailitix down to the 'Yellowplush

Correspondence.'”

“Ha, ha!” says Bullwig, affecting to laff (you may be sure my ears

prickt up when I heard the name of the “Yellowplush Correspondence”).

“Ha, ha! why, to tell truth, I HAVE wead the cowespondence to which you

allude: it's a gweat favowite at court. I was talking with Spwing Wice

and John Wussell about it the other day.”

“Well, and what do you think of it?” says Sir John, looking mity

waggish--for he knew it was me who roat it.

“Why, weally and twuly, there's considewable cleverness about the

cweature; but it's low, disgustingly low: it violates pwabability, and

the orthogwaphy is so carefully inaccuwate, that it requires a positive

study to compwehend it.”

“Yes, faith,” says Larner; “the arthagraphy is detestible; it's as bad

for a man to write bad spillin as it is for 'em to speak wid a brrogue.

Iducation furst, and ganius afterwards. Your health, my lord, and good

luck to you.”

“Yaw wemark,” says Bullwig, “is vewy appwopwiate. You will wecollect,

Sir John, in Hewodotus (as for you, Doctor, you know more about Iwish

than about Gweek),--you will wecollect, without doubt, a stowy nawwated

by that cwedulous though fascinating chwonicler, of a certain kind of

sheep which is known only in a certain distwict of Awabia, and of which

the tail is so enormous, that it either dwaggles on the gwound, or is

bound up by the shepherds of the country into a small wheelbawwow, or

cart, which makes the chwonicler sneewingly wemark that thus 'the sheep

of Awabia have their own chawiots.' I have often thought, sir (this

clawet is weally nectaweous)--I have often, I say, thought that the

wace of man may be compawed to these Awabian sheep--genius is our tail,

education our wheelbawwow. Without art and education to pwop it, this

genius dwops on the gwound, and is polluted by the mud, or injured

by the wocks upon the way: with the wheelbawwow it is stwengthened,

incweased, and supported--a pwide to the owner, a blessing to mankind.”

“A very appropriate simile,” says Sir John; “and I am afraid that the

genius of our friend Yellowplush has need of some such support.”

“Apropos,” said Bullwig, “who IS Yellowplush? I was given to understand

that the name was only a fictitious one, and that the papers were

written by the author of the 'Diary of a Physician;' if so, the man has

wonderfully improved in style, and there is some hope of him.”

“Bah!” says the Duke of Doublejowl; “everybody knows it's Barnard, the

celebrated author of 'Sam Slick.'”

“Pardon, my dear duke,” says Lord Bagwig; “it's the authoress of 'High

Life,' 'Almack's,' and other fashionable novels.”

“Fiddlestick's end!” says Doctor Larner; “don't be blushing and

pretinding to ask questions; don't we know you, Bullwig? It's

you yourself, you thief of the world: we smoked you from the very

beginning.”

Bullwig was about indignantly to reply, when Sir John interrupted them,

and said,--“I must correct you all, gentlemen; Mr. Yellowplush is no

other than Mr. Yellowplush: he gave you, my dear Bullwig, your last

glass of champagne at dinner, and is now an inmate of my house, and an

ornament of my kitchen!”

“Gad!” says Doublejowl, “let's have him up.”

“Hear, hear!” says Bagwig.

“Ah, now,” says Larner, “your grace is not going to call up and talk to

a footman, sure? Is it gintale?”

“To say the least of it,” says Bullwig, “the pwactice is iwwegular, and

indecowous; and I weally don't see how the interview can be in any way

pwofitable.”

But the vices of the company went against the two littery men, and

everybody excep them was for having up poor me. The bell was wrung;

butler came. “Send up Charles,” says master; and Charles, who was

standing behind the skreand, was persnly abliged to come in.

“Charles,” says master, “I have been telling these gentlemen who is the

author of the 'Yellowplush Correspondence' in Fraser's Magazine.”

“It's the best magazine in Europe,” says the duke.

“And no mistake,” says my lord.

“Hwhat!” says Larner; “and where's the Litherary Chran?”

I said myself nothink, but made a bough, and blusht like

pickle-cabbitch.

“Mr. Yellowplush,” says his grace, “will you, in the first place, drink

a glass of wine?”

I boughed agin.

“And what wine do you prefer, sir? humble port or imperial burgundy?”

“Why, your grace,” says I, “I know my place, and ain't above kitchin

wines. I will take a glass of port, and drink it to the health of this

honrabble compny.”

When I'd swigged off the bumper, which his grace himself did me the

honor to pour out for me, there was a silints for a minnit; when my

master said:--

“Charles Yellowplush, I have perused your memoirs in Fraser's Magazine

with so much curiosity, and have so high an opinion of your talents as a

writer, that I really cannot keep you as a footman any longer, or allow

you to discharge duties for which you are now quite unfit. With all my

admiration for your talents, Mr. Yellowplush, I still am confident that

many of your friends in the servants'-hall will clean my boots a great

deal better than a gentleman of your genius can ever be expected to

do--it is for this purpose I employ footmen, and not that they may be

writing articles in magazines. But--you need not look so red, my good

fellow, and had better take another glass of port--I don't wish to throw

you upon the wide world without the means of a livelihood, and have made

interest for a little place which you will have under government, and

which will give you an income of eighty pounds per annum; which you can

double, I presume, by your literary labors.”

“Sir,” says I, clasping my hands, and busting into tears, “do not--for

heaven's sake, do not!--think of any such think, or drive me from your

suvvice, because I have been fool enough to write in magaseens. Glans

but one moment at your honor's plate--every spoon is as bright as a

mirror; condysend to igsamine your shoes--your honor may see reflected

in them the fases of every one in the company. I blacked them shoes, I

cleaned that there plate. If occasionally I've forgot the footman in

the litterary man, and committed to paper my remindicences of fashnabble

life, it was from a sincere desire to do good, and promote nollitch: and

I appeal to your honor,--I lay my hand on my busm, and in the fase of

this noble company beg you to say, When you rung your bell, who came to

you fust? When you stopt out at Brooke's till morning, who sat up for

you? When you was ill, who forgot the natral dignities of his station,

and answered the two-pair bell? Oh, sir,” says I, “I know what's what;

don't send me away. I know them littery chaps, and, beleave me, I'd

rather be a footman. The work's not so hard--the pay is better: the

vittels incompyrably supearor. I have but to clean my things, and run my

errints, and you put clothes on my back, and meat in my mouth. Sir! Mr.

Bullwig! an't I right? shall I quit MY station and sink--that is to say,

rise--to YOURS?”

Bullwig was violently affected; a tear stood in his glistening i.

“Yellowplush,” says he, seizing my hand, “you ARE right. Quit not your

present occupation; black boots, clean knives, wear plush, all your

life, but don't turn literary man. Look at me. I am the first novelist

in Europe. I have ranged with eagle wing over the wide regions of

literature, and perched on every eminence in its turn. I have gazed with

eagle eyes on the sun of philosophy, and fathomed the mysterious depths

of the human mind. All languages are familiar to me, all thoughts are

known to me, all men understood by me. I have gathered wisdom from

the honeyed lips of Plato, as we wandered in the gardens of

Acadames--wisdom, too, from the mouth of Job Johnson, as we smoked

our 'backy in Seven Dials. Such must be the studies, and such is the

mission, in this world, of the Poet-Philosopher. But the knowledge

is only emptiness; the initiation is but misery; the initiated, a man

shunned and bann'd by his fellows. Oh,” said Bullwig, clasping his

hands, and throwing his fine i's up to the chandelier, “the curse of

Pwometheus descends upon his wace. Wath and punishment pursue them

from genewation to genewation! Wo to genius, the heaven-scaler, the

fire-stealer! Wo and thrice bitter desolation! Earth is the wock on

which Zeus, wemorseless, stwetches his withing victim--men, the vultures

that feed and fatten on him. Ai, ai! it is agony eternal--gwoaning and

solitawy despair! And you, Yellowplush, would penetwate these mystewies:

you would waise the awful veil, and stand in the twemendous Pwesence.

Beware; as you value your peace, beware! Withdwaw, wash Neophyte!

For heaven's sake--O for heaven's sake!”--here he looked round with

agony--“give me a glass of bwandy-and-water, for this clawet is beginning

to disagwee with me.”

Bullwig having concluded this spitch, very much to his own

sattasfackshn, looked round to the compny for aplaws, and then swigged

off the glass of brandy-and-water, giving a sollum sigh as he took the

last gulph; and then Doctor Ignatius, who longed for a chans, and, in

order to show his independence, began flatly contradicting his friend,

addressed me, and the rest of the genlmn present, in the following

manner:--

“Hark ye,” says he, “my gossoon, doan't be led asthray by the nonsinse

of that divil of a Bullwig. He's jillous of ye, my bhoy: that's the

rale, undoubted thruth; and it's only to keep you out of litherary

life that he's palavering you in this way. I'll tell you what--Plush ye

blackguard,--my honorable frind the mimber there has told me a hunder

times by the smallest computation, of his intense admiration of your

talents, and the wonderful sthir they were making in the world. He can't

bear a rival. He's mad with envy, hatred, oncharatableness. Look at

him, Plush, and look at me. My father was not a juke exactly, nor aven

a markis, and see, nevertheliss, to what a pitch I am come. I spare no

ixpinse; I'm the iditor of a cople of pariodicals; I dthrive about in me

carridge: I dine wid the lords of the land; and why--in the name of the

piper that pleed before Mosus, hwy? Because I'm a litherary man. Because

I know how to play me cards. Because I'm Docther Larner, in fact, and

mimber of every society in and out of Europe. I might have remained

all my life in Thrinity Colledge, and never made such an incom as that

offered you by Sir Jan; but I came to London--to London, my boy, and now

see! Look again at me friend Bullwig. He IS a gentleman, to be sure, and

bad luck to 'im, say I; and what has been the result of his litherary

labor? I'll tell you what; and I'll tell this gintale society, by the

shade of Saint Patrick, they're going to make him a BARINET.”

“A BARNET, Doctor!” says I; “you don't mean to say they're going to make

him a barnet!”

“As sure as I've made meself a docthor,” says Larner.

“What, a baronet, like Sir John?”

“The divle a bit else.”

“And pray what for?”

“What faw?” says Bullwig. “Ask the histowy of litwatuwe what faw? Ask

Colburn, ask Bentley, ask Saunders and Otley, ask the gweat Bwitish

nation, what faw? The blood in my veins comes puwified thwough ten

thousand years of chivalwous ancestwy; but that is neither here

nor there: my political principles--the equal wights which I have

advocated--the gweat cause of fweedom that I have celebwated, are known

to all. But this, I confess, has nothing to do with the question. No,

the question is this--on the thwone of litewature I stand unwivalled,

pwe-eminent; and the Bwitish government, honowing genius in me,

compliments the Bwitish nation by lifting into the bosom of the

heweditawy nobility, the most gifted member of the democwacy.” (The

honrabble genlm here sunk down amidst repeated cheers.)

“Sir John,” says I, “and my lord duke, the words of my rivrint frend

Ignatius, and the remarks of the honrabble genlmn who has just sate

down, have made me change the detummination which I had the honor of

igspressing just now.

“I igsept the eighty pound a year; knowing that I shall ave plenty of

time for pursuing my littery career, and hoping some day to set on that

same bentch of barranites, which is deckarated by the presnts of my

honrabble friend.

“Why shooden I? It's trew I ain't done anythink as YET to deserve

such an honor; and it's very probable that I never shall. But

what then?--quaw dong, as our friends say? I'd much rayther have a

coat-of-arms than a coat of livry. I'd much rayther have my blud-red

hand spralink in the middle of a shield, than underneath a tea-tray. A

barranit I will be; and, in consiquints, must cease to be a footmin.

“As to my politticle princepills, these, I confess, ain't settled:

they are, I know, necessary; but they ain't necessary UNTIL ASKT FOR;

besides, I reglar read the Sattarist newspaper, and so ignirince on this

pint would be inigscusable.

“But if one man can git to be a doctor, and another a barranit, and

another a capting in the navy, and another a countess, and another the

wife of a governor of the Cape of Good Hope, I begin to perseave that

the littery trade ain't such a very bad un; igspecially if you're up to

snough, and know what's o'clock. I'll learn to make myself usefle, in

the fust place; then I'll larn to spell; and, I trust, by reading the

novvles of the honrabble member, and the scientafick treatiseses of the

reverend doctor, I may find the secrit of suxess, and git a litell for

my own share. I've sevral frends in the press, having paid for many of

those chaps' drink, and given them other treets; and so I think I've got

all the emilents of suxess; therefore, I am detummined, as I said, to

igsept your kind offer, and beg to withdraw the wuds which I made yous

of when I refyoused your hoxpatable offer. I must, however--”

“I wish you'd withdraw yourself,” said Sir John, bursting into a most

igstrorinary rage, “and not interrupt the company with your infernal

talk! Go down, and get us coffee: and, hark ye! hold your impertinent

tongue, or I'll break every bone in your body. You shall have the place

as I said; and while you're in my service, you shall be my servant; but

you don't stay in my service after to-morrow. Go down stairs, sir; and

don't stand staring here!”

. . . . . .

In this abrupt way, my evening ended; it's with a melancholy regret that

I think what came of it. I don't wear plush any more. I am an altered, a

wiser, and, I trust, a better man.

I'm about a novvle (having made great progriss in spelling), in the

style of my friend Bullwig; and preparing for publigation, in the

Doctor's Cyclopedear, “The Lives of Eminent British and Foring

Wosherwomen.”

SKIMMINGS FROM “THE DAIRY OF GEORGE IV.”

CHARLES YELLOWPLUSH, ESQ, TO OLIVER YORKE, ESQ.*

DEAR WHY,--Takin advantage of the Crismiss holydays, Sir John and me

(who is a member of parlyment) had gone down to our place in Yorkshire

for six wicks, to shoot grows and woodcox, and enjoy old English

hospitalaty. This ugly Canady bisniss unluckaly put an end to our

sports in the country, and brot us up to Buckly Square as fast as four

posterses could gallip. When there, I found your parcel, containing the

two vollumes of a new book; which, as I have been away from the literary

world, and emplied solely in athlatic exorcises, have been laying

neglected in my pantry, among my knife-cloaths, and dekanters, and

blacking-bottles, and bed-room candles, and things.

* These Memoirs were originally published in Fraser's Magazine, and it

may be stated for the benefit of the unlearned in such matters, that

“Oliver Yorke” is the assumed name of the editor of that periodical.

This will, I'm sure, account for my delay in notussing the work. I see

sefral of the papers and magazeens have been befoarhand with me, and

have given their apinions concerning it: specially the Quotly Revew,

which has most mussilessly cut to peases the author of this Dairy of the

Times of George IV.*

* Diary illustrative of the Times of George the Fourth, interspersed

with Original Letters from the late Queen Caroline, and from various

other distinguished Persons.

“Tot ou tard, tout se scait.”--MAINTENON.

In 2 vols. London, 1838. Henry Colburn.

That it's a woman who wrote it is evydent from the style of the writing,

as well as from certain proofs in the book itself. Most suttnly a femail

wrote this Dairy; but who this Dairy-maid may be, I, in coarse, can't

conjecter: and indeed, common galliantry forbids me to ask. I can only

judge of the book itself; which, it appears to me, is clearly trenching

upon my ground and favrite subjicks, viz. fashnabble life, as igsibited

in the houses of the nobility, gentry, and rile fammly.

But I bare no mallis--infamation is infamation, and it doesn't matter

where the infamy comes from; and whether the Dairy be from that

distinguished pen to which it is ornarily attributed--whether, I say,

it comes from a lady of honor to the late quean, or a scullion to that

diffunct majisty, no matter: all we ask is nollidge; never mind how we

have it. Nollidge, as our cook says, is like trikel-possit--it's always

good, though you was to drink it out of an old shoo.

Well, then, although this Dairy is likely searusly to injur my pussonal

intrests, by fourstalling a deal of what I had to say in my private

memoars--though many, many guineas, is taken from my pockit, by

cuttin short the tail of my narratif--though much that I had to say in

souperior languidge, greased with all the ellygance of my orytory, the

benefick of my classcle reading, the chawms of my agreble wit, is thus

abruply brot befor the world by an inferior genus, neither knowing nor

writing English; yet I say, that nevertheless I must say, what I am

puffickly prepaired to say, to gainsay which no man can say a word--yet

I say, that I say I consider this publication welkom. Far from viewing

it with enfy, I greet it with applaws; because it increases that most

exlent specious of nollidge, I mean “FASHNABBLE NOLLIDGE:” compayred

to witch all other nollidge is nonsince--a bag of goold to a pare of

snuffers.

Could Lord Broom, on the Canady question, say moar? or say what he had

tu say better? We are marters, both of us, to prinsple; and every body

who knows eather knows that we would sacrafice anythink rather than

that. Fashion is the goddiss I adoar. This delightful work is an offring

on her srine; and as sich all her wushippers are bound to hail it.

Here is not a question of trumpry lords and honrabbles, generals and

barronites, but the crown itself, and the king and queen's actions;

witch may be considered as the crown jewels. Here's princes, and

grand-dukes and airsparent, and heaven knows what; all with blood-royal

in their veins, and their names mentioned in the very fust page of the

peeridge. In this book you become so intmate with the Prince of Wales,

that you may follow him, if you please, to his marridge-bed: or, if

you prefer the Princiss Charlotte, you may have with her an hour's

tator-tator.*

* Our estimable correspondent means, we presume, tete-a-tete.--O. Y.

Now, though most of the remarkable extrax from this book have been given

already (the cream of the Dairy, as I wittily say,) I shall trouble

you, nevertheless, with a few; partly because they can't be repeated

too often, and because the toan of obsyvation with which they have been

genrally received by the press, is not igsackly such as I think they

merit. How, indeed, can these common magaseen and newspaper pipple know

anythink of fashnabble life, let alone ryal?

Conseaving, then, that the publication of the Dairy has done reel good

on this scoar, and may probly do a deal moor, I shall look through it,

for the porpus of selecting the most ellygant passidges, and which I

think may be peculiarly adapted to the reader's benefick.

For you see, my dear Mr. Yorke, that in the fust place, that this is

no common catchpny book, like that of most authors and authoresses, who

write for the base looker of gain. Heaven bless you! the Dairy-maid is

above anything musnary. She is a woman of rank, and no mistake; and is

as much above doin a common or vulgar action as I am superaor to taking

beer after dinner with my cheese. She proves that most satisfackarily,

as we see in the following passidge:--

“Her royal highness came to me, and having spoken a few phrases

on different subjects, produced all the papers she wishes to have

published: her whole correspondence with the prince relative to Lady

J---'s dismissal; his subsequent neglect of the princess; and, finally,

the acquittal of her supposed guilt, signed by the Duke of Portland,

&c., at the time of the secret inquiry: when, if proof could have

been brought against her, it certainly would have been done; and which

acquittal, to the disgrace of all parties concerned, as well as to the

justice of the nation in general, was not made public at the time. A

common criminal is publicly condemned or acquitted. Her royal highness

commanded me to have these letters published forthwith, saying, 'You may

sell them for a great sum.' At first (for she had spoken to me

before concerning this business), I thought of availing myself of the

opportunity; but upon second thoughts, I turned from this idea with

detestation: for, if I do wrong by obeying her wishes and endeavoring

to serve her, I will do so at least from good and disinterested motives,

not from any sordid views. The princess commands me, and I will obey

her, whatever may be the issue; but not for fare or fee. I own I

tremble, not so much for myself, as for the idea that she is not taking

the best and most dignified way of having these papers published. Why

make a secret of it at all? If wrong, it should not be done; if right

it should be done openly, and in the face of her enemies. In her royal

highness's case, as in that of wronged princes in general, why do

they shrink from straightforward dealings, and rather have recourse to

crooked policy? I wish, in this particular instance, I could make

her royal highness feel thus: but she is naturally indignant at being

falsely accused, and will not condescend to an avowed explanation.”

Can anythink be more just and honrabble than this? The Dairy-lady is

quite fair and abovebored. A clear stage, says she, and no favior! “I

won't do behind my back what I am ashamed of before my face: not I!” No

more she does; for you see that, though she was offered this manyscrip

by the princess FOR NOTHINK, though she knew that she could actially get

for it a large sum of money, she was above it, like an honest, noble,

grateful, fashnabble woman, as she was. She aboars secrecy, and never

will have recors to disguise or crookid polacy. This ought to be an

ansure to them RADICLE SNEERERS, who pretend that they are the equals

of fashnabble pepple; wheras it's a well-known fact, that the vulgar

roagues have no notion of honor.

And after this positif declaration, which reflex honor on her ladyship

(long life to her! I've often waited behind her chair!)--after this

positif declaration, that, even for the porpus of DEFENDING her

missis, she was so hi-minded as to refuse anythink like a peculiarly

consideration, it is actially asserted in the public prints by a

booxeller, that he has given her A THOUSAND POUND for the Dairy. A

thousand pound! nonsince!--it's a phigment! a base lible! This woman

take a thousand pound, in a matter where her dear mistriss, friend, and

benyfactriss was concerned! Never! A thousand baggonits would be more

prefrabble to a woman of her xqizzit feelins and fashion.

But to proseed. It's been objected to me, when I wrote some of my

expearunces in fashnabble life, that my languidge was occasionally

vulgar, and not such as is genrally used in those exqizzit famlies which

I frequent. Now, I'll lay a wager that there is in this book, wrote as

all the world knows, by a rele lady, and speakin of kings and queens

as if they were as common as sand-boys--there is in this book more

wulgarity than ever I displayed, more nastiness than ever I would dare

TO THINK ON, and more bad grammar than ever I wrote since I was a boy at

school. As for authografy, evry genlmn has his own: never mind spellin,

I say, so long as the sence is right.

Let me here quot a letter from a corryspondent of this charming lady of

honor; and a very nice corryspondent he is, too, without any mistake:

“Lady O---, poor Lady O---! knows the rules of prudence, I fear me, as

imperfectly as she doth those of the Greek and Latin Grammars: or she

hath let her brother, who is a sad swine, become master of her secrets,

and then contrived to quarrel with him. You would see the outline of the

melange in the newspapers; but not the report that Mr. S--- is about to

publish a pamphlet, as an addition to the Harleian Tracts, setting forth

the amatory adventures of his sister. We shall break our necks in haste

to buy it, of course crying 'Shameful' all the while; and it is said

that Lady O--- is to be cut, which I cannot entirely believe. Let her

tell two or three old women about town that they are young and handsome,

and give some well-timed parties, and she may still keep the society

which she hath been used to. The times are not so hard as they once

were, when a woman could not construe Magna Charta with anything like

impunity. People were full as gallant many years ago. But the days are

gone by wherein my lord-protector of the commonwealth of England was

wont to go a lovemaking to Mrs. Fleetwood, with the Bible under his arm.

“And so Miss Jacky Gordon is really clothed with a husband at last, and

Miss Laura Manners left without a mate! She and Lord Stair should marry

and have children in mere revenge. As to Miss Gordon, she's a Venus well

suited for such a Vulcan,--whom nothing but money and a title could

have rendered tolerable, even to a kitchen wench. It is said that the

matrimonial correspondence between this couple is to be published, full

of sad scandalous relations, of which you may be sure scarcely a word

is true. In former times, the Duchess of St. A---s made use of these

elegant epistles in order to intimidate Lady Johnstone: but that ruse

would not avail; so in spite, they are to be printed. What a cargo

of amiable creatures! Yet will some people scarcely believe in the

existence of Pandemonium.

“Tuesday Morning.--You are perfectly right respecting the hot rooms

here, which we all cry out against, and all find very comfortable--much

more so than the cold sands and bleak neighborhood of the sea; which

looks vastly well in one of Vander Velde's pictures hung upon crimson

damask, but hideous and shocking in reality. H--- and his 'elle'

(talking of parties) were last night at Cholmondeley House, but seem

not to ripen in their love. He is certainly good-humored, and I believe,

good-hearted, so deserves a good wife; but his cara seems a genuine

London miss made up of many affectations. Will she form a comfortable

helpmate? For me, I like not her origin, and deem many strange things to

run in blood, besides madness and the Hanoverian evil.

“Thursday.--I verily do believe that I shall never get to the end of

this small sheet of paper, so many unheard of interruptions have I had;

and now I have been to Vauxhall, and caught the toothache. I was of Lady

E. B---m and H---'s party: very dull--the Lady giving us all a supper

after our promenade--

'Much ado was there, God wot

She would love, but he would not.'

He ate a great deal of ice, although he did not seem to require it: and

she 'faisoit les yeux doux' enough not only to have melted all the ice

which he swallowed, but his own hard heart into the bargain. The thing

will not do. In the meantime, Miss Long hath become quite cruel to

Wellesley Pole, and divides her favor equally between Lords Killeen and

Kilworth, two as simple Irishmen as ever gave birth to a bull. I wish

to Hymen that she were fairly married, for all this pother gives one a

disgusting picture of human nature.”

A disgusting pictur of human nature, indeed--and isn't he who moralizes

about it, and she to whom he writes, a couple of pretty heads in

the same piece? Which, Mr. Yorke, is the wust, the scandle or the

scandle-mongers? See what it is to be a moral man of fashn. Fust,

he scrapes togither all the bad stoaries about all the people of

his acquentance--he goes to a ball, and laffs or snears at everybody

there--he is asked to a dinner, and brings away, along with meat and

wine to his heart's content, a sour stomick filled with nasty stories of

all the people present there. He has such a squeamish appytite, that all

the world seems to DISAGREE with him. And what has he got to say to his

delicate female frend? Why that--

Fust. Mr. S. is going to publish indescent stoaries about Lady O---, his

sister, which everybody's goin to by.

Nex. That Miss Gordon is going to be cloathed with an usband; and that

all their matrimonial corryspondins is to be published too.

3. That Lord H. is going to be married; but there's some thing rong in

his wife's blood.

4. Miss Long has cut Mr. Wellesley, and is gone after two Irish lords.

Wooden you phancy, now, that the author of such a letter, instead of

writin about pipple of tip-top qualaty, was describin Vinegar Yard?

Would you beleave that the lady he was a-ritin to was a chased, modist

lady of honor, and mother of a famly? O trumpery! O morris! as Homer

says: this is a higeous pictur of manners, such as I weap to think of,

as evry morl man must weap.

The above is one pritty pictur of mearly fashnabble life: what follows

is about families even higher situated than the most fashnabble. Here

we have the princessregient, her daughter the Princess Sharlot,

her grandmamma the old quean, and her madjisty's daughters the two

princesses. If this is not high life, I don't know where it is to be

found; and it's pleasing to see what affeckshn and harmny rains in such

an exolted spear.

“Sunday 24th.--Yesterday, the princess went to meet the Princess

Charlotte at Kensington. Lady ---- told me that, when the latter

arrived, she rushed up to her mother, and said, 'For God's sake, be

civil to her,' meaning the Duchess of Leeds, who followed her. Lady

---- said she felt sorry for the latter; but when the Princess of Wales

talked to her, she soon became so free and easy, that one could not

have any FEELING about her FEELINGS. Princess Charlotte, I was told, was

looking handsome, very pale, but her head more becomingly dressed,--that

is to say, less dressed than usual. Her figure is of that full round

shape which is now in its prime; but she disfigures herself by wearing

her bodice so short, that she literally has no waist. Her feet are very

pretty; and so are her hands and arms, and her ears, and the shape of

her head. Her countenance is expressive, when she allows her passions to

play upon it; and I never saw any face, with so little shade, express so

many powerful and varied emotions. Lady ---- told me that the Princess

Charlotte talked to her about her situation, and said, in a very

quiet, but determined way, she WOULD NOT BEAR IT, and that as soon as

parliament met, she intended to come to Warwick House, and remain there;

that she was also determined not to consider the Duchess of Leeds as

her GOVERNESS but only as her FIRST LADY. She made many observations

on other persons and subjects; and appears to be very quick, very

penetrating, but imperious and wilful. There is a tone of romance, too,

in her character, which will only serve to mislead her.

“She told her mother that there had been a great battle at Windsor

between the queen and the prince, the former refusing to give up

Miss Knight from her own person to attend on Princess Charlotte as

sub-governess. But the prince-regent had gone to Windsor himself, and

insisted on her doing so; and the 'old Beguin' was forced to submit,

but has been ill ever since: and Sir Henry Halford declared it was a

complete breaking up of her constitution--to the great delight of the

two princesses, who were talking about this affair. Miss Knight was the

very person they wished to have; they think they can do as they like

with her. It has been ordered that the Princess Charlotte should not see

her mother alone for a single moment; but the latter went into her room,

stuffed a pair of large shoes full of papers, and having given them to

her daughter, she went home. Lady ---- told me everything was written

down and sent to Mr. Brougham NEXT DAY.”

See what discord will creap even into the best regulated famlies. Here

are six of 'em--viz., the quean and her two daughters, her son, and his

wife and daughter; and the manner in which they hate one another is a

compleat puzzle.

{his mother.

The Prince hates... {his wife.

{his daughter.

Princess Charlotte hates her father.

Princess of Wales hates her husband.

The old quean, by their squobbles, is on the pint of death; and her two

jewtiful daughters are delighted at the news. What a happy, fashnabble,

Christian famly! O Mr. Yorke, Mr. Yorke, if this is the way in the

drawin-rooms, I'm quite content to live below, in pease and charaty with

all men; writin, as I am now, in my pantry, or els havin a quiet game at

cards in the servants-all. With US there's no bitter, wicked, quarling

of this sort. WE don't hate our children, or bully our mothers, or wish

'em ded when they're sick, as this Dairywoman says kings and queens

do. When we're writing to our friends or sweethearts, WE don't fill

our letters with nasty stoaries, takin away the carricter of our

fellow-servants, as this maid of honor's amusin' moral frend does. But,

in coarse, it's not for us to judge of our betters;--these great people

are a supeerur race, and we can't comprehend their ways.

Do you recklect--it's twenty years ago now--how a bewtiffle princess

died in givin buth to a poar baby, and how the whole nation of Hengland

wep, as though it was one man, over that sweet woman and child, in which

were sentered the hopes of every one of us, and of which each was as

proud as of his own wife or infnt? Do you recklect how pore fellows

spent their last shillin to buy a black crape for their hats, and

clergymen cried in the pulpit, and the whole country through was no

better than a great dismal funeral? Do you recklet, Mr. Yorke, who

was the person that we all took on so about? We called her the Princis

Sharlot of Wales; and we valyoud a single drop of her blood more than

the whole heartless body of her father. Well, we looked up to her as a

kind of saint or angle, and blest God (such foolish loyal English pipple

as we ware in those days) who had sent this sweet lady to rule over us.

But heaven bless you! it was only souperstition. She was no better than

she should be, as it turns out--or at least the Dairy-maid says so. No

better?--if my daughters or yours was 1/2 so bad, we'd as leaf be dead

ourselves, and they hanged. But listen to this pritty charritable story,

and a truce to reflexshuns:--

“Sunday, January, 9, 1814.--Yesterday, according to appointment, I went

to Princess Charlotte. Found at Warwick House the harp-player, Dizzi;

was asked to remain and listen to his performance, but was talked to

during the whole time, which completely prevented all possibility of

listening to the music. The Duchess of Leeds and her daughter were in

the room, but left it soon. Next arrived Miss Knight, who remained all

the time I was there. Princess Charlotte was very gracious--showed me

all her bonny dyes, as B---would have called them--pictures, and cases,

and jewels, &c. She talked in a very desultory way, and it would be

difficult to say of what. She observed her mother was in very low

spirits. I asked her how she supposed she could be otherwise? This

QUESTIONING answer saves a great deal of trouble, and serves two

purposes--i.e. avoids committing oneself, or giving offence by silence.

There was hung in the apartment one portrait, amongst others, that

very much resembled the Duke of D---. I asked Miss Knight whom it

represented. She said that was not known; it had been supposed a

likeness of the Pretender, when young. This answer suited my thoughts so

comically I could have laughed, if one ever did at courts anything but

the contrary of what one was inclined to do.

“Princess Charlotte has a very great variety of expression in her

countenance--a play of features, and a force of muscle, rarely seen in

connection with such soft and shadeless coloring. Her hands and arms

are beautiful; but I think her figure is already gone, and will soon be

precisely like her mother's: in short it is the very picture of her, and

NOT IN MINIATURE. I could not help analyzing my own sensations during

the time I was with her, and thought more of them than I did of her. Why

was I at all flattered, at all more amused, at all more supple to this

young princess, than to her who is only the same sort of person set

in the shade of circumstances and of years? It is that youth, and the

approach of power, and the latent views of self-interest, sway the heart

and dazzle the understanding. If this is so with a heart not, I trust,

corrupt, and a head not particularly formed for interested calculations,

what effect must not the same causes produce on the generality of

mankind?

“In the course of the conversation, the Princess Charlotte contrived to

edge in a good deal of tum-de-dy, and would, if I had entered into

the thing, have gone on with it, while looking at a little picture of

herself, which had about thirty or forty different dresses to put over

it, done on isinglass, and which allowed the general coloring of the

picture to be seen through its transparency. It was, I thought, a pretty

enough conceit, though rather like dressing up a doll. 'Ah!,' said Miss

Knight, 'I am not content though, madame--for I yet should have liked

one more dress--that of the favorite Sultana.'

“'No, no!' said the princess, 'I never was a favorite, and never can be

one,'--looking at a picture which she said was her father's, but which

I do not believe was done for the regent any more than for me, but

represented a young man in a hussar's dress--probably a former favorite.

“The Princess Charlotte seemed much hurt at the little notice that was

taken of her birthday. After keeping me for two hours and a half she

dismissed me; and I am sure I could not say what she said, except that

it was an olio of decousus and heterogeneous things, partaking of the

characteristics of her mother, grafted on a younger scion. I dined

tete-a-tete with my dear old aunt: hers is always a sweet and soothing

society to me.”

There's a pleasing, lady-like, moral extract for you! An innocent young

thing of fifteen has picturs of TWO lovers in her room, and expex a

good number more. This dellygate young creature EDGES in a good deal of

TUMDEDY (I can't find it in Johnson's Dixonary), and would have GONE ON

WITH THE THING (ellygence of languidge), if the dairy-lady would have

let her.

Now, to tell you the truth, Mr. Yorke, I doan't beleave a single

syllible of this story. This lady of honner says, in the fust place,

that the princess would have talked a good deal of TUMDEDY: which means,

I suppose, indeasnsy, if she, the lady of honner WOULD HAVE LET HER.

This IS a good one! Why, she lets every body else talk tumdedy to their

hearts' content; she lets her friends WRITE tumdedy, and, after keeping

it for a quarter of a sentry, she PRINTS it. Why then, be so squeamish

about HEARING a little! And, then, there's the stoary of the two

portricks. This woman has the honner to be received in the frendlyest

manner by a British princess; and what does the grateful loyal creature

do? 2 picturs of the princess's relations are hanging in her room, and

the Dairy-woman swears away the poor young princess's carrickter, by

swearing they are picturs of her LOVERS. For shame, oh, for shame! you

slanderin backbitin dairy-woman you! If you told all them things to

your “dear old aunt,” on going to dine with her, you must have had very

“sweet and soothing society” indeed.

I had marked out many more extrax, which I intended to write about; but

I think I have said enough about this Dairy: in fack, the butler, and

the gals in the servants'-hall are not well pleased that I should go

on reading this naughty book; so we'll have no more of it, only one

passidge about Pollytics, witch is sertnly quite new:--

“No one was so likely to be able to defeat Bonaparte as the Crown

Prince, from the intimate knowledge he possessed of his character.

Bernadotte was also instigated against Bonaparte by one who not only

owed him a personal hatred, but who possessed a mind equal to his, and

who gave the Crown Prince both information and advice how to act. This

was no less a person than Madame de Stael. It was not, as some have

asserted, THAT SHE WAS IN LOVE WITH BERNADOTTE; for, at the time of

their intimacy, MADAME DE STAEL WAS IN LOVE WITH ROCCA. But she used her

influence (which was not small) with the Crown Prince, to make him

fight against Bonaparte, and to her wisdom may be attributed much of the

success which accompanied his attack upon him. Bernadotte has raised the

flame of liberty, which seems fortunately to blaze all around. May it

liberate Europe; and from the ashes of the laurel may olive branches

spring up, and overshadow the earth!”

There's a discuvery! that the overthrow of Boneypart is owing to MADAME

DE STAEL! What nonsince for Colonel Southey or Doctor Napier to write

histories of the war with that Capsican hupstart and murderer, when here

we have the whole affair explaned by the lady of honor!

“Sunday, April 10, 1814.--The incidents which take place every hour are

miraculous. Bonaparte is deposed, but alive; subdued, but allowed to

choose his place of residence. The island of Elba is the spot he has

selected for his ignominious retreat. France is holding forth repentant

arms to her banished sovereign. The Poissardes who dragged Louis XVI.

to the scaffold are presenting flowers to the Emperor of Russia,

the restorer of their legitimate king! What a stupendous field for

philosophy to expatiate in! What an endless material for thought! What

humiliation to the pride of mere human greatness! How are the mighty

fallen! Of all that was great in Napoleon, what remains? Despoiled

of his usurped power, he sinks to insignificance. There was no

moral greatness in the man. The meteor dazzled, scorched, is put

out,--utterly, and for ever. But the power which rests in those who have

delivered the nations from bondage, is a power that is delegated to them

from heaven; and the manner in which they have used it is a guarantee

for its continuance. The Duke of Wellington has gained laurels unstained

by any useless flow of blood. He has done more than conquer others--he

has conquered himself: and in the midst of the blaze and flush of

victory, surrounded by the homage of nations, he has not been betrayed

into the commission of any act of cruelty or wanton offence. He was as

cool and self-possessed under the blaze and dazzle of fame as a common

man would be under the shade of his garden-tree, or by the hearth of his

home. But the tyrant who kept Europe in awe is now a pitiable object for

scorn to point the finger of derision at: and humanity shudders as it

remembers the scourge with which this man's ambition was permitted to

devastate every home tie, and every heartfelt joy.”

And now, after this sublime passidge, as full of awfle reflections and

pious sentyments as those of Mrs. Cole in the play, I shall only quot

one little extrak more:--

“All goes gloomily with the poor princess. Lady Charlotte Campbell told

me she regrets not seeing all these curious personages; but she says,

the more the princess is forsaken, the more happy she is at having

offered to attend her at this time. THIS IS VERY AMIABLE IN HER, and

cannot fail to be gratifying to the princess.”

So it is--wery amiable, wery kind and considerate in her, indeed. Poor

Princess! how lucky you was to find a frend who loved you for your own

sake, and when all the rest of the wuld turned its back kep steady to

you. As for believing that Lady Sharlot had any hand in this book,*

heaven forbid! she is all gratitude, pure gratitude, depend upon it. SHE

would not go for to blacken her old frend and patron's carrickter, after

having been so outrageously faithful to her; SHE wouldn't do it, at no

price, depend upon it. How sorry she must be that others an't quite

so squemish, and show up in this indesent way the follies of her kind,

genrus, foolish bennyfactris!

* The “authorized” announcement, in the John Bull newspaper, sets this

question at rest. It is declared that her ladyship is not the writer of

the Diary.--O. Y.

EPISTLES TO THE LITERATI.

CH-S Y-LL-WPL-SH, ESQ., TO SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BT.

JOHN THOMAS SMITH, ESQ., TO C--S Y--H, ESQ.

NOTUS.

The suckmstansies of the following harticle are as follos:--Me and

my friend, the sellabrated Mr. Smith, reckonized each other in the

Haymarket Theatre, during the performints of the new play. I was settn

in the gallery, and sung out to him (he was in the pit), to jine us

after the play, over a glass of bear and a cold hoyster, in my pantry,

the family being out.

Smith came as appinted. We descorsed on the subjick of the comady;

and, after sefral glases, we each of us agreed to write a letter to the

other, giving our notiums of the pease. Paper was brought that momint;

and Smith writing his harticle across the knife-bord, I dasht off mine

on the dresser.

Our agreement was, that I (being remarkabble for my style of riting)

should cretasize the languidge, whilst he should take up with the plot

of the play; and the candied reader will parding me for having holtered

the original address of my letter, and directed it to Sir Edward

himself; and for having incopperated Smith's remarks in the midst of my

own:--

MAYFAIR, Nov. 30, 1839. Midnite.

HONRABBLE BARNET!--Retired from the littery world a year or moar, I

didn't think anythink would injuice me to come forrards again: for I

was content with my share of reputation, and propoas'd to add nothink to

those immortial wux which have rendered this Magaseen so sallybrated.

Shall I tell you the reazn of my re-appearants?--a desire for the

benefick of my fellow-creatures? Fiddlestick! A mighty truth with which

my busm labored, and which I must bring forth or die? Nonsince--stuff:

money's the secret, my dear Barnet,--money--l'argong, gelt, spicunia.

Here's quarter-day coming, and I'm blest if I can pay my landlud, unless

I can ad hartificially to my inkum.

This is, however, betwigst you and me. There's no need to blacard the

streets with it, or to tell the British public that Fitzroy Y-ll-wpl-sh

is short of money, or that the sallybrated hauthor of the Y--- Papers is

in peskewniary difficklties, or is fiteagued by his superhuman littery

labors, or by his famly suckmstansies, or by any other pusnal matter:

my maxim, dear B, is on these pints to be as quiet as posbile. What

the juice does the public care for you or me? Why must we always, in

prefizzes and what not, be a-talking about ourselves and our igstrodnary

merrats, woas, and injaries? It is on this subjick that I porpies, my

dear Barnet, to speak to you in a frendly way; and praps you'll find my

advise tolrabbly holesum.

Well, then,--if you care about the apinions, fur good or evil, of us

poor suvvants, I tell you, in the most candied way, I like you, Barnet.

I've had my fling at you in my day (for, entry nou, that last stoary I

roat about you and Larnder was as big a bownsir as ever was)--I've had

my fling at you; but I like you. One may objeck to an immense deal of

your writings, which, betwigst you and me, contain more sham scentiment,

sham morallaty, sham poatry, than you'd like to own; but, in spite of

this, there's the STUFF in you: you've a kind and loyal heart in you,

Barnet--a trifle deboshed, perhaps; a kean i, igspecially for what's

comic (as for your tradgady, it's mighty flatchulent), and a ready

plesnt pen. The man who says you are an As is an As himself. Don't

believe him, Barnet! not that I suppose you wil,--for, if I've formed

a correck apinion of you from your wucks, you think your small-beear as

good as most men's: every man does,--and why not? We brew, and we love

our own tap--amen; but the pint betwigst us, is this stewpid, absudd way

of crying out, because the public don't like it too. Why shood they,

my dear Barnet? You may vow that they are fools; or that the critix are

your enemies; or that the wuld should judge your poams by your critticle

rules, and not their own: you may beat your breast, and vow you are a

marter, and you won't mend the matter. Take heart, man! you're not so

misrabble after all: your spirits need not be so VERY cast down; you are

not so VERY badly paid. I'd lay a wager that you make, with one thing

or another--plays, novvles, pamphlicks, and little odd jobbs here and

there--your three thowsnd a year. There's many a man, dear Bullwig that

works for less, and lives content. Why shouldn't you? Three thowsnd a

year is no such bad thing,--let alone the barnetcy: it must be a great

comfort to have that bloody hand in your skitching.

But don't you sea, that in a wuld naturally envius, wickid, and fond

of a joak, this very barnetcy, these very cumplaints,--this ceaseless

groning, and moning, and wining of yours, is igsackly the thing which

makes people laff and snear more? If you were ever at a great school,

you must recklect who was the boy most bullid, and buffited, and

purshewd--he who minded it most. He who could take a basting got but

few; he who rord and wep because the knotty boys called him nicknames,

was nicknamed wuss and wuss. I recklect there was at our school, in

Smithfield, a chap of this milksop, spoony sort, who appeared among the

romping, ragged fellers in a fine flanning dressing-gownd, that his mama

had given him. That pore boy was beaten in a way that his dear ma and

aunts didn't know him; his fine flanning dressing-gownd was torn all to

ribbings, and he got no pease in the school ever after, but was abliged

to be taken to some other saminary, where, I make no doubt, he was paid

off igsactly in the same way.

Do you take the halligory, my dear Barnet? Mutayto nominy--you know what

I mean. You are the boy, and your barnetcy is the dressing-gownd. You

dress yourself out finer than other chaps and they all begin to sault

and hustle you; it's human nature, Barnet. You show weakness, think

of your dear ma, mayhap, and begin to cry: it's all over with you;

the whole school is at you--upper boys and under, big and little; the

dirtiest little fag in the place will pipe out blaggerd names at you,

and takes his pewny tug at your tail.

The only way to avoid such consperracies is to put a pair of stowt

shoalders forrards, and bust through the crowd of raggymuffins. A good

bold fellow dubls his fistt, and cries, “Wha dares meddle wi' me?” When

Scott got HIS barnetcy, for instans, did any one of us cry out? No, by

the laws, he was our master; and wo betide the chap that said neigh to

him! But there's barnets and barnets. Do you recklect that fine chapter

in “Squintin Durward,” about the too fellos and cups, at the siege of

the bishop's castle? One of them was a brave warner, and kep HIS cup;

they strangled the other chap--strangled him, and laffed at him too.

With respeck, then, to the barnetcy pint, this is my advice: brazen it

out. Us littery men I take to be like a pack of schoolboys--childish,

greedy, envius, holding by our friends, and always ready to fight. What

must be a man's conduck among such? He must either take no notis, and

pass on myjastick, or else turn round and pummle soundly--one, two,

right and left, ding dong over the face and eyes; above all, never

acknowledge that he is hurt. Years ago, for instans (we've no ill-blood,

but only mention this by way of igsample), you began a sparring with

this Magaseen. Law bless you, such a ridicklus gaym I never see: a man

so belaybord, beflustered, bewolloped, was never known; it was the laff

of the whole town. Your intelackshal natur, respected Barnet, is not

fizzickly adapted, so to speak, for encounters of this sort. You must

not indulge in combats with us course bullies of the press: you have not

the STAMINY for a reglar set-to. What, then, is your plan? In the midst

of the mob to pass as quiet as you can: you won't be undistubbed. Who

is? Some stray kix and buffits will fall to you--mortial man is subjick

to such; but if you begin to wins and cry out, and set up for a marter,

wo betide you!

These remarks, pusnal as I confess them to be, are yet, I assure you,

written in perfick good-natur, and have been inspired by your play of

the “Sea Capting,” and prefiz to it; which latter is on matters intirely

pusnal, and will, therefore, I trust, igscuse this kind of ad hominam

(as they say) disk-cushion. I propose, honrabble Barnit, to cumsider

calmly this play and prephiz, and to speak of both with that honisty

which, in the pantry or studdy, I've been always phamous for. Let us,

in the first place, listen to the opening of the “Preface of the Fourth

Edition:”

“No one can be more sensible than I am of the many faults and

deficiencies to be found in this play; but, perhaps, when it is

considered how very rarely it has happened in the history of our

dramatic literature that good acting plays have been produced, except by

those who have either been actors themselves, or formed their habits of

literature, almost of life, behind the scenes, I might have looked for

a criticism more generous, and less exacting and rigorous, than that

by which the attempts of an author accustomed to another class of

composition have been received by a large proportion of the periodical

press.

“It is scarcely possible, indeed, that this play should not contain

faults of two kinds, first, the faults of one who has necessarily much

to learn in the mechanism of his art; and, secondly, of one who, having

written largely in the narrative style of fiction, may not unfrequently

mistake the effects of a novel for the effects of a drama. I may add to

these, perhaps, the deficiencies that arise from uncertain health and

broken spirits, which render the author more susceptible than he might

have been some years since to that spirit of depreciation and hostility

which it has been his misfortune to excite amongst the general

contributors to the periodical press for the consciousness that every

endeavor will be made to cavil, to distort, to misrepresent, and, in

fine, if possible, to RUN DOWN, will occasionally haunt even the hours

of composition, to check the inspiration, and damp the ardor.

“Having confessed thus much frankly and fairly, and with a hope that

I may ultimately do better, should I continue to write for the stage

(which nothing but an assurance that, with all my defects, I may yet

bring some little aid to the drama, at a time when any aid, however

humble, ought to be welcome to the lovers of the art, could induce me to

do), may I be permitted to say a few words as to some of the objections

which have been made against this play?”

Now, my dear sir, look what a pretty number of please you put forrards

here, why your play shouldn't be good.

First. Good plays are almost always written by actors.

Secknd. You are a novice to the style of composition.

Third. You MAY be mistaken in your effects, being a novelist by trade,

and not a play-writer.

Fourthly. Your in such bad helth and sperrits.

Fifthly. Your so afraid of the critix, that they damp your arder.

For shame, for shame, man! What confeshns is these,--what painful

pewling and piping! Your not a babby. I take you to be some seven or

eight and thutty years old--“in the morning of youth,” as the flosofer

says. Don't let any such nonsince take your reazn prisoner. What,

you, an old hand amongst us,--an old soljer of our sovring quean the

press,--you, who have had the best pay, have held the topmost rank (ay,

and DESERVED them too!--I gif you lef to quot me in sasiaty, and say, “I

AM a man of genius: Y-ll-wpl-sh says so”),--you to lose heart, and cry

pickavy, and begin to howl, because little boys fling stones at you!

Fie, man! take courage; and, bearing the terrows of your blood-red hand,

as the poet says, punish us, if we've ofended you: punish us like a man,

or bear your own punishment like a man. Don't try to come off with such

misrabble lodgic as that above.

What do you? You give four satisfackary reazns that the play is bad (the

secknd is naught,--for your no such chicking at play-writing, this being

the forth). You show that the play must be bad, and THEN begin to deal

with the critix for finding folt!

Was there ever wuss generalship? The play IS bad,--your right--a wuss I

never see or read. But why kneed YOU say so? If it was so VERY bad, why

publish it? BECAUSE YOU WISH TO SERVE THE DRAMA! O fie! don't lay that

flattering function to your sole, as Milton observes. Do you believe

that this “Sea Capting” can serve the drama? Did you never intend that

it should serve anything, or anybody ELSE? Of cors you did! You wrote it

for money,--money from the maniger, money from the bookseller,--for the

same reason that I write this. Sir, Shakspeare wrote for the very same

reasons, and I never heard that he bragged about serving the drama. Away

with this canting about great motifs! Let us not be too prowd, my dear

Barnet, and fansy ourselves marters of the truth, marters or apostels.

We are but tradesmen, working for bread, and not for righteousness'

sake. Let's try and work honestly; but don't let us be prayting pompisly

about our “sacred calling.” The taylor who makes your coats (and very

well they are made too, with the best of velvit collars)--I say Stulze,

or Nugee, might cry out that THEIR motifs were but to assert the eturnle

truth of tayloring, with just as much reazn; and who would believe them?

Well; after this acknollitchmint that the play is bad, come sefral pages

of attack on the critix, and the folt those gentry have found with it.

With these I shan't middle for the presnt. You defend all the characters

1 by 1, and conclude your remarks as follows:--

“I must be pardoned for this disquisition on my own designs. When every

means is employed to misrepresent, it becomes, perhaps, allowable to

explain. And if I do not think that my faults as a dramatic author are

to be found in the study and delineation of character, it is precisely

because THAT is the point on which all my previous pursuits in

literature and actual life would be most likely to preserve me from the

errors I own elsewhere, whether of misjudgment or inexperience.

“I have now only to add my thanks to the actors for the zeal and talent

with which they have embodied the characters entrusted to them. The

sweetness and grace with which Miss Faucit embellished the part of

Violet, which, though only a sketch, is most necessary to the coloring

and harmony of the play, were perhaps the more pleasing to the audience

from the generosity, rare with actors, which induced her to take a

part so far inferior to her powers. The applause which attends the

performance of Mrs. Warner and Mr. Strickland attests their success

in characters of unusual difficulty; while the singular beauty and

nobleness, whether of conception or execution, with which the greatest

of living actors has elevated the part of Norman (so totally different

from his ordinary range of character), is a new proof of his versatility

and accomplishment in all that belongs to his art. It would be scarcely

gracious to conclude these remarks without expressing my acknowledgment

of that generous and indulgent sense of justice which, forgetting all

political differences in a literary arena, has enabled me to appeal to

approving audiences--from hostile critics. And it is this which alone

encourages me to hope that, sooner or later, I may add to the dramatic

literature of my country something that may find, perhaps, almost as

many friends in the next age as it has been the fate of the author to

find enemies in this.”

See, now, what a good comfrabble vanaty is! Pepple have quarld with the

dramatic characters of your play. “No,” says you; “if I AM remarkabble

for anythink, it's for my study and delineation of character; THAT is

presizely the pint to which my littery purshuits have led me.” Have you

read “Jil Blaw,” my dear sir? Have you pirouzed that exlent tragady, the

“Critic?” There's something so like this in Sir Fretful Plaguy, and the

Archbishop of Granadiers, that I'm blest if I can't laff till my sides

ake. Think of the critix fixing on the very pint for which you are

famus!--the roags! And spose they had said the plot was absudd, or the

langwitch absudder still, don't you think you would have had a word in

defens of them too--you who hope to find frends for your dramatic wux

in the nex age? Poo! I tell thee, Barnet, that the nex age will be

wiser and better than this; and do you think that it will imply itself a

reading of your trajadies? This is misantrofy, Barnet--reglar Byronism;

and you ot to have a better apinian of human natur.

Your apinion about the actors I shan't here meddle with. They all acted

exlently as far as my humbile judgement goes, and your write in giving

them all possible prays. But let's consider the last sentence of the

prefiz, my dear Barnet, and see what a pretty set of apiniuns you lay

down.

1. The critix are your inymies in this age.

2. In the nex, however, you hope to find newmrous frends.

3. And it's a satisfackshn to think that, in spite of politticle

diffrances, you have found frendly aujences here.

Now, my dear Barnet, for a man who begins so humbly with what my friend

Father Prout calls an argamantum ad misericorjam, who ignowledges that

his play is bad, that his pore dear helth is bad, and those cussid

critix have played the juice with him--I say, for a man who beginns in

such a humbill toan, it's rather RICH to see how you end.

My dear Barnet, DO you suppose that POLITTICLE DIFFRANCES prejudice

pepple against YOU? What ARE your politix? Wig, I presume--so are mine,

ontry noo. And what if they ARE Wig, or Raddiccle, or Cumsuvvative? Does

any mortial man in England care a phig for your politix? Do you think

yourself such a mity man in parlymint, that critix are to be angry with

you, and aujences to be cumsidered magnanamous because they treat you

fairly? There, now, was Sherridn, he who roat the “Rifles” and “School

for Scandle” (I saw the “Rifles” after your play, and, O Barnet, if

you KNEW what a relief it was!)--there, I say, was Sherridn--he WAS a

politticle character, if you please--he COULD make a spitch or two--do

you spose that Pitt, Purseyvall, Castlerag, old George the Third

himself, wooden go to see the “Rivles”--ay, and clap hands too, and

laff and ror, for all Sherry's Wiggery? Do you spose the critix wouldn't

applaud too? For shame, Barnet! what ninnis, what hartless raskles, you

must beleave them to be,--in the fust plase, to fancy that you are a

politticle genus; in the secknd, to let your politix interfear with

their notiums about littery merits!

“Put that nonsince out of your head,” as Fox said to Bonypart. Wasn't

it that great genus, Dennis, that wrote in Swiff and Poop's time,

who fansid that the French king wooden make pease unless Dennis

was delivered up to him? Upon my wud, I doan't think he carrid

his diddlusion much further than a serting honrabble barnet of my

aquentance.

And then for the nex age. Respected sir, this is another diddlusion;

a gross misteak on your part, or my name is not Y--sh. These plays

immortial? Ah, parrysampe, as the French say, this is too strong--the

small-beer of the “Sea Capting,” or of any suxessor of the “Sea

Capting,” to keep sweet for sentries and sentries! Barnet, Barnet! do

you know the natur of bear? Six weeks is not past, and here your last

casque is sour--the public won't even now drink it; and I lay a wager

that, betwigst this day (the thuttieth November) and the end of the

year, the barl will be off the stox altogether, never, never to return.

I've notted down a few frazes here and there, which you will do well do

igsamin:--

NORMAN.

“The eternal Flora

Woos to her odorous haunts the western wind;

While circling round and upwards from the boughs,

Golden with fruits that lure the joyous birds,

Melody, like a happy soul released,

Hangs in the air, and from invisible plumes

Shakes sweetness down!”

NORMAN.

“And these the lips

Where, till this hour, the sad and holy kiss

Of parting linger'd, as the fragrance left

By ANGELS when they touch the earth and vanish.”

NORMAN.

“Hark! she has blessed her son! I bid ye witness,

Ye listening heavens--thou circumambient air:

The ocean sighs it back--and with the murmur

Rustle the happy leaves. All nature breathes

Aloud--aloft--to the Great Parent's ear,

The blessing of the mother on her child.”

NORMAN.

“I dream of love, enduring faith, a heart

Mingled with mine--a deathless heritage,

Which I can take unsullied to the STARS,

When the Great Father calls his children home.”

NORMAN.

“The blue air, breathless in the STARRY peace,

After long silence hushed as heaven, but filled

With happy thoughts as heaven with ANGELS.”

NORMAN.

“Till one calm night, when over earth and wave

Heaven looked its love from all its numberless STARS.”

NORMAN.

“Those eyes, the guiding STARS by which I steered.”

NORMAN.

“That great mother

(The only parent I have known), whose face

Is bright with gazing ever on the STARS--

The mother-sea.”

NORMAN.

“My bark shall be our home;

The STARS that light the ANGEL palaces

Of air, our lamps.”

NORMAN.

“A name that glitters, like a STAR, amidst

The galaxy of England's loftiest born.”

LADY ARUNDEL.

“And see him princeliest of the lion tribe,

Whose swords and coronals gleam around the throne,

The guardian STARS of the imperial isle.”

The fust spissymen has been going the round of all the papers, as real,

reglar poatry. Those wickid critix! they must have been laffing in their

sleafs when they quoted it. Malody, suckling round and uppards from the

bows, like a happy soul released, hangs in the air, and from invizable

plumes shakes sweetness down. Mighty fine, truly! but let mortial man

tell the meannink of the passidge. Is it MUSICKLE sweetniss that Malody

shakes down from its plumes--its wings, that is, or tail--or some

pekewliar scent that proceeds from happy souls released, and which they

shake down from the trees when they are suckling round and uppards? IS

this poatry, Barnet? Lay your hand on your busm, and speak out boldly:

Is it poatry, or sheer windy humbugg, that sounds a little melojous, and

won't bear the commanest test of comman sence?

In passidge number 2, the same bisniss is going on, though in a more

comprehensable way: the air, the leaves, the otion, are fild with

emocean at Capting Norman's happiness. Pore Nature is dragged in to

partisapate in his joys, just as she has been befor. Once in a poem,

this universle simfithy is very well; but once is enuff, my dear Barnet:

and that once should be in some great suckmstans, surely,--such as the

meeting of Adam and Eve, in “Paradice Lost,” or Jewpeter and Jewno, in

Hoamer, where there seems, as it were, a reasn for it. But sea-captings

should not be eternly spowting and invoking gods, hevns, starrs, angels,

and other silestial influences. We can all do it, Barnet; nothing in

life is esier. I can compare my livry buttons to the stars, or the

clouds of my backopipe to the dark vollums that ishew from Mount Hetna;

or I can say that angels are looking down from them, and the tobacco

silf, like a happy sole released, is circling round and upwards, and

shaking sweetness down. All this is as esy as drink; but it's not

poatry, Barnet, nor natural. People, when their mothers reckonize them,

don't howl about the suckumambient air, and paws to think of the happy

leaves a-rustling--at least, one mistrusts them if they do. Take

another instans out of your own play. Capting Norman (with his eternil

SLACK-JAW!) meets the gal of his art:--

“Look up, look up, my Violet--weeping? fie!

And trembling too--yet leaning on my breast.

In truth, thou art too soft for such rude shelter.

Look up! I come to woo thee to the seas,

My sailor's bride! Hast thou no voice but blushes?

Nay--From those roses let me, like the bee,

Drag forth the secret sweetness!

VIOLET.

“Oh what thoughts

Were kept for SPEECH when we once more should meet,

Now blotted from the PAGE; and all I feel

Is--THOU art with me!”

Very right, Miss Violet--the scentiment is natral, affeckshnit,

pleasing, simple (it might have been in more grammaticle languidge, and

no harm done); but never mind, the feeling is pritty; and I can fancy,

my dear Barnet, a pritty, smiling, weeping lass, looking up in a man's

face and saying it. But the capting!--oh, this capting!--this windy,

spouting captain, with his prittinesses, and conseated apollogies for

the hardness of his busm, and his old, stale, vapid simalies, and his

wishes to be a bee! Pish! Men don't make love in this finniking

way. It's the part of a sentymentle, poeticle taylor, not a galliant

gentleman, in command of one of her Madjisty's vessels of war.

Look at the remaining extrac, honored Barnet, and acknollidge that

Capting Norman is eturnly repeating himself, with his endless jabber

about stars and angels. Look at the neat grammaticle twist of Lady

Arundel's spitch, too, who, in the corse of three lines, has made her

son a prince, a lion, with a sword and coronal, and a star. Why jumble

and sheak up metafors in this way? Barnet, one simily is quite enuff in

the best of sentenses (and I preshume I kneedn't tell you that it's as

well to have it LIKE, when you are about it). Take my advise, honrabble

sir--listen to a humble footmin: it's genrally best in poatry to

understand puffickly what you mean yourself, and to ingspress your

meaning clearly afterwoods--in the simpler words the better, praps. You

may, for instans, call a coronet a coronal (an “ancestral coronal,” p.

74) if you like, as you might call a hat a “swart sombrero,” “a glossy

four-and-nine,” “a silken helm, to storm impermeable, and lightsome as

the breezy gossamer;” but, in the long run, it's as well to call it

a hat. It IS a hat; and that name is quite as poetticle as another. I

think it's Playto, or els Harrystottle, who observes that what we call a

rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Confess, now, dear Barnet,

don't you long to call it a Polyanthus?

I never see a play more carelessly written. In such a hurry you seem to

have bean, that you have actially in some sentences forgot to put in the

sence. What is this, for instance?--

“This thrice precious one

Smiled to my eyes--drew being from my breast--

Slept in my arms;--the very tears I shed

Above my treasures were to men and angels

Alike such holy sweetness!”

In the name of all the angels that ever you invoked--Raphael, Gabriel,

Uriel, Zadkiel, Azrael--what does this “holy sweetness” mean? We're not

spinxes to read such durk conandrums. If you knew my state sins I came

upon this passidg--I've neither slep nor eton; I've neglected my pantry;

I've been wandring from house to house with this riddl in my hand, and

nobody can understand it. All Mr. Frazier's men are wild, looking gloomy

at one another, and asking what this may be. All the cumtributors have

been spoak to. The Doctor, who knows every languitch, has tried and

giv'n up; we've sent to Docteur Pettigruel, who reads horyglifics a

deal ezier than my way of spellin'--no anser. Quick! quick with a

fifth edition, honored Barnet, and set us at rest! While your about it,

please, too, to igsplain the two last lines:--

“His merry bark with England's flag to crown her.”

See what dellexy of igspreshn, “a flag to crown her!”

“His merry bark with England's flag to crown her,

Fame for my hopes, and woman in my cares.”

Likewise the following:--

“Girl, beware,

THE LOVE THAT TRIFLES ROUND THE CHARMS IT GILDS

OFT RUINS WHILE IT SHINES.”

Igsplane this, men and angels! I've tried every way; backards, forards,

and in all sorts of trancepositions, as thus:--

The love that ruins round the charms it shines,

Gilds while it trifles oft;

Or,

The charm that gilds around the love it ruins,

Oft trifles while it shines;

Or,

The ruins that love gilds and shines around,

Oft trifles where it charms;

Or,

Love, while it charms, shines round, and ruins oft,

The trifles that it gilds;

Or,

The love that trifles, gilds and ruins oft,

While round the charms it shines.

All which are as sensable as the fust passidge.

And with this I'll alow my friend Smith, who has been silent all this

time, to say a few words. He has not written near so much as me (being

an infearor genus, betwigst ourselves), but he says he never had such

mortial difficklty with anything as with the dixcripshn of the plott of

your pease. Here his letter:--

To CH-RL-S F-TZR-Y PL-NT-G-N-T Y-LL-WPL-SH, ESQ., &c. &c.

30th Nov. 1839.

MY DEAR AND HONORED SIR,--I have the pleasure of laying before you the

following description of the plot, and a few remarks upon the style of

the piece called “The Sea Captain.”

Five-and-twenty years back, a certain Lord Arundel had a daughter,

heiress of his estates and property; a poor cousin, Sir Maurice Beevor

(being next in succession); and a page, Arthur Le Mesnil by name.

The daughter took a fancy for the page, and the young persons were

married unknown to his lordship.

Three days before her confinement (thinking, no doubt, that period

favorable for travelling), the young couple had agreed to run away

together, and had reached a chapel near on the sea-coast, from which

they were to embark, when Lord Arundel abruptly put a stop to their

proceedings by causing one Gaussen, a pirate, to murder the page.

His daughter was carried back to Arundel House, and, in three days, gave

birth to a son. Whether his lordship knew of this birth I cannot say;

the infant, however, was never acknowledged, but carried by Sir Maurice

Beevor to a priest, Onslow by name, who educated the lad and kept him

for twelve years in profound ignorance of his birth. The boy went by the

name of Norman.

Lady Arundel meanwhile married again, again became a widow, but had a

second son, who was the acknowledged heir, and called Lord Ashdale. Old

Lord Arundel died, and her ladyship became countess in her own right.

When Norman was about twelve years of age, his mother, who wished to

“WAFT young Arthur to a distant land,” had him sent on board ship. Who

should the captain of the ship be but Gaussen, who received a smart

bribe from Sir Maurice Beevor to kill the lad. Accordingly, Gaussen tied

him to a plank, and pitched him overboard.

. . . . . .

About thirteen years after these circumstances, Violet, an orphan niece

of Lady Arundel's second husband, came to pass a few weeks with her

ladyship. She had just come from a sea-voyage, and had been saved from a

wicked Algerine by an English sea captain. This sea captain was no other

than Norman, who had been picked up off his plank, and fell in love

with, and was loved by, Miss Violet.

A short time after Violet's arrival at her aunt's the captain came to

pay her a visit, his ship anchoring off the coast, near Lady Arundel's

residence. By a singular coincidence, that rogue Gaussen's ship anchored

in the harbor too. Gaussen at once knew his man, for he had “tracked”

him, (after drowning him,) and he informed Sir Maurice Beevor that young

Norman was alive.

Sir Maurice Beevor informed her ladyship. How should she get rid of him?

In this wise. He was in love with Violet, let him marry her and be off;

for Lord Ashdale was in love with his cousin too; and, of course, could

not marry a young woman in her station of life. “You have a chaplain on

board,” says her ladyship to Captain Norman; “let him attend to-night

in the ruined chapel, marry Violet, and away with you to sea.” By this

means she hoped to be quit of him forever.

But unfortunately the conversation had been overheard by Beevor, and

reported to Ashdale. Ashdale determined to be at the chapel and carry

off Violet; as for Beevor, he sent Gaussen to the chapel to kill both

Ashdale and Norman; thus there would only be Lady Arundel between him

and the title.

Norman, in the meanwhile, who had been walking near the chapel, had just

seen his worthy old friend, the priest, most barbarously murdered there.

Sir Maurice Beevor had set Gaussen upon him; his reverence was coming

with the papers concerning Norman's birth, which Beevor wanted in order

to extort money from the countess. Gaussen was, however, obliged to run

before he got the papers; and the clergyman had time, before he died,

to tell Norman the story, and give him the documents, with which Norman

sped off to the castle to have an interview with his mother.

He lays his white cloak and hat on the table, and begs to be left alone

with her ladyship. Lord Ashdale, who is in the room, surlily quits it;

but, going out, cunningly puts on Norman's cloak. “It will be dark,”

says he, “down at the chapel; Violet won't know me; and, egad! I'll run

off with her!”

Norman has his interview. Her ladyship acknowledges him, for she cannot

help it; but will not embrace him, love him, or have anything to do with

him.

Away he goes to the chapel. His chaplain was there waiting to marry him

to Violet, his boat was there to carry him on board his ship, and Violet

was there, too.

“Norman,” says she, in the dark, “dear Norman, I knew you by your white

cloak; here I am.” And she and the man in a cloak go off to the inner

chapel to be married.

There waits Master Gaussen; he has seized the chaplain and the boat's

crew, and is just about to murder the man in the cloak, when--

NORMAN rushes in and cuts him down, much to the surprise of Miss, for

she never suspected it was sly Ashdale who had come, as we have seen,

disguised, and very nearly paid for his masquerading.

Ashdale is very grateful; but, when Norman persists in marrying Violet,

he says--no, he shan't. He shall fight; he is a coward if he doesn't

fight. Norman flings down his sword, and says he WON'T fight; and--

Lady Arundel, who has been at prayers all this time, rushing in, says,

“Hold! this is your brother, Percy--your elder brother!” Here is some

restiveness on Ashdale's part, but he finishes by embracing his brother.

Norman burns all the papers; vows he will never peach; reconciles

himself with his mother; says he will go loser; but, having ordered his

ship to “veer” round to the chapel, orders it to veer back again, for he

will pass the honeymoon at Arundel Castle.

As you have been pleased to ask my opinion, it strikes me that there are

one or two very good notions in this plot. But the author does not fail,

as he would modestly have us believe, from ignorance of stage-business;

he seems to know too much, rather than too little, about the stage; to

be too anxious to cram in effects, incidents, perplexities. There is

the perplexity concerning Ashdale's murder, and Norman's murder, and the

priest's murder, and the page's murder, and Gaussen's murder. There is

the perplexity about the papers, and that about the hat and cloak, (a

silly, foolish obstacle,) which only tantalize the spectator, and retard

the march of the drama's action: it is as if the author had said,

“I must have a new incident in every act, I must keep tickling the

spectator perpetually, and never let him off until the fall of the

curtain.”

The same disagreeable bustle and petty complication of intrigue you may

remark in the author's drama of “Richelieu.” “The Lady of Lyons” was a

much simpler and better wrought plot; the incidents following each other

either not too swiftly or startlingly. In “Richelieu,” it always seemed

to me as if one heard doors perpetually clapping and banging; one

was puzzled to follow the train of conversation, in the midst of the

perpetual small noises that distracted one right and left.

Nor is the list of characters of “The Sea Captain” to be despised. The

outlines of all of them are good. A mother, for whom one feels a proper

tragic mixture of hatred and pity; a gallant single-hearted son, whom

she disdains, and who conquers her at last by his noble conduct; a

dashing haughty Tybalt of a brother; a wicked poor cousin, a pretty

maid, and a fierce buccaneer. These people might pass three hours very

well on the stage, and interest the audience hugely; but the author

fails in filling up the outlines. His language is absurdly stilted,

frequently careless; the reader or spectator hears a number of loud

speeches, but scarce a dozen lines that seem to belong of nature to the

speakers.

Nothing can be more fulsome or loathsome to my mind than the continual

sham-religious clap-traps which the author has put into the mouth of

his hero; nothing more unsailor-like than his namby-pamby starlit

descriptions, which my ingenious colleague has, I see, alluded to. “Thy

faith my anchor, and thine eyes my haven,” cries the gallant captain to

his lady. See how loosely the sentence is constructed, like a thousand

others in the book. The captain is to cast anchor with the girl's faith

in her own eyes; either image might pass by itself, but together, like

the quadrupeds of Kilkenny, they devour each other. The captain tells

his lieutenant to BID HIS BARK VEER ROUND to a point in the harbor. Was

ever such language? My lady gives Sir Maurice a thousand pounds to WAFT

him (her son) to some distant shore. Nonsense, sheer nonsense; and what

is worse, affected nonsense!

Look at the comedy of the poor cousin. “There is a great deal of game on

the estate--partridges, hares, wild-geese, snipes, and plovers (SMACKING

HIS LIPS)--besides a magnificent preserve of sparrows, which I can sell

TO THE LITTLE BLACKGUARDS in the streets at a penny a hundred. But I am

very poor--a very poor old knight!”

Is this wit or nature? It is a kind of sham wit; it reads as if it were

wit, but it is not. What poor, poor stuff, about the little blackguard

boys! what flimsy ecstasies and silly “smacking of lips” about the

plovers. Is this the man who writes for the next age? O fie! Here is

another joke:--

“Sir Maurice. Mice! zounds, how can I

Keep mice! I can't afford it! They were starved

To death an age ago. The last was found

Come Christmas three years, stretched beside a bone

In that same larder, so consumed and worn

By pious fast, 'twas awful to behold it!

I canonized its corpse in spirits of wine,

And set it in the porch--a solemn warning

To thieves and beggars!”

Is not this rare wit? “Zounds! how can I keep mice?” is well enough for

a miser; not too new, or brilliant either; but this miserable dilution

of a thin joke, this wretched hunting down of the poor mouse! It is

humiliating to think of a man of esprit harping so long on such a mean,

pitiful string. A man who aspires to immortality, too! I doubt whether

it is to be gained thus; whether our author's words are not too loosely

built to make “starry pointing pyramids of.” Horace clipped and squared

his blocks more carefully before he laid the monument which imber edax,

or aquila impotens, or fuga temporum might assail in vain. Even old

Ovid, when he raised his stately, shining heathen temple, had placed

some columns in it, and hewn out a statue or two which deserved the

immortality that he prophesied (somewhat arrogantly) for himself. But

let not all be looking forward to a future, and fancying that, “incerti

spatium dum finiat aevi,” our books are to be immortal. Alas! the way to

immortality is not so easy, nor will our “Sea Captain” be permitted such

an unconscionable cruise. If all the immortalities were really to have

their wish, what a work would our descendants have to study them all!

Not yet, in my humble opinion, has the honorable baronet achieved this

deathless consummation. There will come a day (may it be long distant!)

when the very best of his novels will be forgotten; and it is reasonable

to suppose that his dramas will pass out of existence, some time or

other, in the lapse of the secula seculorum. In the meantime, my dear

Plush, if you ask me what the great obstacle is towards the dramatic

fame and merit of our friend, I would say that it does not lie so much

in hostile critics or feeble health, as in a careless habit of writing,

and a peevish vanity which causes him to shut his eyes to his faults.

The question of original capacity I will not moot; one may think very

highly of the honorable baronet's talent, without rating it quite so

high as he seems disposed to do.

And to conclude: as he has chosen to combat the critics in person, the

critics are surely justified in being allowed to address him directly.

With best compliments to Mrs. Yellowplush,

I have the honor to be, dear Sir,

Your most faithful and obliged

humble servant,

JOHN THOMAS SMITH.

And now, Smith having finisht his letter, I think I can't do better than

clothes mine lickwise; for though I should never be tired of talking,

praps the public may of hearing, and therefore it's best to shut up

shopp.

What I've said, respected Barnit, I hoap you woan't take unkind. A

play, you see, is public property for every one to say his say on; and

I think, if you read your prefez over agin, you'll see that it ax as a

direct incouridgment to us critix to come forrard and notice you. But

don't fansy, I besitch you, that we are actiated by hostillaty; fust

write a good play, and you'll see we'll prays it fast enuff. Waiting

which, Agray, Munseer le Chevaleer, l'ashurance de ma hot cumsideratun.

Voter distangy,

Y.