With these words I marched out of the house, anathematising in my heart the manager, my tragedy, and that face, whose unfortunate expression I felt had again subjected my feelings to mortification.

Desirous of expressing my feelings of disappointment, I called upon Mr. Jeremy on my way home: by a miracle he was to be seen. In no very measured terms I proceeded to upbraid him for the assurances of success which he had from time to time given me with regard to my production.

"There it is, my dear Jenkins, (exclaimed Mr. Jeremy, in his usual bland manner,) you already are experiencing the cursed consequences of authorship in those disappointments which sometimes inevitably await the greatest talent. My friendship for you induced me to regret that you should be subjected to such trials upon your patience."

"Yes, but why assure me of success, Mr. Jeremy? if my tragedy is really good".

"Why? (exclaimed my companion, theatrically,) remember the poet's wellknown lines

"Full many a flower of purest ray serene,"

And he proceeded with marked emphasis to quote the lines.

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My dear fellow, so it might be with the Lost Lover (he continued); one cannot compel a senseless brute of a manager, you know."

"True!" I sighed, yielding to his reasoning.

"Ah! those managers my dear fellow are sad tyrants."

It was a painful fact, but it was really made to appear as if my personal credit was actually concerned in the appearance of the unfortunate tragedy. It was with difficulty I could conceal my vexation when questioned by my father and others, and I even wanted the moral courage to make known the treatment I had met with. I learned to answer evasively, intending gradually to account for the non-appearance of my piece. To Mr. Mulready, however, I did not scruple about it, but at once informed him of the particulars of my bitter disappointment, for which, indeed, the little gentleman seemed perfectly prepared, and not at all surprised.

"The fact is, Mr. Job, the tragedy is no doubt a good one, and the lovemaking tells well in it, but you are not up to all the moves."

So said Mr. Mulready, and he was sufficiently frank, for he saw that my happiness was but too much concerned in the subject, and he immediately proceeded to offer a few criticisms, feeling his way as a boy does upon ice, so equally solicitous was he of seeing how much I could endure. I heard his remarks with much the same air that a determined patient endures the prick of the lancet; but when, after remarking that it was a somewhat late period to introduce the chief personage in the fourth act, he objected to the denouement

of several people being killed by a flash of lightning, I confess he had nearly exhausted my patience. He saw it, and desisted.

"You have yet to see a great deal to be acquainted with the system which regulates the literature of the day. Now, if you are inclined to accompany me to-morrow evening, I will take you to a place where you will meet a considerable number of the literati, many of them very clever men.'

I intimated the pleasure I should have in accompanying him.

Accordingly, on the following evening, Mr. Mulready having dropped in to take a cup of tea, we started off together, and directed our steps towards Covent-Garden, which we reached about nine o'clock. My companion, who seemed intimately acquainted with the localities of the spot, led the way into a house that demanded the name of an hotel, but which was much more frequently called a tavern. We soon found ourselves in a very spacious room hung round with portraits, and filled with several groups of gentlemen, who for the chief part seemed to unite in two actions, that of smoking and drinking. hum of many voices filled the room, which, together with the fumes of smoke and spirits, I must confess induced an atmosphere that not a little incommoded me. My companion, however, drawing a chair over to a large blazing fire, and calling for brandy and water and cigars, seemed perfectly at home as he waved his hand to several greetings from different parts of the room, that assured me of his being well known.

The

I had taken a chair by the side of my friend, and was anxiously looking at the varied groups that sat round the different tables. Though night, it required by no means very good sight to perceive that many of those who were present seemed to be not a little negligent and seedy in their appearance.

"Ah, I see (said my companion, putting on his spectacles, and inhaling the fumes of his havannah with considerable gusto), you are twigging the outward men. It is a fact, my young friend, that the men of no profession are so distinguished by bad habits as literary men. It applies fairly in a double sense, both physically and morally."

"And to what do you attribute it?" I inquired.

To the uncertainty connected with literature, where men make it the business of their lives. No class of men fag so hard, and none are worse paid; and perhaps, I may say, less thought of generally, although the actual men to whose labours chiefly we are indebted for the peculiar tone and spirit of the age. Though literature generally has become much less venial than in former ages, it has by no means become more dignified. This may be in all probability because it is less original, for so many ideas have become expressed in our language in every department of composition, that it becomes extremely difficult to write with originality and raciness. Almost boundless as the mind's ideas are,

and copious as language is, they must still be said to offer yearly a lesser range for the creation of originality. In poetry, and works of the imagination, this is peculiarly the case. A writer of fiction in the present day has a greater difficulty in avoiding similarity with works that have gone before, than in writing that which to him is perfectly new and original. In other words, to use a simile, the channel of originality in the gulf of literature is becoming so extremely narrowed by previous incrustations, that it is difficult for the cleverest voyagers to avoid coming into contact with the rocks of plagiarism and similitude."

These opinions were launched by Mr. Mulready with a dogmatic assurance that anything but convinced me of their soundness, though I had discretion enough not to attempt controverting them, but rather proceeded to question him respecting the most remarkable of the individuals present.

"They are a miscellaneous mixture (said Mr. Mulready, emitting a mouthful of smoke); of the twenty or thirty in the room, two-thirds of them at least are at best vampers' and' re-dressers.'"

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6

I never heard these terms before-what may they mean?" I inquired.

Why (said my companion) they exist chiefly upon the works of the dead by giving them a new gloss, and altering the original fashion into one more modern and suited to the present. Thus in one, our various histories, philosophical and scientific, it is the old story told over again, perhaps with some trifling additions in the way of discoveries or speculation."

"But this class of writers (I observed) are no less highly valuable in their particular vocation than others. Like picture cleaners, if they properly per form their work, they act the part of benefactors to the public, and that of noble executors to the dead, in clearing the works of learning and genius from the dust and incrustations of time."

"There is all the difference between polishing for another, and appropriating to themselves," said Mr. Mulready.

"Well, I dare say you are right," I replied, as I observed the irritable point of my companion's nose was more and more inflamed.

"I will give you now a few brief particulars of some of the men present, said my friend.-I shall say nothing of that class of men that may be termed the newspaper set, of which there are many present; with the exception of the heads of departments, their employment may be looked upon as little more than mechanical. The first individual (continued the speaker) I shall direct your attention to, is that little smart-looking, gentleman with his eyes twinkling through his spectacles, and who is sitting at the second table on your right, now speaking, and distinguished by his vehement action; that man perhaps has made more books, and upon a greater variety of subjects, than any writer living. To

publishers, he may be termed of the class useful, as nothing comes amiss to him. He is a perfect Grotius in literature, and has assumed more names and appellations, and forms, than you could well believe. His memory is his only astonishing faculty, as he can enumerate many hundreds of the principal works that have been written on an immense variety of subjects, with the abstracts of many of which he is intimately acquainted. Sitting leisurely by his fire side, he has written travels through countries into which he had never set a foot, and written learned treatises upon subjects of which he had but a most superficial knowledge. He has written biographies and histories, guides, treatises, and essays enough to stock a small library. His assumed appellations have been as numerous. They have been in all styles and professions. By a Cabinet Minister' ''A Field Officer Physician'- Barrister,' &c. &c. But his last work, perhaps, is the most laughable, being a book on cookery, assumed to be written by A Lady of Rank,' which has had a very extensive sale, by means of the puffing system."

“Is he a rich man," I inquired.

My companion stared earnestly at me for a moment through his spectacles, as he echoed-" He rich! My dear sir, he's an author-a professional author. I never saw a rich one yet. Though a hard working man, he is frequently' hard up,' in other words is very poor. It is at such periods that his mind is frequently on the stretch to get up some old treatise or matter in a new and taking form, which he no sooner accomplishes and gets paid for, than, forgetful of his recent distress, like hundreds of his brethren, he squanders it away until again reduced to his wits."

"It is a strange portraiture you have drawn," I remarked.

It will show, at least, how few of the public really know that in reading a book that professes to be actually new, they are only perusing in fact the old thoughts, and ideas somewhat modernized, with which their great great grand. fathers were conversant. It is needless to say that this gentleman's business is very little more than mechanical; and that as to originality, he only professes it."

"But still he is entitled to some merit, in his way; he must have good judgment, and a great deal of what is tact," I observed.

Perhaps so (said my companion). But just have the goodness to note the tall, thin-looking young man with the pale face, who is sitting the third on his left. Though pale and dissipated, you cannot fail to be struck by the intellectual intelligence of his countenance. That man is possessed of a splendid genius as a poet. Poor C- was the author of one of the finest tragedies that was ever penned, which, after months of worry and solicitation, was accepted at one of the Royal Theatres."

"Ah! I see you are interested (observed my companion). The tragedy was played, but owing to an unfortunate cast, but more particularly perhaps to a political party that was formed against it, it was most undeservedly damned the first night."

"Infamous-(I exclaimed)-did he never try to get his piece brought forward

again?"

"He wanted, poor fellow, two essentials-friends and interest. Though educated at an university, he had made his appearance in London with but a few pounds in his pocket, and this literary production, on which he had expended great labour and genius, as his sole introduction to notice. His first stepping-stone, as he had deemed it-his visions of fame and profit thus rudely crushed, as it were, in the bud, was too much for his sensitive mind. He took to drinking, and is at present, I believe, in a rapid decline. A true specimen of blighted poetic genius, he has never had the courage to attempt another lofty flight of his muse, but dwindles away his life in obscurity, availing himself of any obscure literary employment, while hundreds of others, with not a tithe of his ability, comparatively speaking, bask in the smiles of fortune."

Mr. Mulready had considerably interested me in this sketch; and as I marked the careworn and emaciated features of the young author, I found that in the melancholy smile that occasionally tinged his countenance, I could trace the expression of a broken spirit that was yielding with his person fast to the inroads of poverty and dissipation.

'What a pity—(I observed to my companion)—that genius is so seldom linked to steadiness and perseverance."

"It is to be lamented, certainly (said Mr. Mulready); but look to the long list of our poets; how seldom do we find it united with that same steadiness? While genius, like the meteor of the marsh, may be said to bewilder or to de light, this fatal gift sublime will be most frequently found an erring light, which, undirected by judgment, or sound principle, expires in a night. After all, perhaps, the greatest triumph genius can achieve, is to attain the summit of fame by the aid of labour and perseverance. In fact, it may be set down as an incontrovertible proposition, that no man, whatever his genius, ever becomes great without hard fagging."

I assented to the truth of this remark.

"Let me now (said my friend) direct your attention to an individual the very antithesis of poor C, the great fault of whose mental as well as physical organization is an extreme sensibility, which indeed forms a portion of the fatal diagnosis of the deadly disease that is most consuming him, when his glance is the brightest, and his spirits the lightest. The man whom I allude