"MY DEAR J.,—

"If you will read the report of the Literary Fund dinner in the Morning Post' of Monday, you will see that the writer (who, from the folly and malevolence of the article, I take to be L ***) has stated that Lord Mulgrave sat still, &c., when the Queen's health was proposed. Now you know that after the King's salubrity has been eulogised in a becoming quantity of cheers, no one's health is drank uproariously except such as are present at the dinner-this was intended, and ought to have been the case when Adelaide's health was drank. But there were people present (and I heard before the feast that there were to be), who wished to turn the hilarity of the evening into a political squabble. Hence that foolish piece of spite, in its appropriate journal, "The Morning Post." The Queen (God bless her!), whose taste in literature is undoubted, spells through its columns every day; nor did she omit to do so last Monday; the consequence was, that she complained of Lord Mulgrave's neglect in cheering, as it was there asserted. He is annoyed at this, and wishes it to be contradicted, as he behaved most loyally on the occasion, the only mistake being that which I mentioned, of not thinking it necessary to depart from the established rules of toast-giving. Therefore do you, like a good soul, in your report of the dinner to-morrow, take up your goosequill in his defence, and state how absurd and mischievous the report must have been so shall you acquire kudos and thanks. I enclose a slip of correspondence, which I have just received from our friend Tyrone, and have put his friend's name down for the club; so add to your favours by shoving your name under mine.

"Farewell!

"Yours affectionately,

"FRANK SHERIDAN."

"Friday, 13th June, 1834."

Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a d-mn-ble life in this world,

That I don't think he'll wish to come back!-GOLDSMITH.

DURING the period I have been speaking of, my regular literary occupation was connected with the "Morning Post," and afterwards with the "British Press;" but I was also a contributor to the "Satirist," a monthly publication, edited by Mr. George Manners, from whom I subsequently purchased the copyright, and tried my luck with a new series, divested of the personalities and rancour of the old. This purchase was a beautiful example of the bargains made in so business-like a style by literary men. Mr. Manners was a gentleman in every sense of the word, full of fancy and talent, acute and well-informed. For aught I know, he is now a British consul in America. He sold me the magazine, the stock, and the house in which it was published (No. 267, Strand), as folks say, in a lump, the latter being vouched as respectably tenanted. But I turned out not only an unsuccessful speculator in the publication, but a still more unfortunate landlord. My first floor was held by a good-looking mantua-maker, with four or five younger assistants; and they all literally laughed at me when I

called for rent. Not a farthing did I ever get from the concern. My other tenant was the agent for one of the wealthiest mines ever discovered in Wales, but who was equally abstemious in regard to paying for his lodgings; and as I could not suffer him to grin at me, like the ladies upstairs, and threatened him with I know not what; he very civilly bade me farewell, and, as a proof of his confidence, enclosed the large door-key to me in a letter, P.P.A! To end my house-owning adventure,-I possessed it still when the "Literary Gazette" commenced, and it became the publishing office of Messrs. Pinnock and Maunder,—I disposed of it, and received bills on the Newbury bank for the price. The Newbury bank was robbed, and stopped payment. My bills were non inventus; and it was a dozen years after that the honesty of the parties found means to discharge the debt.

In the way of jobs there were, and I daresay there are, often literary services required of individuals, who become known as writers for the press. Some of them are honourable, some lucrative, and some hardly to be squared with very correct feelings, though not absolutely disreputable. But they are things which, upon after reflection, you would rather wish you had not done, or had anything to do with. I had helped a comrade, hurried to complete his work, a lift in the translation of Staël's Corinne-a task which repaid itself in the pleasure of performance; but I was not so well satisfied with my next production, though I cannot now recall the grounds of my dissatisfaction—it was the composition of a novel under the title of "New Canterbury Tales," the material furnished by some captain, or I forget what, and the literary shape given by Mr. Michael Nugent, the undertaker, and myself. Nugent was for many years a reporter, and an exceedingly clever man, thrown

away as the cleverest reporters, unfortunately for themselves and the public, too often are; and I daresay there is nothing seriously objectionable in our joint labour (should a copy still be preserved), though I think it was done to gratify some personal feelings, and avenge some wrongs attributed by the author to the party we were engaged to expose. At the time it seemed like hunting a polecat or badger, but, as I have confessed, did not bear the morrow's review as a gentlemanly sport. I have, however, dwelt more on the subject than it deserves.

It was better, and more congenial employment, to edit provincial newspapers in London, which, though absurd as it may seem at first sight, is just as effective (with a subeditor on the spot for the local news, &c.) as if the writer resided in the place of publication. For the political intelligence had to come from town, to be handled in the country, and it was quite as easy and expeditious to have the news and the commentaries sent down together. I do not know whether the railroad system, and the greater importance of the leading provincial journals, now, may have altered this practice, but it was previously a source of considerable revenue to the gentlemen engaged in such communications. Thus I edited the "Sheffield Mercury" for a number of years, and at other times a Birmingham, a Staffordshire Pottery, an Irish journal (for which I never was paid), and others in various parts of the country, to the sound edification of their readers, and the entire relief of their proprietors, who had nothing to do but eat their puddings and hold their tongues.

The details of my London contributions to the press, in a subordinate position, could possess but little public interest; and all I shall hope to do, with the sanction of my readers, will be to allow me in future volumes to submit

a selection of such articles (the newspaper phrase comprehending everything), as I may flatter myself are worthy of preservation. They are scattered about in many a quarter; and I never could trace or recover half of them. Even in this, my first volume, I venture to submit one specimen of my extra-harness,* voluntary, votive offerings, which was contributed in aid of an unfortunate brother scribe a good many years ago.

Of my writings in the "Morning Post" the most effective, in one sense, were a continuation of "leaders," as editorial comments are designated, pending the memorable charges brought by Mr. Wardle, and sustained by the evidence of Mary Anne Clarke. In these I made an abstract of the parliamentary proceedings from night to night, and earnestly maintained the cause of his royal highness against all comers, denouncing the conspiracy against him, and exposing the misdeeds of his enemies. I am not now going to revive the question, nor give my opinion of the measure of weakness on one side, or falsehood on the other. Sorely did the duke prove the truth of the poet, that "Our pleasant vices make instruments to Scourge us as certainly and more severely than our crimes; but the appeal has been made from Philip drunk to Philip sober; and I believe that history will clear the accused from all the grosser stains with which Party and Malicious revenge laboured so fiercely to blacken his character. But be that as it may, the tide of popular resentment ran far too strong at the time to allow of any resistance. The outcry was too loud to admit of any other voice being heard; and though I shouted as vehemently as I could, it would be inconsistent with truth to assert that I succeeded, to any extent, in arresting or modifying the overwhelming current

See Appendix F.