regretted by a multitude of sympathising admirers, on the banks of the Thames as well as on the Seine, between which rivers, by-the-by, her love of botanical pursuits had kept up an intercourse when all the rest of Europe was hermetically sealed against English enterprise.

The great Peace Jubilee, with the bridges and pagodas in St. James's Park, the fleet on the Serpentine, and the symbols, tumults, and rejoicings everywhere, was another of the fruitful topics of the time. Its converse, on the opposite and painful side, was to be found in the party intrigues and disgraceful disputes about the Princess of Wales, and her consequent departure from this country. But upon this subject I have matters, as I venture to presume, of peculiar interest to relate, and which I cannot conveniently weave into my narrative, so near the close of the volume; I shall, therefore, at the latest hour, beg for an allowance of time and credit, till my next tome appears, for their revelation. Mr. Canning's Lisbon mission will, then, also demand my illustration; and, in the meanwhile, not inconsistently with the literary and miscellaneous character of my autobiography, I offer as a reward for granting me this boon, and to enrich these concluding pages with a production that cannot fail to charm every reader of taste and intelligence where the English tongue is spoken, an unpublished work of my late lamented friend, Thomas Hood, whose memory will stand on a higher pinnacle with posterity for his serious and pathetic writings than even for those quaint and facetious performances by which he contributed so largely to the harmless mirth of his age, and in which he was unrivalled.* Hook, also, has I believe left a drama in manuscript, but where I cannot say, unless it may be among Mr. Bentley's stores of dead and sleeping authorship.

* See Appendix.

POSTSCRIPT.

London, 16th April, 1852.

By looking back to the date of my birth it will be seen that on this my birth-day, I finish the task of my first volume, having just received the printers' welcome intimation that there is copy enough in hand to complete the announced quantity. But I am yet more anxious about the quality; and would fain move an à priori arrest of judgment for any errors or inaccuracies which may have escaped me in the haste of composition. I had, apparently, sufficient time for my work, but private circumstances, of no concern to readers, occurred to break hurtfully into it, and on coming to consult data which I had presumed could be readily found and accessible, I discovered that the materials of from forty to fifty years ago were dissipated, no one knew whither! I was thus thrown for the nonce into more difficult labours, with less opportunity for the exact verification of particulars; and it is for any omission and imperfections in respect to these, that I venture to seek the candour of the critic and the indulgence of the public.

W. J.

APPENDIX.

A, p. 12.

ABERRATIONS of reason and weakness of intellect have always deeply excited the attention of thinking men. The curious condition of the Scottish "daft-folks," especially of harmless imbeciles and idiots, of which class almost every town and village, as I have mentioned, enjoyed a representative, could not escape the eye of the great delineator of mankind, from the top to the bottom of the social scale. Respecting one of them near Abbotsford he used to tell, in his naïve and matchless manner, a story; which, as far as I know, has not found its way into print. In strolling forth with his trusty crony, Sir Adam Ferguson, the question ran upon the happiness or the reverse in different stations in life, Ferguson maintaining that there were certain fortunate beings who were exempt from the common troubles to which others were exposed, and Scott holding the opposite argument. As they walked in the fine sunshiny day, they came up with the privileged "fool" of the place, whom Scott immediately addressed, and something like the following colloquy ensued:

Scott. We'el Andrew, how are you?

Andrew. Weel, very weel, thank ye sheriff, for speiring.

Scott. Naebody harms you, I hope, Andrew! are a' the folks careful about ye, and kind to ye?

Andrew. 'Deed are they. A' very kind. A' the warld are kind to poor Andrew !

Scott. We'el fed, I hope; I see ye are we’el clad.

VOL. I.

P

Andrew. Heh! ay! Plenty to eat, and a gude coat on my back! Isn't it, sheriff?

Scott. Yes, Andrew, and I am glad to see it. But as everybody is so kind to you, and you are every way sae weel off, I suppose I must just conclude that you are one of the happiest of human creatures, and can have nothing to distress you.

Andrew (hastily). Na, na, had ye there, sheriff! It would be a' very happy if it war na for that d-d Bubbly Jock (turkey cock). The bairns use me well enough, but they canna help roaring and shouting when they see that cursed brute chasing me about, with his neck a' in fury, and his gobble, gobble, going enough to frighten the de'il. He's after me every day, and

maks me perfectly miserable.

Scott (turning to Sir Adam). Ah, Ferguson, in this life of ours, be assured that every man has his own Bubbly Jock!

B, p. 16.

An eccentric character, such as is now rare in London, used till his death, a very few years ago, to frequent the well-known dinner house and tavern, called the Blue Posts, in Cork Street, a favourite resort, by-the-by, of Old Ebony, when he visited town, and the haunt of the literati connected with " ma Mag as well as of others, who contributed to the press in all directions. He was, it may be guessed, an Octogenarian, and his table and seat were invariably kept for him in a corner of the room, and he as invariably occupied them, summer and winter, as the clock struck his hour of seven. He was pointed out to me as a person who had been acquainted with Burns in his early days, when he came to Edinburgh with his first volume. This was very exciting news, and many an effort did I make to get introduced, so that I might hear something from a living witness of the glorious ploughman. At last I succeeded, and lost no time in popping the question about the poet's appearance, his looks, his habits, and the most minute particulars my venerable friend could remember. Upon which he looked at me with a sort of wondering look, and answered:

I mind (remember) Burns perfectly; but what more would you wish to know? He was a gauger (an exciseman) and it cost me a Guinea to subscribe to his nonsensical book, which might have been much better bestowed."

I turned from my late respected informant with horror; and never would speak to him again as long as he lasted at the Blue Posts.

C, p. 16.

The village of Ednam is two miles from Kelso, and its picturesque and fertile farm was occupied by my mother's eldest brother, John Stuart, the beau-ideal type of a wealthy farmer of that day,-downright but gentlemanly, frank and hospitable, and inhabiting a land of Goshen, in the plenteousness of which lived the lusty pony which bore my brother for embarkation to the sea-side. As the birth-place of Thomson it always possessed still greater attractions for me, and as the annexed sketch is so intimately connected with, and illustrative of, my text, that it might congenially form a part of it, I offer no excuse for inserting it here. It was written for a certain purpose which was abandoned, and I only had a very few copies printed for private circulation; and, notwithstanding the late valuable researches of Mr. Bolton Corney, for Messrs. Longmans' beautiful edition of the poet, I trust the new matter it contains will be acceptable to all literary readers.

The Life of Thomson has been so often written, and Thomson's "Seasons" have been published in so many forms and editions, that it might appear as if nothing new could be told of the former, nor any improvement made on the latter. It is our trust, however, that we may be able not only to add some matters of interest to the memoirs of the bard, but to correct errors which have crept into preceding biographies, and misconceptions touching his immortal poem.

At the distance of nearly a century, research into the private circumstances of an individual career could hope for but small reward in the shape of prominent discoveries; and, where sifted as closely as that of Thomson has been, for but little of