The printer of the "Pilot" I can still see, so oddly do circumstances fix remembrances. His name was Taylor; he lived very frugally, and was master of his duty; and he never got drunk but once a week, viz., on the Saturday night. As Providence, they say, takes care of drunken men and fools, who cannot take care of themselves, Taylor got a prize of the sixteenth of a 20,000l. ticket in the lottery; but it made no difference to him-he lived as low, and got quite as drunk every Saturday as before; he was not spoiled by his good fortune!

But one of the most "noticeable" visitors and inmates

at the " Pilot" office was Mr. Paull, a dapper little fellow, touched with the small-pox, and dressed in blue coat and leather inexpressibles, the fashionable costume of the day; and a very strange and unbecoming one, either on short, fat, protuberant bodies, or on tall, lank, gaunt, skeletonlike forms, such as William Pitt's. Paull was not rich, but, I rather think, participated in some of the native Indian funds. His duel with Burdett, in Coombe Wood, made a great noise at the time; and I have reason to believe that the general opinion was right, and that Burdett deceived him. Be that as it may, the unhappy being, the year after, destroyed himself, having betrayed no symptoms of derangement only a day or two before.

CHAPTER XIII.

PAST TIMES.

What is experience but the sum
Of incidents and trifles that escape

The heedless eye. But being marked, with care
And conduct, make the thoughtful man a sage.

IN running over two of my early newspaper engagements, I have stepped beyond the dates of several matters of a personal nature, which merely require notice in an autobiographical work.

A narrow escape from an ignoble death occurred to me at the time the grand theatrical question between Kemble and Cooke divided public opinion, and filled Drury Lane and Covent Garden theatres every night. The rival Richards was a grand theme; but on the occasion to which I allude, the competition was between the cast of the comedy of "Every Man in his Humour ;" both, indeed, performed in a superlative manner, almost every character being a pattern of dramatic skill and effect. Mr. D. Pollock and I were on our way to the theatre, and waiting opposite the narrow passage in Drury Lane which leads to the house, till a waggon passed by; a post-office light cart galloped up, and endeavouring to clear the waggon, caught the wheel, and was violently upset. The arm alighted on my head, and from that hour (near seven o'clock) to long past midnight, all medical efforts to restore sensibility were tried

in vain. The sedulous applications of Mr. Cartwright, one of the occasional visitors, as I have mentioned, at our literary meetings in Elm Court, at last succeeded in bringing me back to life; but I was many weeks confined to chambers in a confused and pitiable state. I have mentioned the name of my surgical friend for the sake of recording one of those coincidences which have always struck me as having, perhaps, more in them than is dreamt of in our philosophy, though in the present case not so remarkable as to induce one to ponder over it; but it happened only last year that I was run down by a cab hurrying to the railway station, and though not much hurt, it might have been Drury Lane over again and all over with me, yet it was strange that on getting into an omnibus, who should I meet but Mr. Cartwright, my saviour some half century ago, and whom I had not encountered thrice during the intervening time! I confess, however, to having met with many coincidences, which I view with a certain tinge of superstition.

Another of my exploits was a walk from London to Edinburgh. The fancy took me ; and pretending a wager, to preclude the idea of poverty, I equipped myself very lightly for the journey, and started early on a Monday morning. I had taken a farewell dinner with Mr. Kerr, in Golden Square, on the Saturday, and, curiously enough, met Sir D. Carnegie, who was about to set out for Scotland with his lady and two children (I think) on the following day. We, laughingly, said we should see each other on the road; and it turned out that, after Tuesday, there was not a day that we did not pass and repass each other several times. His carriage, and led horse, were no match for my pedestrian activity; and yet we arrived at the Pilgrim Inn, Newcastle, on the same night (Saturday).

VOL. I.

H

Now that railroads have intersected the island with their network, it would be of little use to preach upon the amount of information which can only be obtained by a tour of this kind, mixing with all comers, and seeking intelligence from the highest to the lowest, especially from the latter. After the first day, when I was somewhat footsore with a march of forty miles, I never stopped for the night without being easy and fresh enough to proceed another stage had I liked, and this was a fair boast, after reaching Newcastle at the rate of between forty and fifty miles a day. My plan was a stage before breakfast-a good country breakfast, another stage, a mere morsel for mid-day refection; and then the long stretch, becoming ever more and more agreeable as the cool of the evening prevailed, till the appointed place of rest was attained, with sure provision for a nice bit of supper, and a comfortable bed. Whilst at breakfast Sir D. Carnegie's equipage used to pass my inn, and when they were at dinner I used to pass them; the good lady always pitying my fatigue, and begging me so kindly to ride part of the way in the carriage, that I had great difficulty in winning my (imaginary)

wager.

I talked with everybody on the road, especially the lower orders of my fellow-travellers on foot; and to this day I have not forgotten the remarkable amount of new intelligence which I gathered. At our first social meeting at the Pilgrim, on Saturday, I perfectly astonished Sir D. Carnegie with the excess of my information over his; as he had been flattering himself with the extent of his inquiries and acquisitions on horseback. To learn what is worth knowing about any country, it may be relied upon that there is nothing like a well-arranged and properly-supported humble walk.

From Newcastle, after seeing the then famous glass-works at Shields, I wandered by Durham and Alnwick, and the delightful Coquet, with its memorable hermit's cave

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear, &c."

into Bamborough-shire, into the plentiful luxuries of which -its Cheviot muttons, its leaping fish, of salt and fresh water attributes, its poultry of every kind, its game, and its eider-down beds, in which any small person might be lost for awhile (Heaven grant that the prosperity of those I remember may be perpetuated in their descendants there!)-into the pleasant luxuries of which, I repeat, if ever an Angelina found her way, neither she nor her gentle hermit would ever dream of going back to the cave.

One of the melancholy recollections of this period is that of my first visit to an East Indiaman, a splendid ship, in which I spent several very happy days. It was the ill-fated Abergavenny, wrecked a week afterwards on the Portland Race, when Captain Wordsworth, a brother of the poet and Dr. Wordsworth, perished with some as noble fellows as ever it was my hap to meet on their own element, and full of every hopeful prospect and generous feeling. One of them, after saving two females, was drowned in attempting to rescue a third from the watery grave he shared with her, when but a stroke or two of his sinewy arms would have oared him to safety.

Another painful incident arose from my finding at the bottom of the ballusters, in Elm Court, a pocket-book, on examining which I discovered that it belonged to a lettercarrier. I wrote to a friend in the Post Office to ascertain the owner; but dreadful was the event to him. His pocket had been picked on his "beat" in Whitehall, and the book, after being rifled, deposited where I found it. The