But a sharpened appetite for supper called me away, and I quickly followed my companions, casting a last glance around, and suppressing a faint sigh, fraught with the reflection, "All this—Deo volente—will be ours for nearly three months." Why does one so often sigh on such an occasion?

You may conceive how we enjoyed our supper to the utmost, and then all of us retired to our respective apartments, which were so brilliantly lit by the moon, as to make our candles pale their ineffectual fires. I stood for a long time gazing at the beautiful scenery visible from my little dressing-room window, and then retired to rest, grateful to the Almighty for our being allowed the prospect of another of these periodical intervals of relaxation and enjoyment. To me they get more precious every year; they do, decidedly. But why? Let me, however, return to this question by-and-by: 'tis one which, with kindred subjects, has much occupied my thoughts this autumn, in many a long, solitary stroll over the hills, and along the seashore.

I wish I could do justice to my cottage and its lovely locality. Yet why should I try to set your's and your readers' teeth on edge? You have some lovely nooks on your Scottish coast; but you cannot beat this. We are about three hundred yards from the sea, of which our windows, on one side, command a full view; while from all the others are visible dark, high, steep downs, at so short a distance, that methinks, at this moment, I can hear the faint—the very faint—tinkle of a sheep-bell, proceeding from some of the little white tufts moving upon them. I am now writing to you towards the middle of this stormy October. Its winds have so much thinned the leaves of the huge elms which stand towards the south-eastern parts of our house, that I can now, from my study-window, distinctly see the church—very small, and very ancient—which, when first we came, the thick foliage rendered totally invisible from this point. My window looks directly upon the aforesaid downs, which at present appear somewhat gloomy and desolate. Yet have they a certain air of the wild picturesque, the effect of which is heightened by the howling winds, which are sweeping down over them to us, moaning and groaning through the trees, and round the gables of our house, (the aspect of the sky being, at the same time, bleak and threatening.) How it enhances my sense of snugness in the small antique, thoroughly wind-and-weather tight room in which I am writing! A little to my left is a vast natural hollow in the downs, from which springs a sort of little hanging wood or copse, the mottled variegated hues of which have a beautiful effect. Between me and the downs are small clumps of trees—abrupt little declivities, thickly lined with shrubs, all touched with the bronze tinting of the far-advanced autumn—two or three intensely-green fields, in the nearest of which are browsing the two cows belonging to the parsonage—which is, by the way, quite invisible from any part of my house, though at only a hundred yards' or two distance. Oh! 'tis a model—a love of a parsonage!—buried among lofty trees, richly adorned with myrtles, laurel, and clematis—the well-trimmed greensward immediately surrounding the long, low, thatched house, which combines rural elegance, simplicity, and comfort in its disposition—is bordered by spreading hydrangeas, dahlias, fuschias, mignionette, and roses—ay, roses, even yet in full bloom! Its occupant is my friend, a dignitary of the church, a scholar, a gentleman, and "given to hospitality;" but I will say nothing more on this head, lest, peradventure, I should offend his modesty, and disclose my locality. My own house is more than sufficient for my family; 'tis a small gentleman's cottage, delightfully situate, and containing every convenience, (especially for a symposium,) and surrounded by a luxuriant garden. Along one side of the house, and commanding an extensive and varied sea and land view, runs a little terrace of "soft, smooth-shaven green," made for a meditative man to pace up and down, as I have done some thousand times—by noonday sunlight, by midnight moonshine—buried in reverie, or charmed by contemplating the scenery around, disturbed by no sound save the caw! caw! caw! from the parsonage rookery, the sough of the wind among the trees, and, latterly, the sullen echoes of the sea thundering on the shore. Ah! what an inexpressibly beautiful aspect is just given to the scene by that transient gleam of saddening sunlight!

I can really give no account of my time for the last eleven weeks, which have slipped away almost unperceivedly—one day so like another, that scarce any thing can be recorded of one which would not be applicable to every other. Breakfast over, (crabs, lobster, or prawns, and honey indigenous, the constant racy accessaries,) all the intermediate time between that hour and dinner, (for I am no lunch-eater,) six p.m., is spent in sauntering along the shore, poking among the rocks, strolling over the clefts, and clambering up and wandering about the downs; and occasionally in pilgrimages to distant and pretty little farm-houses, (in quest of their products for our table,) generally accompanied by Tickler, always by a book, sometimes with my wife and children; but most frequently alone, chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies, and always avoiding, of set purpose, any other company (even were it here to be had) in my rambles, than as is aforesaid. 'Tis ecstacy to me to sit alone on a rock in a sequestered part of the shore, especially when the tide is high, and equally whether it be rough or smooth, or calm or stormy weather: for as to this last, I have discovered a friendly nook in the rocks, big enough to hold me only, and deep enough to give me shelter from the wind and rain, except when they beat right in upon me. You may laugh, perhaps, but in this retreat I have spent many an entire day—i.e. from ten A.M. to six P.M., sometimes pacing to and fro on the sands, near my hole, generally bathing about mid-day, taking with me always the Times newspaper, (which I generally got from the old postman, whom I met on my way down to the sands,) the current number of Maga, or some favourite volume, being also frequent companions. I must acknowledge, however, that the first was my special luxury, to which I daily addressed myself with all the eager relish of a dog with a fresh bone in an unfrequented place—and whom I conceive to be, so circumstanced, in a state paradisiacal;—for, indeed, to such a pass are matters come, that no man whom I know of can miss his newspaper without a restless, uncomfortable feeling of having slipped a day behind the world. Surely I may here, in passing, say a word or two about NEWSPAPERS?

And coming from one who, as you know, never had any thing to do with newspapers, except as having been an eager and regular reader of them for more than twenty years, I hope my testimony is worth having, when I express my opinion that our newspaper press is a very great honour to Great Britain, as well negatively in its abstinence from myriads of tempting but objectionable topics, as well as positively in the varied ability, the energy, accuracy, and amazing promptitude displayed in dealing with the ever-changing and often-perplexing affairs of the world. Inestimably precious is the unshackled freedom of these wondrous organs of public opinion: infringe, though never so slightly, and but for a moment, upon that independence, and you wound our LIBERTY in the very apple of the eye.

Let any government unjustifiably or oppressively attack one of our newspapers—whatever may be its politics—how indifferent even soever its character—with an evident intention to impair its independence—and there is not a man in the country who would not suddenly feel a stifling sensation, as if some attempt had been made upon his immediate personal rights. The nation may be (though fancifully) compared to a huge monster, with myriads of tentacles—or whatever else you may call them—as its organ of existence and action, every single one of which is so sensitive, that, if touched, the whole creature is instantly roused and in motion, as if you had touched them all, and stimulated all into simultaneous and frightful action. The public is this vast creature—the press are these tentacles. Fancy our Prime Minister pouncing oppressively and illegally upon the very obscurest provincial paper going—say the "Land's End Farthing Illuminator!" Why, the whole artillery of the press of the United Kingdom would instantly open upon him; in doing so, being the true exponent of the universal fury of the country—and in a twinkling where would be my Lord John, or would have been Sir Robert, with the strongest government that ever was organised? Extinguished, annihilated. Let some young and unreflecting Englishman compare this state of things with that which is at this moment in existence in Spain!—in which every newspaper daring to express itself independently, though moderately, on a stirring political event of the day, is instantly pounced upon by an infamous—a truly execrable government, and silenced and suppressed; and its conductors fined and imprisoned. We in this country cannot write or read the few words conveying the existence of such a state of facts, without our blood boiling. And is there no other country where the press is overawed—submits, however sullenly, to be dictated to by government, to become the despicable organ of falsehood and deceit—and is accessible to bribery and corruption? And what are we to say of the press of the United States of America, pandering (with some bright exceptions) to the vilest passions, the most depraved tastes of the most abandoned among the people, and mercenary and merciless libellers? With scarcely more than a single foul exception—and that, one regrets to say, in our Metropolis, in which are published nearly forty newspapers—can any person point out a newspaper, in town or country, indulging in, ribald or obscene language or allusions, or—with two or three exceptions—professed impiety, or slanderous attacks upon public or private character. Some year or two ago there was manifested, in a certain portion of the metropolitan press, a tendency downwards of this sort; and how long was it before popular indignation rose, and—to use a legal phrase—abated the nuisance? Can the chief perpetrator of the enormities referred to, even now, after having undergone repeated legal punishment, show himself any where in public without encountering groans and hisses, and the risk even of personal violence? And did not the occasion in question rouse the legislature itself into action, the result of which was a law effectually protecting the public against wicked newspapers, and, on the other hand, justly affording increased protection to the freedom and independence of the virtuous part of the press? I repeat the question—Who can point out more than one or two of our newspapers which are morally discreditable to the country? No censor of the press want we: the British public is its own censor. What a vast amount of humbug, of fraud, of meanness, of corruption, of oppression, of cruelty, and wickedness, as well in private as in public life—as well in low as in high places—is not kept in check, and averted from us, by the sleepless vigilance, the fearless interference, the ceaseless denunciations of our public press! 'Tis a potent preventive to check evil—or rather may be regarded as a tremendous tribunal, to which the haughtiest and fiercest among us is amenable, before which, though he may outwardly bluster, he inwardly quails, whose decrees have toppled down headlong the most exalted, into obscurity and insignificance, and left them exposed to blighting ridicule and universal derision. It is true that this power may be, and has been, abused: that good institutions and their officials have been unjustly denounced. But this is rare: the vast power above spoken of exists not, except where the press is unanimous, or pretty nearly so: and as the British people are a just and truth-loving people, (with all their weaknesses and faults,) the various organs of their various sections and parties rarely come to approach unanimity, except in behalf of a good and just cause. Let the most potent journal in the empire run counter to the feeling and opinion of the country, if we could imagine a journal so obstinate and shortsighted, and its voice is utterly ineffectual—the objects of its deadliest animosity remain unscathed, though, it may be, for a brief space exposed to the irritating and annoying consequences of publicity. Let this country embark, for instance, in a just war—within a day or two our press would have roused the enthusiasm of this country, even as that of one man. Let it be an unjust war—and the government proposing it, or appearing likely to precipitate it, bombarded by the artillery of the press, will quickly be shattered to pieces. All our institutions profit prodigiously by the wholesome scrutiny of the press. The Church, the Army, the Navy, the Law, every department of the executive—down to our police-offices, our prisons, our workhouses—in any and every of them, tyranny, peculation, misconduct of every sort, is quickly detected, and as quickly stopped and redressed. While conferring these immense social benefits, how few are the evils, how rare—as I have already observed—the misconduct to be set off! How very, very rare are prosecutions for libel or sedition, or actions for libel, against the press; and even when they do occur, how rare is the success of such proceedings! I happen, by the way, to be able to give two instances of the generous and gentlemanlike conduct of the conductors of two leading metropolitan newspapers of opposite politics; one was of very recent occurrence:—A hot-headed political friend of mine, contrary to my advice, forwarded to The ——— a fact, duly authenticated, concerning a person in high station, which, if it had been published, would have exquisitely annoyed the party in question, whose politics were diametrically opposed to those of the newspaper referred to, and would also have afforded matter for party sarcasm and piquant gossip in society. The only notice taken of my crestfallen friend's communication was the following, in the next morning's "Notices to Correspondents:"—"To [Greek: S].—The occurrence referred to is hardly a fair topic for [or 'within the province of'] newspaper discussion." The other case was one which occurred two or three years ago; and the editor of the paper in question did not deign to take the least notice whatever of the communication—not even acknowledging the receipt of it. There is one feature of our leading London newspapers which always appears to me interesting and remarkable: it is their leading article on a debate, or on newly-arrived foreign intelligence. Let an important ministerial speech be delivered in either House of Parliament on a very difficult subject, and at a very late hour, or say at an early hour in the morning; and on our breakfast-tables, the same morning, is lying the speech and the editor's interesting and masterly commentary on it—evincing, first, a thorough familiarity with the speech itself, and with the difficult and often obscure and complicated topics which it deals with; and, secondly, a skilful confutation or corroboration, wherein it is difficult which most to admire, the logical acuteness, dexterity, and strength of the writer, the vigour and vivacity of his style, or the accuracy and extent of his political knowledge; and this, too, after making large allowance for occasional crudity, perversion, inconsistency, or flippancy. The same observation applies to their articles, often equally interesting and masterly, on newly-arrived foreign intelligence. Conceive the extent to which such a writer, such a journal must influence public opinion, and gradually and unconsciously bias the minds of even able and thinking readers. Engaged actively in their own concerns all day long, they have too often neither the inclination nor opportunity for sifting the sophistries, skilfully intermingled with just and brilliant reasoning, and disguised under splendid sarcasm and powerful invective. How, again, can they test the accuracy of historical and political references and assertions, if happening to lie beyond their own particular acquisitions and recollections? The other side of the question, such a one is aware, will probably be found in the Chronicle or Standard, the Times or Globe, Sun or Herald respectively, whose business it is to be continually on the watch for each other's lapses, to detect and expose them. To what does all this lead but the formation of an indolent habit of acquiescence in other men's opinions—a hasty, superficial acquaintance with pros and cons, upon even the gravest question propounded by other men—a heedless, universal taking upon trust, instead of that salutary jealousy, vigilance, and independence, which insists in every thing, upon weighing matters in the balances of one's own understanding? Many a man is reading these sentence who knows that they are telling the truth; and doubtless he will be for the future upon his guard, resolved not to surrender his independence of judgement, or suffer his faculties to decay through inaction.—But, bless me! this glorious morning is slipping away. I hear Tickler scratching at the door. I shut up my writing-case, don my coat, hat, and walking-stick, and away to the shore. Scarcely have I got upon the sands, when behold, floating majestically past me, at little more than a mile's distance, the magnificent St Vincent (one hundred and twenty guns.) There's a line-of-battle ship for you! I take off my hat involuntarily in the presence of our Naval Majesty. I gaze after her with those feelings and thoughts of fond pride and exultation which gush over the heart of an Englishman looking at one of HIS MEN-OF-WAR! Well—superb St Vincent, you have now rounded the corner, and are out of sight; but I remain riveted to the spot with folded arms, and ask of our naval rulers, with a certain stern anxiety, a question, which I shall throw into the striking language of Mr Canning—"Are you, my Lords and Gentlemen, silently concentrating the force to be put forth on an adequate occasion?" Who can tell how soon that adequate occasion will present itself? Is the peace of Europe at this moment so profound, is our own position so satisfactory and impregnable, that we may wisely and safely dismiss all anxiety from our minds? Why, has not, within these few days past, an event occurred which is calculated to give rise to very serious anxiety in the minds of those feeling an interest in public affairs? I allude to the Duc de Montpensier's marriage with the Infanta Donna Luisa, which I have just learned, was actually carried into effect at Madrid on the 10th instant, in the teeth of the stern and repeated protest of Great Britain. I do not take every thing for gospel which appears on this subject in the newspapers, from which alone we have hitherto derived all our knowledge of this affair; and, with a liberal allowance in respect of their excusable anxiety to make the most of what they regard as a godsend at this vapid period of the year, I would suspend my judgment till the country shall have had full and authentic information concerning the real state of the case. I hope it will prove that I for one have altogether mistaken the aspect and bearings of the affair. Discarding what may possibly turn out to be greatly exaggerated or wholly unfounded, I take it nevertheless for granted, that, (1st,) the youngest son of the reigning King of the French was, on the 10th instant, married to Donna Luisa, the sister of the reigning Queen of Spain, and heiress-presumptive to her crown; (2dly,) That this was done after and in spite of the distinct emphatic protest of the British government, conveyed to those of both Spain and France; (3dly,) That the British government and the British ambassadors at Madrid and Paris had been kept in profound ignorance of the whole affair up to the moment of the annunciation to the world at large of the fact, that the marriage had been finally—irrevocably determined upon. I think it, moreover, highly probable, that (1st,) this marriage is regarded by the people of Spain with sullen dislike and distrust; (2dly,) that there has been cruel coercion upon the two royal girls—for such they are—the result of an intrigue between their Mother, the notorious Christina, and Louis Philippe; (3dly,) that an express or implied promise was personally given, during the last year, at the Chateau d'Eu, by the French king and his minister, to our queen and her minister, that this event should not take place;—and all this done while England was reposing in confident and gratified security, upon the supposed "cordial understanding" between herself and France; in contemptuous disregard of England's title to be consulted in such an affair, founded upon her stupendous sacrifices and exertions on behalf of the peace and liberty of Spain, and in deliberate defiance—as it appears to me—of the treaty of Utrecht! What is Louis Philippe about? On what principles are we to account for his conduct? Has he counted the cost of obtaining his immediate object? Has he calculated the consequences with respect to France and to Europe generally? Is he prepared, at the proper time, to demonstrate, that the step which he has taken is consistent with his character for sincerity and straight-forwardness—with his personal honour and welfare—with the honour and welfare of his family and of France? That he has not violated any pledge, or infringed any treaty? That England is not warranted in considering herself aggrieved, slighted, insulted? That he could have had no sinister object in view, and that his conduct has been consistent with his loud professions of friendship and respect for this country and its sovereign? Let him ask himself the startling question, whether he can afford to lose our friendship and support towards himself or his family and dynasty, in his rapidly declining years—or further, provoke our settled anger and hostility? England is frank and generous, but somewhat stern and sensitive in matters of honour and fidelity; and none is abler than Louis Philippe to appreciate the consequences of her resentment. Is he aware of the altered feeling towards him which his recent conduct has generated in this country? That his name, when coupled with that conduct, is mentioned only with the contempt and disgust due to gross insincerity, selfishness, and treachery; and that, too, in a country which, up to within a few months ago, gave him such unequivocal and gratefully-recognised tokens of respect and affection? Whenever he escaped from the hand of the assassin, where was the event hailed with such profound sympathy as here? Now, his name suggests to us only that of his execrable father, and reminds us that the blood running in his veins is that of Philip EgalitÉ. Surely the equipoise of European interests has been seriously disturbed, either through the insane recklessness of an avaricious monarch, bent on enriching every member of his family, at all hazards, or in furtherance of a deep and long-considered scheme, having for its exclusive and sinister object the aggrandisement of his family and nation. Had he come to a secret understanding beforehand with America, or any European power, to support him throughout the consequences which might ensue? Was it his object to crush English influence in the Peninsula, and render it at no distant period a mere French province, and give him a right or pretext for interference? What will the Spanish nation say to what he has done? Has he rightly estimated the Spanish character, and foreseen the consequences of what he has done, in perpetrating an abduction of their Infanta? What prospects has he opened for Spain? Has he considered what a line of policy is now open to Great Britain, with reference to Spain? Whether the northern powers of Europe will announce dissatisfaction at this proceeding remains to be seen. They cannot feel satisfaction, unless their relations and policy towards this country and France are assuming a new character. I should like to know what M. Guizot really thinks on all these subjects, and am curious to hear what he will say—or rather suffer his royal master to coerce him into saying—when the time shall have arrived for public explanation. I trust that it will speedily appear that our representatives in Spain and France have acted, as became them, with promptitude, prudence, and spirit, and that neither our late nor present foreign Secretary has been guilty of neglect or bungling diplomacy, so as to place us now in a position of serious embarrassment, or ridiculous inability for action. If the contrary be the case—that is, if no such compromise of our national interests have occurred, and we are now free to say and do what we may consider consistent with our rights and character, it is to be hoped that our government, by whomsoever carried on, will act on the one hand with dignified and uncompromising determination, and on the other with the utmost possible circumspection. They have to deal with a very subtle and dangerous intriguer in Louis Philippe, who seems to have chosen a moment for the development of his plans most convenient for himself—viz., when our Parliament was newly prorogued, not to meet again till he should have had the benefit of the chapter of accidents. All will, however, assuredly come out; and if the main features of the case prove to have been already shadowed forth truly, I do not think that there will be found two opinions in this country upon the subject of Louis Philippe and his Montpensier marriage. It is represented by, one of our journals as an event, the hubbub about which "will soon blow over;" but I do not think so—it appears, on the contrary, pregnant with very serious and far-stretching consequences—the first of which is the undoubted conversion of the "cordial understanding" between England and France, into a very "cordial misunderstanding,"—with all its embarrassing and threatening incidents. Our diplomatic relations are now chilled and disordered; and the worst of it is, not by a temporary, but permanent cause—one which, the more we contemplate it, the more distinctly we perceive the consequences which it was meant should follow from it. The bearing of England towards France has become one of stern and guarded caution. In all human probability, Louis Philippe will never look again upon the face of our Queen Victoria, or partake of her hospitalities, or be permitted to pour his dulcet deceit into her ears. He may affect to regard with satisfaction and exultation the fact of his having become the father-in-law of the heiress-presumptive to the throne of Spain: but I do not think that he can really regard what he has just accomplished otherwise than with rapidly-increasing misgiving. "A few months," to adopt the language of one of our most powerful journalists, "will now probably show us how far Louis Philippe has succeeded in a feat which foiled the undying ambition of Louis le Grand, and the unexampled might of Napoleon; and what is the real value of the spoil for which he has not hesitated to imperil a thirty years' peace, and convulse the relations of Europe?" Let me return, however, to the topic which led me into this subject, and express again my deep anxiety for the efficient management of our navy: adding a significant fact disclosed by the last number of La Presse—which announces that the Minister of Marine has just concluded contracts for ship-timber to be supplied to the ports of Toulon, Cherbourg, Brest, L'Orient, and Rochefort, to the extent of upwards of 25,000,000 francs, (i.e. upwards of a million sterling.) Does Louis Philippe meditate leaving to France the destructive legacy of a war with England, as a hoped-for prevention of the civil war which he may expect to ensue upon his death?

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If I were to write a diary here, it would be after the following sort:—

Monday.—Another shark! Mercy on us! What a brute! But not so big as the other.

Tuesday.—We had capital honey this morning to breakfast; eightpence per lb.—freshly expressed from the wax, and got from Granny Jolter's farm.

Wednesday.—My Times did not come by to-day's post, and I feel I don't know how.

Thursday.—The "hot crab" which we had at the parsonage, where we dined to-day, was exquisite. The way it is done is—the whole of the inside, and the claws, having been mixed together with a little rich gravy, (sometimes cream is used;) curry-paste, not curry-powder, and very fine fried crumbs of bread, is put into the shell of the crab and then salamandered. If my cook can do it on my return to town, I will give her half-a-crown.

Friday.—Nothing whatever happened; but it looked a little like rain, over the downs, about four o'clock in the afternoon.

Saturday.—A day of incidents. Ten o'clock A.M.—The coast-guard man told me, that about five o'clock this morning, as he was coming along ---- cliff, a young fox popped out of a thicket close at his feet, looked "quite steady-like at him for about five seconds," and then ran back into the furze.

Eleven o'clock.—Saw a Cockney "gent" on a walking tour, the first of the sort that I have seen in these parts, and he looked frightened at the solitariness of the scene. Every thing that he had on seemed new: a dandified shining hat; a kind of white pea-jacket; white trowsers; fawn-coloured, gloves; little cloth boots tipped with shining French polished leather; a very slight umbrella covered with oil-skin; and a little telescope in a leathern case, slung round his waist. He fancied, as he passed me, that he had occasion to use a gossamer white pocket-handkerchief, with a fine border to it; for he took it out of an outside breast-pocket, and unfolded it deliberately and jauntily. Whence came he, I wonder? He cannot walk four miles further, poor fellow! for evidently walking does not agree with him: yet he must, or sit down and cry in this out-of-the-way place.

Two o'clock.—Tickler caught a little crab among the rocks. It got hold of his nose, and bothered him.

Four o'clock.—As I was sitting on a tumble-down sort of gate, talking earnestly with my little boy, I heard some vehicle approaching—looked up as it turned the corner of the road, and behold—Her Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and one or two other persons, without outriders or any sort of state whatever! She was dressed exceedingly plain, and was laughing heartily at something said to her by a well-known nobleman who walked beside the carriage. I never saw her Majesty looking to so much advantage: in high spirits, with a fine fresh colour, and her hair a little deranged by the wind. She and her little party seemed surprised at seeing any one in such an out-of-the-way place, and her Majesty and the Prince returned our obeisances with particular courtesy.

Half-past Five.—Nick Irons met me with a large viper which he had just killed, after it had flown at his dog. Is there any difference between vipers and adders?

A quarter past Six.—On arriving at home, found a hot crab, which had been sent in to us, as an addition to our dinner, from the parsonage. I lick my lips while thinking of it. I prefer the cream to the gravy.

Half-past six.—Find I have got only three bottles of port and two of sherry left!

Nine o'clock.—My four gallon cask of elderberry wine, made for me—and capitally made, too—by one of the villagers, came home. We are to put a quart of brandy in it, and "take care it don't forment." I fancy I see ourselves and the children regaling ourselves with it on the winter's evenings, in town. Altogether it has cost me twelve shillings and sixpence!

Quarter past Nine.—Children go to bed; I had the candles brought in, resolved to read the new number of the ----; but fell asleep directly, and never woke till half-past twelve o'clock, when I knew not where I was; being in darkness—and alone. Really a journal of this sort is, upon consideration, so instructive and entertaining, that I wish to know whether you would like me to keep one during my next sojourn at the seaside and publish it in Maga? I would undertake not to exceed three numbers of Maga, each Part to contain only twenty pages.

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Miss Strickland v. Lord Campbell.

Will his lordship favour the world with some reply to this clever and laborious lady's accusation contained in her letter to the Times? That letter is exceedingly specific and pointed in the charge of literary larceny, and committed under circumstances which every consideration of candour, gallantry, and literary character, concurs in rendering Lord Campbell's complete exculpation a matter of serious consequence to his reputation. Has he, or has he not, designedly appropriated to his own use, as the fruits of his own original research, the results of a literary fellow-labourer's meritorious and pains-taking original investigation—that fellow-labourer, too, being a lady? I sincerely hope that Lord Campbell's first literary attempt will prove not to be thus discreditably signalized. His book is yet unnoticed in Maga.

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According to that good old intelligible English saying, it is this morning raining cats and dogs. There's an end, Tickler, to our intended eighteen-mile walk (thither and back) to the lighthouse, the machinery of which I was very anxious to explain to you. Bow, wow, wow, wow! indeed! I know what you mean, you little sinner! You want to be after the rabbits in yonder thickets, and you mean to intimate that you can go perfectly well by yourself, don't mind the rain, and will come safely home when you have finished your sport. Don't look so earnestly at me, and whine so piteously. By the way, do you call yourself a vermin dog? and yet every hair of your shaggy coat stood on end the other day, when I turned out for you the two pennyworth of mice—mice!—which I had bought for you from Nick Irons? What would you have done if a RAT were to meet you? Bah, you little wretch! Where's your spirit? Refined, and refined away by breeding, eh? What would you have done if you were to be allowed to go off now, and were to rout out accidentally a hedgehog, as Hermit did yesterday? You may well whine! He's five times your size, eh? But I've seen a terrier that would tackle a hedgehog, and bring him home, too—your own second cousin, Tory, poor dear dog—peace to his little ashes. Besides, to return to the rabbits—in spite of all your snuffing and smelling, and scampering, and routing about, you never turned up a rabbit yet! And even our kitten has only to rise and curve her little back, and you slink away, like an arrant coward as you are—Well!—come along, doggy! you're a good little creature, with all your faults—these black eyes of yours, with your little erect ears, look as if you had really understood all that I have been saying to you—so I really think—and yet—pour! pour! pour!—[Enter Emily.]

Emily.—Papa, Miss —— says that we have said all our lessons, and will you let us have Tickler to play with?

Tickler.—Bow—wow—wow!—Bow, wow!—Bow! bow! bow!—[Running up and scampering towards her, and they go away together.]

Servant.—Brown has called with some lobsters, sir—(shows them)—two very nice ones, and a small crab—only fifteenpence the lot.

Self.—Very well—buy 'em.

Wife.—(Entering)—Lobsters and crabs again! Really one would think that you had had a surfeit of them long ago.

Servant.—Brown says, sir, he mayn't be able to get any more for some time, the wind's so high.

Wife.—Oh, buy them, of course! Every thing is bought that comes here! That's eleven crabs this week!

Self.—What have you got there, my Xantippe?

Wife.—I wish you would drop that odious name.

Self.—What have you there, my Angel?

Wife.—No, that won't do either.

Self.—Well, Fanny, then—what have you got there?

Wife.—Why, 'tis the new work of Mr Dickens—Dombey & Son. What an odd name for a tale!

Self.—Why, how did you get it?

Wife.—Mrs —— (at the parsonage) has just got a packet of books from town, and has lent us this, as it is a wet day, till the evening, and they have got lots to read at present.

Self.—I am very much obliged to them.

Wife.—So am I, for I want to read it first; manners, if you please.

Self.—Come, come, Fanny, I really want it; I've a good deal of curiosity.

Wife.—So have I, too!

Self.—Well, at any rate, let me look at the plates.

Wife.—Certainly; and suppose, by the way, as I've no letter to write—suppose I sit down with you, and read it to you! 'Twill save your eyes, and I'm all alone in the other room.

Self.—Very well. [Madame shuts the door; seats herself on the miniature sofa; I poke the fire; and she begins.] Being called away soon afterwards on some domestic exigency, she leaves me—and I read for myself. You said that you should like to know my opinion of Mr Dickens' new story, and I read it with interest, and some care. 'Tis exactly what I had expected; containing clear evidence of original genius, disfigured by many most serious, and now plainly incurable, blemishes. The first thing striking me, on perusing this new performance, is, that its author writes, as it were, from amidst a thick theatrical mist. Cursed be the hour—should say a sincere admirer of Mr Dickens' genius—that he ever set foot within a theatre, or became intimate with theatrical people. You fancy that every scene, incident, and character, is conceived with a view to its telling—from the stage. This suggestion seems to me to afford a key to most of the prominent faults and deficiencies of Mr Dickens as an imaginative writer; the lamentable absence of that simplicity and sobriety which invest the writings, for instance, of Goldsmith with immortal freshness and beauty. With what truthful tenderness does such a writer depict nature!—how different is his treatment from the spasmodic, straining, extravagant, vulgarizing efforts of the play-wright! The one is delicate and exquisite limning; the other, gross daubing:—the one faithfully represents; the other monstrously caricatures. This is the case with Mr Dickens; and it is intolerably provoking that it should be so; for he has the penetrating eye and accurate pencil, which—properly disciplined and trained—might have produced pictures worthy to stand beside those of the greatest masters. As it is, you might imagine his sketches to be the result of the combined simultaneous efforts of two artists—one the delicate limner, the other the vulgar dauber and scene-painter above spoken of. He has invention and skill enough to produce an interesting character; and place him in a situation favourable for developing his eccentricities, his failings, his excellences—in a word, his peculiarities. Well; he prepares his reader's mind—sets before you an interesting, a moving, a mirth-stirring occasion, when—bah!—all is ruined; the spasmodic straining after effect becomes instantly and painfully visible; and the personage before you is made to talk to the level of a theatrical audience, especially pit and gallery—and in unison with "gingerbeer, apples, oranges, and sodawater" associations and recollections. Let me give two striking instances, occurring at the very opening of "Dombey and Son." The first is the colloquy at pp. 3, 4; the other at p. 9. The former presents you Dr Parker Peps, a fashionable accoucheur, and the humble admiring family medical man—the occasion being a momentary absence of both from the clamber of a lady dying in childbed, Mrs Dombey; and can any one of correct taste or feeling bear in mind that occasion, and fail of being revolted by the drivel put into the mouth of the consulting accoucheur?—who, when telling Mr Dombey of the mortal peril in which his wife overhead is lying—apologises to him for speaking of her as "Her Grace the Duchess!" "Lady Cankaby," "The Countess of Dombey:" his obsequious companion accounting for such lapses on the score of his "West End practice." Is this nature? Is it actual life? Any thing approaching to either? If not, what is it meant for? Why, to tickle a Christmas audience at one of the minor playhouses! The other (these are only two out of many) is the character of Mr Chick, an old fool, who has a habit of whistling and humming droll tunes on the most solemn occasions, interrupting and interlarding conversation with "Right tol loor-rul," "A cobbler there was," "Rumpti-iddity bow, wow, wow!" is it not certain that Mr Dickens here had his eye on Tilbury or Bedford enacting the part? And for no other purpose whatever is this precious character introduced than to hit off this very original peculiarity! From the same theatrical habit of mind, it happens that Mr Dickens cannot carry on his stories in an even, straightforward course, but presents us with a series of "scenes!"—utterly marring the effect and annihilating the truthfulness and reality of the whole; e. g. the jarring interruption of this story at a touching and interesting moment—at the moment of the two doctors and Mr Dombey's return to poor Mrs Dombey's death-bed, when the reader feels that they are almost instantly to witness her death, by the introduction of two tiresome twaddlers, reproductions of old stock characters of the author, Mrs Chick and Miss Tox, whose descriptions and utterly irrelevant conversation detain us for nearly three pages. At length these motley "stagers"—if I may be allowed the word—are grouped round the poor lady's death-bed; and let me here say, that in my opinion the character and situation of poor Mrs Dombey are both exquisitely conceived, and appeal to the deepest sympathies of the heart; but, alas! the perverse, provoking, incorrigible writer will not let us enjoy "the luxury of grief;" but while we are bending over her death-bed, our attention is called off to a remarkably interesting and appropriate circumstance—two watches of two of the doctors "seem in the silence to be running a race!" * * "they seem to be racing faster!!" * * "The race, in the ensuing pause, was fierce and furious. The watches seemed to jostle, and to trip each other up!!!" and a moment or two afterwards the lady expires, under very moving circumstances, touched with perfect delicacy and truthfulness. Would the intrusion of a sow into a lovely flower-garden be more shocking or disgusting to the beholder? Again, in the first page, we are presented to Mr Dombey, gazing with unutterable feelings at his newly-born son, "forty-eight minutes of age;" and Mr Dickens tastefully suggests the comparison of the little creature, which is "somewhat crushed and spotty in his general effect!!" whose mother is at that moment in dying agonies in that very room, to "a muffin, which it was essential to toast brown while it was very new!!" And a few lines forward, the posture of the innocent unconscious little being suggests the brutal idea of a prize-fighter—his "little fists, curled up and clenched, seemed, in his feeble way, to be SQUARING AT EXISTENCE for having come upon him so unexpectedly!!!" Was ever any thing more monstrous? To find a gentleman of Mr Dickens' great genius, and experience in literary composition, sinning in this way, is provoking beyond all measure. The above abominations to be perpetrated by him, who at page seventeen can present us with so exquisite a touch as the following:—He is describing the blank appearance of the dismantled house, immediately after the funeral of the poor, neglected, and heart-broken lady. "The dead and buried lady was awful, in a picture frame of ghastly bandages. Every gust of wind that rose, brought eddying round the corner, from the neighbouring mews, some fragments of the straw that had been strewn before the house when she was ill; mildewed remains of which were still cleaving to the neighbourhood, and these being always drawn by some invisible attraction to the threshold of the dirty house to let opposite, addressed a dismal eloquence to Mr Dombey's window." The thirty-two pages of this first number contain very many provocatives to unfavourable criticism. They bristle all over with mannerisms—abound with grotesque, unseemly, extravagant comparisons and personation, (one of Mr Dickens' chiefly besetting sins)—many of the scenes contain truth and humour, smothered and lost by prolixity, incident and character diluted by a tedious and excessive minuteness of description; and it is to be feared that several of the characters will bear a painfully strong resemblance to some of their predecessors in Mr Dickens' other stories. Mr Dickens may feel angry at my plainness; and, in return, I must express my fears that he is not aware of the extent of injury which has been inflicted upon him by clique-homage—the flattery of fluent, incompetent admirers—the misconstrued silence of critics of experienced taste and refinement. Does Mr Dickens really consider the light in which his writings, containing such faults as those above adverted to, must be viewed by the upper and thinking classes of society—persons of cultivated taste, of refinement, of piercing critical capacity, who disdain to enter the little, babbling, vulgar, narrow-minded circles miscalled "literary?"

But I have done. Mr Dickens has been magnificently patronised by the public, who—I being one of them—have a right to speak plainly to, and of a gentleman whose writings have so large a circulation at home and abroad; who has no excuse, that I am aware of, for negligence or inattention; who is bound to consider the effect of example on the minds of tens of thousands of young and inexperienced readers who may take all for gospel that he chooses to tell them—and to be very very guarded as to moral object or effect—if moral object or effect his writings have, and be not intended solely to provoke, by their amusing and farcical absurdity and extravagance, an idle and forgotten laugh. I have no personal acquaintance with Mr Dickens, and have written in an impartial spirit, paying homage to his undoubted genius, denouncing his literary faults—for his own good, and the advantage of his readers, and of the literary character of the country.

Speaking of the literary character of the country, puts me in mind of the intention which I had formed some months ago, of writing an article upon the prevalent style of literary composition. May I take this opportunity of making a few observations upon that subject? And yet I must first admit, that my own style in writing this letter is far more loose, and inexact, and slovenly, than ought to be tolerated in even such a letter as this. Herein, however, I only imitate Dr Whately, who, on arriving at that part of his "rhetoric" which deals with public speaking, starts with an admission that he himself does not possess the qualifications, the acquisition of which he proceeds to enforce upon others.

The writing of the present day has many distinguishing excellences and faults. The most conspicuous of the latter is, perhaps, a want of simplicity and steadiness of style. Force—startling energy—are too uniformly aimed at by some; others affect continual sarcasm and irony, whatever may be the nature of the occasion. One class of writers are so priggishly curt and epigrammatic as to throw over their lucubrations an uniform air of small impertinence: it would be easy to point out, I think, an incessant illustration of this "school," if one may use the word. Others uniformly affect the trenchant and tremendous, with very big words, and awful accumulations of them. Some seem to aim at a picturesque ruggedness of style—defying rule, and challenging imitation. Very many writers of all classes are so parenthetical and involved in their sentences, that by the time that they have got to the end of a sentence, both they and their readers have forgotten where they set out from, and how the plague they got where they are: looking back breathless and dismayed at a confused series of hyphens entangled among all sorts of exceptions, reservations, and qualifications. This fault, and a grievous one it is, is daily illustrated, and by writers, who, by their carelessness in this matter, do themselves incalculable injustice, rendering apparently turbid the clearest possible stream of reasoning, marring the effect of the most beautiful and apposite illustration, and irritating and confusing the reader. In my opinion, this fault of our public writers is to be traced to the influence of Lord Brougham's style. He has, and always had, a prodigious command of nervous and apposite language, always writing or speaking with a violent impetus upon him; and yet, while crashing along, his versatile and suggestive faculties hurried him incessantly from one side to the other, hither and thither—anticipating this, qualifying that, guarding against this, reserving that—extruding undesirable implications and inferences, with a sort of wild rapidity and energy—adopting ever-varying fanciful equivalent expressions—crowding, in fact, a dozen considerable sentences into one turbid monster. Yet it must be owned, that in all this he seldom misses his way; his original impetus carries him headlong on to the point at which he had aimed. Not so with his imitators. They start with an imaginary equality of force, of fulness, and variety; but forthwith rush into a strange higgle-piggledy, helter-skelter sort of imposing wordiness, equally bewildering and stupifying to their readers and themselves. No man can fall into this sort of fault who is habituated to leisurely distinctness of thought: he will conceive beforehand with deliberate purpose, and that, cÆteris paribus, will induce a clear, close, and energetic expression of his thoughts, preventing misapprehension, and convincing even a strongly prejudiced opponent. Shorten your sentences, gentlemen; take one thing at a time; put every thing in its proper place; attempt not to put a quart into a pint pot; do not write in such a desperate hurry, nor attempt to hit half-a-dozen birds with one stone. Another prevalent vice is a sickening redundancy of classical quotation and allusion. Many of our newspaper writers, and among them some of the very cleverest, cannot contemplate any topic which they propose to discuss, without its suggesting, as if by a sudden, secret sort of elective affinity, previous events and occurrences of past ages. Out tumble scraps from Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Terence, Plautus, Lucretius, with their prose companions; and this, too, be it observed, almost always Roman;—it requires a certain hardihood to adopt the Greek language in modern composition. In short, one really thinks himself entitled to infer, from this extravagant amount of quotation and allusion, as well ancient as modern, that its perpetrators are very young: red-hot from their classical studies, panting to exhibit the extent of their acquisitions, the scholarly ease and precision with which they can apply the most recondite passages and allusions to the fresh occurrences of the moment. One is apt to suspect that one great motive for acquiring, extending, and retaining knowledge, is the simple desire to exhibit the possession of it. But all this is very vain and foolish. It looks stupidly ridiculous to persons of experienced judgment. An occasional and very sparing use of this sort of accessory is always desirable, often marvellously graceful and happy; an excess of it decisively indicates pedantic puerility, ostentation, and a grievous deficiency of strength and originality. It is likely, moreover, to have a very unpleasant and irritating effect, when apparent in popular compositions—in leading or other articles in newspapers, for instance—viz. on occasions where the persons addressed, or at least very many of them, do not comprehend or appreciate the allusion or quotation. A really classical turn of mind is usually accompanied by too fine and correct a taste to admit of these eccentricities and vagaries. The English language is a very fine language, my friends; and a very, very fine and rare thing it is to be able to use it with freedom, and purity, and power. Another very censurable kindred habit of many of our public writers is, the interlarding their compositions with abominable scraps of French, and even of Italian. Faugh!—is not this adding insult to injury, in dealing with the noble language of our country?

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A week has elapsed since I penned the foregoing sentences, and during that week only two things have occurred to me worthy of noticing. First, a couple (apparently newly married) put up for a few hours at the little inn in the village. They were both of a certain age. He wore a ponderous watch-chain and seals; she also was sufficiently bedizened after the same fashion. Twice I encountered them. First, on the seashore, where they took their seat very coolly on the rock next adjoining my old perch, which I was then occupying. After some considerable swagger, my gentleman produced a newspaper from his pocket, and distinctly said to his fair companion—"What an uncommon good thing the Illustrious London News is for the lower classes!" Second, the worthy couple were walking together, at a subsequent period of the day, laden with provender for an open-air lunch—with sandwiches and a black bottle, and with a matter-of-fact air, turned into a beautifully disposed rustic walk, having palpable indicia of privacy—it belonging, in fact, to the residence of a nobleman. My lord's gentleman, or gentleman's gentleman, happening to meet them, (I passing at the time,) asked them, with great courtesy of manner, if they were aware "that that was private property?" "Well," replied our male friend angrily, "and what if it is? I thought an Englishman might go any where he pleased in his own country, provided he didn't do any mischief. But come along, my dear," giving his arm to his flustered companion, "times are come to a pretty pass, aren't they?" With this, the offended dignities retraced their steps, but prodigiously slowly, and I saw no more of them.—The other occurrence was a dream, as odd, as obstinate in adherence to my memory. Methought I went one day to church to hear a revered elderly relative of mine preach. The church was crammed with an attentive and solemnly-disposed audience, whom the preacher was addressing very calmly but seriously, without gown or bands, but wearing two neckerchiefs, one resting upon the topmost edge of the other, and being of blue silk, with white spots! Though aware of this slight departure from clerical costume, it occasioned me no surprise, but I listened with serious attention. 'Twas only when I had awoke that the fantastic absurdity of the thing became apparent.

---

The "British Association" has just been making, at Southampton, as I see by the papers, one of its annual exhibitions of childish inanity. This sort of thing appears to me to be humiliating to the country, in respect of so many men of real scientific eminence, like Sir John Herschel and Dr Faraday, and one or two others, permitting themselves to be trotted out on such occasions for the amusement of the vulgar, and, in doing so, countenancing the herd of twaddling ninnies who figure on these occasions as spouters, or patronising listeners to the fluent confident sciolists of the various "sections." I can fancy one of these personages carefully bottling up against the day of display, some such precious discovery as that of "a peculiar appearance in the flame of a candle!"—which actually formed the subject of a paper at the last meeting; or, "on certain magnetic phenomena attending corns on the human foot,"—which latter, after a stiff debate as to the propriety of publishing it, is not, it seems, at present, to edify the world at large. The whole thing is resolvable into a paltry love of lionising, and being lionised—of enacting the part of prodigies before pretty admiring women, and simpering simpletons of the other sex. 'Tis an efflorescence of that vicious system which of late years continually manifests itself in the shape of flaunting reunions, soirÉes, conversazioni, &c. &c., where is to be heard little else than senile garrulity, the gabble of ignorant eulogy, or virulent envious depreciation and detraction. 'Tis true that distinguished scientific foreigners now and then make their appearance at the meetings of the Association; but there can be little doubt that they come over in utter ignorance of the really trifling character of those meetings, misled by the eager exaggerations of their friends and correspondents in this country. Can you conceive any thing more preposterous in its way, than the chartering of the steam-boat by the Association, to convey its members from Southampton to the Isle of Wight on a geological expedition? Methinks I see the crowd of "venerable boys"—to adopt the bitterly-humorous language of the Times—landing at Black Gang Chine, each with his bag slung round him, and hammer in hand, dispersing about, rap! rap! rap!—chick! chick! chick!—and fondly fancying that they are effectually learning, or teaching, geology, in the hour or two thus idled away! Can any thing be more exquisitely absurd? Bah! all this might be harmless and pleasant enough, in the way of a holiday recreation for school-boys or girls; but for grave, grown-up men—peers, baronets, knights, doctors, F.R.S., F.A.S.'s, &c. &c.,—the thing really does not bear dwelling upon.

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"I can have no hesitation, to whatever amount of obloquy, or of forfeited friendship, the avowal may expose me, in stating the conclusion, which anxious and repeated consideration of the state of Ireland has at length forced upon me, (Cheers.) It is, that the time has arrived for reconsidering the state of our relations with Ireland, with a view to a repeal of the Legislative Union between the two countries, (Hear, hear.) I see no other adequate remedy for the ills which desolate that unhappy country, and think that such a step would also happily free England from a burden long felt to be intolerable, (Hear.) I am fortified in arriving at this result, by a review of the favourable effects produced on Ireland by the measures which, during the last few years, I have had the honour to bring forward in this house, and see carried into effect by the legislature, (Cheers.) I am aware that this avowal may startle some of the more timid (hear, hear) of those gentlemen who have usually done me the honour to act with me; but an imperious sense of duty compels me to be prompt and explicit upon this vital question, which I am fixedly resolved to settle in the way I propose; and I will, for that purpose, avail myself of every means which the constitution places at the disposal of her Majesty's responsible advisers, (Cheers.) * * * I claim no credit for proposing this great measure of justice and mercy, nor wish to detract from the merit due to those whose minds the light of truth and reason reached earlier than mine. Whatever credit is due, I have no hesitation in ascribing to—Daniel O'Connell," (Cheers.) * * * * Is there a man in the empire who would be seriously surprised if he were to hear Sir Robert Peel make the above statement in the next session of Parliament, if he met the house once more as Prime Minister? And so, in the session after, might we expect a similar announcement with reference to the Protestant succession to the throne; and then—but by no means to stop even there—the conversion of our form of government from a limited monarchy into a republic. What, in short, may not be predicted of such a statesman as Sir Robert Peel? Who can conceive of him taking his stand any where? Assisting any body or any thing? It pains me to ask, whether the history of this country ever saw a man who had done so many things, the impropriety and danger of which he had himself uniformly beforehand demonstrated? Sir Robert Peel has been converted into a sort of political pillar of salt—a melancholy instructive memento of the evils of unprincipled statesmanship—the former word being used, not in a vulgar offensive sense, but as signifying, simply and solely, the absence of any fixed principles of political action; or the habit of action irrespective of principle. I will not, however, pursue this painful and humiliating topic further, than to express the deep concern and perplexity occasioned to me, amongst hundreds of thousands of others, by the recent movements of Sir Robert Peel. I have never thought or spoken of him, up even to the present moment, otherwise than with sincere respect for his spotless personal character, and the highest admiration of his intellectual and administrative qualities. I would scout the very faintest insinuation against the purity of his motives, at the same time loudly expressing my concern and amazement at witnessing such conduct as his, in such a man!

I said just now, that Sir Robert Peel's signal characteristic was the doing things, the impropriety and danger of doing which he had himself beforehand demonstrated; and that was the reflection with which I yesterday concluded the perusal of a memorable little document which I took care to preserve at the time—I mean his national manifesto at the general election of 1841, in the shape of his address to the electors of Tamworth. Apply it now like a plummet to the edifice of Sir Robert Peel's political character; how conclusively it shows the extent to which it has diverged or swelled from the perpendicular line of right—how much he has departed from the standard which he had himself set up! What must be his feelings on recurring to such a declaration as this?

"That party," [the Conservative,] "gentlemen, has been pleased to intrust your representative with its confidence—(cheers;) and, notwithstanding all the remarks that have been made at various times, respecting differences of opinion and jealousy among them, you may depend upon it that they are altogether without foundation; and that that party which has paid me the compliment of taking my advice, and following my counsel, are a united and compact party, among which there does not exist the slightest difference of opinion in respect to the principles they support, and the course they may desire to pursue. (Cheers.) Gentlemen, I hope I have not abused the confidence of that great party."[66] (Loud cheers.)!!! I give the eloquent and eminent speaker credit for feeling a sort of twinge, a pang, a spasm, on reading the above. One more extract I will give relative to the recent conduct of Sir R. Peel on the sugar-duties:—"The question now is, gentlemen, whether, after the sacrifices which this country has made for the suppression of the slave-trade, and the abolition of slavery, and the glorious results that have ensued, and are likely to ensue from these sacrifices, we shall run the risk of losing the benefit of these sacrifices, and tarnishing for ever that glory, by admitting to the British markets sugar, the produce of foreign slavery? Gentlemen, the character of this country, in respect to slavery, is thus spoken of by one of the most eloquent writers and statesmen of another country, Dr Channing, of the United States:—'Great Britain, loaded with an unprecedented debt, and with a grinding taxation, contracted a new debt of a hundred millions of dollars, to give freedom, not to Englishmen, but to the degraded African. I know not that history records an act so disinterested, so sublime. In the progress of ages, England's naval triumphs will sink into a more and more narrow space on the records of our race. This moral triumph will fill a broader, brighter page.' Gentlemen," proceeded Sir Robert Peel, "let us take care that this 'brighter page' be not sullied by the admission of slave sugar into the consumption of this country, by our unnecessary encouragement of slavery and the slave-trade."[67]

Is it not humiliating and distressing to compare these sentences, and the lofty spirit which pervades them, with the speech, and the animus pervading it, delivered by Sir Robert Peel in the House of Commons, on Lord John Russell's bringing in his bill for "sullying this bright page" of English glory? Did Sir Robert Peel, true to principle, solemnly and peremptorily announce the refusal of his assent to that cruel, and foolish, and wicked measure? I forbear to press this topic, also quitting it, with the expression of my opinion, that that speech alone was calculated to do him fearful and irreparable injury in public estimation. It is impossible for the most zealous and skilful advocacy to frame a plausible vindication of this part of Sir Robert Peel's conduct. I sincerely acquit him of having any sinister or impure motive; the fact was, simply, that he found that he had placed himself in a dire perplexity and dilemma.

I think it next to impossible that Sir Robert Peel can ever again be in a position, even if he desired it, to sway the destinies of this country, either as a prime minister, or by the force of his personal influence and opinion. Has he or has he not done rightly by the greatest party that ever gave its noble and ennobling support to a minister? Can he himself, in 1846, express the "hope" of 1841, that "he has not abused the confidence of that great party?" If he again take part in the debates of Parliament, he will always be listened to, whoever may be in power, with the interest and attention justly due to his masterly acquaintance with the conduct of the public business, most especially on matters of finance. But with what involuntary shrinking and distrust is his advocacy or defence of any of our great institutions likely to be received hereafter by their consistent and devoted friends? Will they not be prepared to find the splendid vindication of the preceding evening, but the prelude to the next evening's abandonment and denunciation? Is not, in short, the national confidence thoroughly shaken? His support and advocacy of any great interest are too likely to be received with guarded satisfaction—as far as they go, as long as they continue—not with the enthusiastic confidence due to surpassing and consistent statesmanship.

It has sometimes occurred to me, in scrutinising his later movements, that one of his set purposes was finally to break up the Conservative party, and scatter among it the seeds of future dissension and difficulty; possibly thinking, conscientiously, that in the state of things which he had brought about, the continued existence of a Conservative party with definite points of cohesion, with visible acknowledged rallying-points, could no longer be beneficial to the country. He may have in his eye the formation of another party, willing to accept of his leadership, after another general election; of which said new party his present few adherents are to form the nucleus. But I do not see how this is to be done. Confounding, for a time, to all party connexions and combinations as have been the occurrences of the last session, of perhaps the last two sessions, of Parliament, a steady watchful eye may already see the two great parties of the state—Liberal and Conservatives—readjusting themselves in conformity with their respective general views and principles. The Conservative party has at the moment a prodigious strength of hold upon the country—not noisy or ostentatious, but real, and calculated to have its strength rapidly, though secretly, increased by alarmed seceders from the Liberal ranks, on seeing the spirit of change become more bold and active, and directing its steps towards the regions of revolution and democracy. Sir Robert Peel's speech, on resigning office, presented several features of an alarming character. Several of his sentences, especially with reference to Ireland,

—"made the boldest hold their breath
For a time."

Candid persons did not see in what he was doing, the paltry desire to outbid his perplexed successors, but suspected that he was designedly—advisedly—laying down visible lines of eternal separation between him and his former supporters, rendering it impossible for him to return to them, or for them to go over to him; and so at once putting an extinguisher upon all future doubts and speculation. To me it appeared that the speech in question evidenced an astounding revolution—astounding in its suddenness and violence—of the speaker's political system; announcing results, while other men were only just beginning to see the process. Will Sir Robert Peel join Lord John Russell? What, serve under him, and become a fellow-subordinate of Lord Palmerston's? I think not. What post would be offered to him? What post would he, the late prime minister, consent to fill under his victorious rival? Will, then, Lord John Russell act under Sir Robert Peel? Most certainly—at least in my opinion—not. What then is to be done, in the event of Sir Robert Peel's being willing to resume official life? Over whom, under whom, with whom, is he to act? The Conservative party have already elected his successor, Lord Stanley, who cannot, who will not be deposed in favour of any one; a man of very splendid talents, of long official experience, of lofty personal character, of paramount hereditary claims to the support of the aristocracy, who has never sacrificed consistency, but rather sacrificed every thing for consistency. Ever since he accepted the leadership of the great Conservative party, he has evinced a profound sense of its responsibilities and requirements, and the possession of these qualifications in respect of prudence and moderation, which some had formerly doubted. Lord Stanley, then, will continue the Conservative leader, and Lord John Russell the Liberal leader; and I doubt whether any decisive move will be made till after the ensuing general election. What will be the result of it? What will be the rallying-cries of party? What will Sir Robert Peel say to the Tamworth electors?

However these questions may be answered, I would, had I the power, speak trumpet-tongued to our Conservative friends in every county and borough in the kingdom, and say, "up, and be doing." Spare no expense or exertion, but do it prudently. Use every instrument of legitimate influence—for the stake played for is tremendous; the national interests evidently marked out for assault, are vital; and they will stand or fall, and we enjoy peace, or be condemned to agitation and alarm, according to the result of the next General Election, which will assuredly palsy the hands of either the friends or enemies of the best interests of the country.

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And now, dear Christopher, I draw towards the close of this long letter, without having been able even to touch upon several other "Things" which I had noted down for observation and comment. As my letter draws to a close, so also draws rapidly to a close my seaside sojourn. My hours of relaxation are numbered. I must return to the busy scenes of the metropolis, and resume my interrupted duties. And you, too, have returned to the scene of your renown, the sphere of your honourable and responsible duties. May your shadow never grow less! Floreat Maga! I have done. The old postman, wet through in coming over the hills, is waiting for my letter, and, having finished his beer, is fidgeting to be off. "What! can't you spare me one five minutes more?" "No, sir—impossible—I ought to have been at——an hour ago"

Farewell then, dear Christopher,
Your faithful friend,
An Old Contributor.

FOOTNOTES:

Transcribers notes:
Maintained original spelling and punctuation.
Silently corrected a few typesetting errors.