BY AN OLD STAGER.

And so, Dick my boy, you are now on the staff of "our Special Commissioners;" and you are going to favour the public with the results of your investigations on the subjects of native industry, free trade, wages, competition, and so forth? Well, it does good to the heart of an aged veteran of the press like myself, to see the sphere of our labours, as we used to call it, so capitally enlarged. It shows me that people are rapidly getting rid of a good many idiotical prejudices which stood in the way of social progress; and that they don't care from what quarter their information comes, so that it is properly spiced and made palatable to their taste. Upon my soul, Dick, and without any humbug, I almost envy you your present position. Two years ago when you came up to London, and were entered in the junior reporting department, you knew as much about political economy as you do of algebra, and would as soon have handled a red-hot poker as a volume of parliamentary returns. And now they tell me that you are the smartest hand going at statistics, and think no more of tossing off an article on the Currency at a quarter of an hour's notice, than my cook does of elaborating a pancake! Why, sir, you are a far greater man than a peer of the realm, or a member of the House of Commons. You are a whole committee in your own person, for you are going to take evidence, just wherever you please, and to report upon it too, without the remotest chance of contradiction. Help yourself, Dick, and pass the decanter. Here is your very good health, and prosperity to the Fourth Estate!

You intend to do your duty manfully and impartially? Of course, Dick, you do. Nobody who has the pleasure of your acquaintance can doubt it. Your virility is beyond all dispute, and how can you be otherwise than impartial when you are writing up your own side? You are not much of a lawyer, perhaps, but common sense will suggest the first plain rules for leading evidence. Your employers want to show that everybody is prospering under the cheerful influences of free trade. They don't, of course, care twopence halfpenny whether their dogma is right or wrong: they are committed to it, and that is enough. They give you a certain allowance per week—I hope, by the way, it is a handsome one—to prosecute your inquiries, and they intend that the results shall be such as to justify their general assertion. And no doubt they will justify it, Dick; for I say, and I care not who knows it, that a cleverer, sharper, more acute and knowing dog than yourself never dipped goose-quill into a standish. You need not blush at the compliment. Was it not you who wrote that leader last week, recommending the agriculturists to regulate their operations on the same principle which is followed in the factories, and to look to short and speedy returns as the best means of making money? Ha, ha, ha! Dick—that certainly was a masterpiece! How the poor devils of chaw-bacons must have stared when they heard you gravely recommending them to raise three or four consecutive crops in the year, to turn the seasons topsy-turvy, and to sow in August that they might reap in January! No wonder that they are angry, for the best of the joke is, that a number of people believed you. The Cockneys have got it into their heads that wheat can be grown by machinery, and I, for one, shan't be in any hurry to disabuse them. If I were you, I would give them another leader or two in the same strain, insisting of course that the agriculturists are a pack of infernal asses, who don't understand the first principles of their own trade, and that Mechi, the razor-man, is their only creditable apostle.

Never mind though it may be necessary for you soon to eat in your own words. Between you and me, Dick—but don't let it go any farther—I have been of opinion for some time back that Free-trade is a total delusion. It may be bolstered up for a little longer, but it can't by possibility last our time. There was too much lying and pulling and quackery and braggadocio at the outset. I told Cobden so, at the time when he was descanting upon the blessings of the cheap loaf, but he would have his own way, and in his very next speech proposed to lay Manchester alongside of the Mississippi! I said the same thing to M'Gregor, but he would not be deterred from promising his hearers an additional two millions per week. And a pretty kettle of fish he has made of it! I am told that he dares not venture to show his face in the Gorbals. You see, Dick, all that nonsense is telling confoundedly against us just now. Wheat is down to zero, in so far as the profits of cultivation are concerned. The farmers are wellnigh ruined—that is plain beyond the power of contradiction, and in the course of another year they will be utterly and effectually spouted. The artisans are beginning to find out that cheap foreign bread means less labour and lowered wages, and they complain that they are driven to the wall by the free importation of foreign goods. If that notion once seizes hold of their minds—and it is doing so rapidly—it won't be long before they begin a tremendous agitation on the other side. Yes, Dick; the Protectionists were right after all, and in the long run they will carry their point with the general consent of the country. In the mean time, however, thanks to Sir Robert Peel, we have got into office, and we shall be consummate idiots if we don't make hay while the sun shines. You are doing capital service, Dick, by throwing dust in people's eyes. Keep it up as long as you can. Sneer at facts when you can't answer them; distort evidence boldly; laugh down the idea of retrogression; assume the existence of unexampled prosperity, in spite of every testimony to the contrary; assert even in the face of hostile elections and powerful gatherings, that the cause of Protection is dead and coffined—and the odds are that you may still induce a good many people to believe you. Stout averments, Dick, are capital things, and the broader you can make them the better. I would advise you, though, to be chary of statistics. They are dangerous weapons in the hands of the inexperienced, and you may chance to break your own head, whilst attempting to tomahawk your antagonist. But if you must use them, apply to me or Heavywet. We have a prime stock on hand, carefully prepared for service, and I think we could still put you up to a dodge or two. By the way, who wrote that song upon Heavywet? You know the one I mean, beginning with some such words as—

I wish you had seen Heavywet's face when young Fitztape of the Treasury sang it in his presence on Tuesday last! The old fellow looked as though the waiter had handed him verjuice instead of curaÇoa.

I hope, Dick, you are not above receiving a hint from an old hand, who has seen some service in his day. I am sure I have every reason to acknowledge my infinite obligations to the pen which I have wielded with more or less effect for wellnigh forty years, and which has not only provided me with food and raiment, but with a snug patent Government office, which makes me entirely independent of any change of Ministry. These are the kind of prizes, Dick, which are open to us literary men, who have the sense to adopt politics as a trade, and to write up our party, without troubling ourselves about that fantastic commodity which the parsons term conscience. I never could see why a public writer should have a conscience any more than a lawyer. The French fellows are better up to this, and don't even pretend to its possession. And it must be acknowledged that they are allowed occasionally far better chances than we have. Only fancy, Dick, you and I members of a Provisional Government! Wouldn't we have a pluck at Rothschild and the Bank? Don't your fingers itch at the bare idea of such close contact with the feathers of the national pigeon? But it is of no use indulging in those fairy dreams. And after all, I daresay that neither Etienne Arago, nor Armand Marrast, nor Ferdinand Flocon, nor Louis Blanc, are half so well off at the present moment as I am, with my snug salary payable quarterly, and no arrears. It is better not to be too ambitious, Dick, nor to overshoot the mark; for I have always remarked that your most prominent men are precisely those who pocket the least in the long-run. I am for your golden mediocrity, which insures an easy berth, and the power of offering to a friend a cool bottle of claret. You like the wine, Dick? Help yourself again; there's more where that came from.

As I was saying, you should not despise a hint from an old hand. We ancients may not be quite so smart as you moderns, but we are tolerably good judges of the taking qualities of an article—we know, by experience, the sort of thing which is likely to tickle the public ear. Now, you will forgive me for saying, that in your late writings you exhibit, now and then, certain marks of precipitancy, which it might be as safe to avoid. What I mean to express is, that you are too dashing—too daring—too ready to encounter your antagonist with his own weapons. You assume the part of Achilles, instead of imitating the example of Ulysses; you don't touch the Hospitaller's shield, though he has the worst seat of the party, but you make your lance ring against the buckler of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. This may be plucky, but it is not wise. People may applaud you for your hardihood, but it is not a pleasant thing to be chucked over your horse's croup, among shard, and mire, and the general laughter of mankind. You made a great mistake the other day in pitting yourself against Lord Stanley. You might have known better. You were no more than a baby in the hands of the best lance of the Temple; and the attempt only ended, as all must have foreseen, in your own confusion. Don't be angry, Dick. I know you only obeyed orders, but the result demonstrates, very clearly, the utter imbecility of the clique under which you have had the misfortune to serve.

You say you did not write the article about gestures and looks being more expressive than words? I am aware you did not. I am talking to a sensible man, and not to an irreclaimable idiot. It is no fault of yours if the dunderheads, who find the money, will occasionally mistake their vocation, and commit themselves by using the pen. Such things are inevitable in journalism; and they are enough to sow the seeds of decline in the bosom of a printer's devil. But you know very well, notwithstanding, that you committed yourself most egregiously. You were laughed at, Dick, and held up to scorn in every paper from Truro to Caithness. And for what? Why, for attempting pertinaciously to maintain that a statesman meant and said one thing, whereas he distinctly meant and said another. Did you seriously expect to impose upon any one by such a stale device as that—so palpable, and, moreover, so exceedingly open to contradiction? You might as well expect the public to believe that the Duke of Wellington has broken his neck on the hunting-field, in the teeth of a letter from the Field-marshal announcing that he is well and hearty. Yes; I know very well that John Bull is a gullible animal, but not to the degree which you assume. You may state, if you like, that the moon is made of green cheese; or, as some wiseacre did the other day, that the electric telegraph is to be superseded by the employment of magnetic snails; but you won't persuade any one that Ferrand is a friend of Cobden, or that Sir Robert Inglis is a Jesuit in disguise who is working for the supremacy of the Pope. By the way, I was wrong in recommending you to persist in your averment that Protection is dead and coffined. You have, I observe, of late dedicated at least a couple of Jeremiads each week to that topic, and there is a degree of ferocity coupled with the announcement revolting to the feelings of a Christian. You should assume the fact, Dick; not insist upon it in this absurd manner. If the old lady really is under the sod, and beyond the power of resuscitation and the reach of the resurrection-men, e'en let her repose in quiet. In that case she can do you no further harm, and it would be but decent to give her the benefit of a final forgiveness, or at all events to leave her to oblivion. Queen Anne has been defunct for a good many years, but nobody thinks it necessary to proclaim the fact weekly in a couple of leaders. You differ from me, do you? Very well, then; carry on in your own way; all I shall say is, that if your muttered conjurations don't evoke the shade of the departed saint, in a shape that may appal you consumedly, you run a mighty risk of calling a counterfeit into being. It is a good maxim never to put forward anything which the public cannot readily swallow.

I think that, in one respect, the modern system is decidedly preferable to the older. Formerly, we used to combat arguments; now, I observe, you evade them. This I hold to be a great improvement. In the first place, it saves trouble both to the writer and the reader. It is not always easy to reply to a fellow who knows his subject a great deal better than you do. You have to follow him from point to point, investigate his facts, controvert his reasoning, and take, in short, such a world of trouble, as would render the life of a gentleman journalist absolutely insupportable. Milton was occupied nearly a year with one of his replies to Salmasius,—Selden, I believe, took a longer time to double up his opponent Grotius. This is slow work, and you cannot reasonably be expected to submit to it. If anything like argument is to be brought forward, you are entitled to look for it in the Edinburgh Review, though I do not intend by any means to assume that your expectations will be realised in that quarter. Costive, beyond the power of medicine, must be the man who battens on the hard dough dumplings, dished up quarterly under cover of the Blue and Yellow! But I forgot—you are not entirely with the Whigs, though you agree with them as to commercial policy.

You do well, therefore, to avoid argument in all points that require previous preparation and study. A general slashing style, without condescending to particulars, is undoubtedly your forte, and I cannot sufficiently admire your dexterity in avoiding a direct reply. You have got hold of a capital phrase in answer to everything that can be advanced against you. No matter how clearly your opponent may have stated his case, no matter how distinct his logic, or how incontrovertible his facts, you come down upon him with your pet cry of "exploded fallacies," and extinguish him at once and for ever. Very righteously you eschew the trouble of pointing out where, when, and by whom, the said obnoxious fallacy was exploded. It is perfectly possible—nay, in nine cases out of ten, absolutely certain, that you never in your life heard that particular view stated before, and that you do not comprehend it when stated; still, you continue to occupy the vantage ground, and pooh-pooh it down as calmly as though it were one of the Manchester unfulfilled prophecies. This is a pleasant way of getting out of a dilemma; and the best of it is, that by generalisation you may contrive to apply your epithet to every fact, however notorious, which has been brought forward by your antagonist. For instance, an indignant farmer writes you a letter enclosing a balance-sheet of his operations for the last year, which shows that, instead of making any profit, he is out of pocket some ninety or a hundred pounds; and he argues, quite fairly, that if grain is to continue at its present rate, in consequence of importations from abroad, he will be a ruined man before the expiry of his lease, and his labourers thrown out of employment. Six months ago, your answer would have been hopeful, courteous, and encouraging. You would have assured him that the present depression was merely temporary, and that in the course of a short time wheat must be at sixty shillings. You are wiser now. You are perfectly aware that any considerable rise in the value of agricultural produce, under the operation of the present law, is a pure impossibility; and you resort to no such assurance. Three months later you would have told him to go to the devil or the antipodes, whichever he pleased, and not bother the public with his wicked and insensate clamour. But you are also tolerably aware, by this time, that the public does not exactly approve of a wholesale system of expatriation, however admirable it may appear in your eyes; and that you have exposed yourself, by recommending it, to certain reflections, which are not very creditable to your character either as a philanthropist or a Christian. Nor can you much mend the matter by insisting upon another pet phrase of yours, which did good service so long as it was new. You cannot always aver that we are in "a transition state" of society. In the first place, the expression, when you analyse it, has no meaning. In the second place, granting that it had a meaning, people are naturally anxious to know, what sort of state of society is to be consequent on the "transition state"—a piece of information which neither you nor any one else have it in your power to supply. So that an ignorant or commonplace person, who is not versed in the mysteries or resorts of journalism, may be well excused for wondering in what possible way you can meet the allegations of Mr Hawbuck. You cannot refuse to print his letter and his statement, for, if you don't, somebody else will; and either you lay yourself open to the charge of suppression, or it may be held that you cannot frame an answer. How valuable, in such a position, is the shield of "exploded fallacies!" You assume, in your commentary on the letter, a tone of heartfelt commiseration, not for the circumstances, but for the prejudices and benighted mental condition of the writer. "We willingly give a place in our columns to the communication of Mr Hawbuck, not on account of its intrinsic worth—not because it contains any novel information—but because it is a fair specimen of that state of intellectual depression and economical ignorance, which the existence for so many years of a false protective system has unhappily fostered, even among that class of agriculturists who are entitled to the epithet of respectable. Here is a man who, from the general wording and caligraphy of his letter, appears to have received the advantages of an ordinary good education—a man who, by his own confession, is the tenant of a farm for which he pays five hundred pounds a-year of rent, and upwards—a man who, we doubt not, is most estimable in his private relations, a kind husband, an indulgent father, and possibly a considerate master—a man who, not improbably, is on good terms with the squire, and, it may be, visits at the parsonage—and yet this very individual, Mr Hawbuck, is complaining that he cannot make ends meet! We shall not, at the present time, minutely question the accuracy of his statements. These may be grossly exaggerated, or they may contain nothing more than a simple narrative of the truth. Assuming the latter to be the case, we ask our readers, with the most perfect confidence, whether the whole of the argument which he has attempted to rear upon such exceedingly slender foundations, is not, from beginning to end, a tissue of exploded fallacies? Here we have the whole question of British taxation brought forward, as if it was something new. Hawbuck ought to know better. His father was taxed before him, and so, we doubt not, were several antecedent generations of Hawbucks, supposing that the family lays claim to a respectable agricultural antiquity. Hawbuck junior—who, we hope, will have more sense than his father—must make up his mind, in future years, to contribute his quota to the national burdens, in return for which we receive the inestimable blessings of good government, [O Dick!] sound legislation, and impartial administration of the laws. Then Mr Hawbuck, as a matter of course, acting upon the invariable example of the writers and orators of that unhappy faction to which he has the misfortune to belong, drags in the 'foreigner,' just as the Dugald creature is dragged into the hut at Aberfoil by the soldiers of Captain Thornton. This is another exploded fallacy, which we had fondly hoped was set to rest for ever. It seems we were mistaken. Mr Hawbuck cannot dispense with the 'foreigner.' He haunts him ever and anon in the silence of the night like the Raw-head-and-bloody-bones of the nursery, or like the turnip lantern placed on the churchyard wall by some juvenile agricultural humourist. Really it is very distressing that any one should be so persecuted by a phantom which is the pure growth of mental apprehension and disease. Mr Hawbuck certainly ought to consult his medical adviser; or, if distance and the embarrassed state of his affairs preclude him from applying to the village Galen, perhaps he will allow us to prescribe for him. A good dose of purgative medicine twice a-week, moderate diet, abstinence from intoxicating liquors, and change of scene—we would suggest a visit to Mr Mechi's farm of Tiptree—will work wonders with our patient. But he must beware of all excitement. He must on no account attend any gatherings where Mr Ferrand is a speaker, and he had better refrain from passing his evenings at the Agricultural Club. He will thus be able to effect considerable retrenchment in his expenditure by avoiding beer, and Mrs Hawbuck will love him none the less. By attending to these few simple rules, we are convinced that a radical cure may be effected. We shall then hear no more of Mr Hawbuck's complaints, nor will it be necessary again to reprehend him for the adoption of exploded fallacies. We shall not do the farmers of Great Britain the injustice to suppose that this gentleman is a type of their class. We regard him simply as an honest, easy-natured, but very credulous person, who has been unfortunately imbued with false notions of political economy, and used as a tool in the hands of others to promote their interested designs."

There, Dick, is a leader for you cut and dry; and I think you must admit that it will answer every purpose. In the first place, you won't hear any more of Hawbuck. Men of his class cannot bear to be laughed at, so that his only revenge will be a muttered vow to break your head, if it should ever come knowingly within the sweep of his cudgel. In the second place, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have raised a laugh, which is at all times equivalent to a triumph in argument. The majority of your readers will esteem you a very clever fellow, and henceforward the name of Hawbuck will be the signal for general cachinnation. It is quite true that Hawbuck's statement is in no way refuted, or the cause of his distress investigated—but how can you possibly be expected to occupy your time with his affairs? As a "special commissioner," indeed, you may treat him more minutely. You may pry into his pigsty, investigate his stable, criticise his mode of drainage, disapprove of his rotation of crops, inquire into the wages which he pays, and decidedly object to his turnips. You may hold him up as a lamentable victim of that species of wretched farming which, under the baneful shadow of protection, could do no more than render British agriculture by far the finest and the most productive in the world. You may exhort him to lay out more capital—you need not care about the amount, as he is not likely to ask you for a loan, nor would you be willing to advance it, if he did, on such dubious security; and you may abuse him as an obstinate ass, because he does not plough with a steam-engine. All this you may do with impunity, (provided you never visit the district again;) and you will be hailed by your own party as a genuine national benefactor, and as an oracle of agricultural progress. But don't mix up the two characters—that is, keep statistics for your report, and general assertions for your leading article. Hold hard by the doctrine of "exploded fallacies." It will apply to everything, and every system, which was ever hatched under the influence of the sun. You may adapt the term to physics quite as appropriately as to opinions. If you are inclined to set forward as an exploded fallacy the dogma that climate has any influence upon crops, you are perfectly entitled to do so, on the authority of the Huxtables of the present generation.

But I fear that I am exhausting your patience, and, as it is now rather late, I shall merely add a word of personal advice. Never attempt to rear up your independent judgment against the wishes of your proprietors. In ordinary times this caution might be unnecessary, since few men are sincerely desirous to quarrel with their bread and butter. But there is a foolish spirit of insubordination visible just now on the surface of society, against which you ought to guard. Young men are beginning to fashion out opinions for themselves. The old traditional landmarks are not sufficient for their guidance; and I, who am a veteran in politics, find myself not unfrequently bearded by some pert whippersnapper, just escaped from school, who is now setting up, as the phrase is, on his own hook, as an earnest man and a patriot, and who probably expects before long to hold office in that new Downing Street which has been so seductively prophesied by the blatant seer of Ecclefechan. I need hardly tell you, Dick, that this is all mere moonshine—pure flatulency, superinduced by a vegetable diet upon a stomach naturally feeble. If you wish to see the results of young independent journalism, you have only to step over to the Continent. I have been watching the progress of events there with considerable interest for the last three years, and my only wonder is, how several scores of able German editors have managed to escape the gallows. You see what a pass they have arrived at in France. Nobody is allowed to write an article in the most paltry paper without affixing his name; and the consequence is, that journalism, as a profession, is terribly on the decline. I don't like this, I own. I wish to see its respectability kept up, and its decencies preserved; and I don't think that can be accomplished by the suppression of the editorial We. People are very anxious to know what are the opinions of a leading London journal upon any given point, but I question if they would pay twopence to ascertain what Jenkins, or Larkins, or Perkins may please to think, should the names of these gentlemen appear at the end of their respective lucubrations. Therefore, Dick, stand up for your order, and do not be led astray by the impulses of individual vanity. Dismiss all egotism from your mind, and keep in your proper place. Supposing that you have achieved any notable feat of arms, rest contented with the consciousness thereof, and don't run about telling the whole world that it was you who did it. Benvenuto Cellini would have been a precious ass had he stated during his lifetime that it was he who shot the Constable Bourbon. He was wiser, and kept the statement for his memoirs. This would be no world to live in if reviewers were obliged to give up their names. Fancy Hawbuck at your door, or lurking round the corner, armed with a pitchfork or a flail! The bare idea is enough to make one's blood curdle in the veins. Far rather would I evacuate my premises in the full knowledge that two suspicious gentlemen of the tribe of Gad were waiting to capture me on a writ.

And now, Dick, good night. You see I have used my privilege of seniority pretty freely; but you are not the lad I take you for, if you are offended at a friendly hint. By the way, how do you intend to come out on the Catholic question—strong or mild? Are you going to back up Lord John Russell's "noble letter" to the Bishop of Durham?—or do you intend to twit him with his support of Maynooth, his acknowledgment in Ireland of the territorial titles of the Papist bishops, and the rank which he has given them in the Colonies? You don't like to commit yourself, I suppose? Ah, well; perhaps you are right. But this I will say for Lord John, that whatever may be his capabilities as a statesman, he would have made a first-rate editor. Upon my conscience, sir, I believe that there never lived the man who had a finer finger for the public pulse. He knows to a scruple the amount of stimulants or purgatives which the British constitution will bear; and the moment that the patient becomes uneasy, he changes his mode of treatment. I should like to see Shiel's countenance when he reads the letter. I have no doubt that by this time he is convinced that he might have saved himself the trouble of excising Dei Gratia from the coinage, and that his tarry in Tuscany will hardly give him a complete opportunity of studying the relics of ancient art. Seriously, Dick, I look upon the almost unanimous opinion expressed by the British press, with regard to this insolent Roman aggression, as by far the best and surest symptom of its vitality.