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Memoirs of Mr. Charles J. Yellowplush The Yellowplush Papers by William Makepeace Thackeray

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"Five thousand pounds!--confusion!" says my lord, clasping his
hands, and looking up to heaven, "and I have not five hundred!
Dearest Matilda, how shall we help him?"

"Alas, my lord, I have but three guineas, and you know how Lady
Griffin has the--"

"Yes, my sweet child, I know what you would say; but be of good
cheer--Algernon, you know, has ample funds of his own."

Thinking my lord meant Dawkins's five thousand, of which, to be
sure, a good lump was left, I held my tung; but I cooden help
wondering at Lord Crabs's igstream compashn for his son, and Miss,
with her 10,000L. a year, having only 3 guineas is her pockit.

I took home (bless us, what a home!) a long and very inflamble
letter from Miss, in which she dixscribed her own sorror at the
disappointment; swoar she lov'd him only the moar for his
misfortns; made light of them; as a pusson for a paltry sum of five
thousand pound ought never to be cast down, 'specially as he had a
certain independence in view; and vowed that nothing, nothing,
should ever injuice her to part from him, etsettler, etsettler.

I told master of the conversation which had past betwigst me and my
lord, and of his handsome offers, and his horrow at hearing of his
son's being taken; and likewise mentioned how strange it was that
Miss should only have 3 guineas, and with such a fortn: bless us, I
should have thot that she would always have carried a hundred
thowsnd lb. in her pockit!

At this master only said Pshaw! But the rest of the story about
his father seemed to dixquiet him a good deal, and he made me
repeat it over agin.

He walked up and down the room agytated, and it seam'd as if a new
lite was breaking in upon him.

"Chawls," says he, "did you observe--did Miss--did my father seem

"How do you mean, sir?" says I.

"Did Lord Crabs appear very fond of Miss Griffin?"

"He was suttnly very kind to her."

"Come, sir, speak at once: did Miss Griffin seem very fond of his

"Why, to tell the truth, sir, I must say she seemed VERY fond of

"What did he call her?"

"He called her his dearest gal."

"Did he take her hand?"

"Yes, and he--"

"And he what?"

"He kist her, and told her not to be so wery down-hearted about the
misfortn which had hapnd to you."

"I have it now!" says he, clinching his fist, and growing gashly
pail--"I have it now--the infernal old hoary scoundrel! the wicked,
unnatural wretch! He would take her from me!" And he poured out a
volley of oaves which are impossbill to be repeatid here.

I thot as much long ago: and when my lord kem with his vizits so
pretious affeckshnt at my Lady Griffinses, I expected some such
game was in the wind. Indeed, I'd heard a somethink of it from the
Griffinses servnts, that my lord was mighty tender with the ladies.

One thing, however, was evident to a man of his intleckshal
capassaties; he must either marry the gal at onst, or he stood very
small chance of having her. He must get out of limbo immediantly,
or his respectid father might be stepping into his vaykint shoes.
Oh! he saw it all now--the fust attempt at arest, the marridge fixt
at 12 o'clock, and the bayliffs fixt to come and intarup the
marridge!--the jewel, praps, betwigst him and De l'Orge: but no, it
was the WOMAN who did that--a MAN don't deal such fowl blows,
igspecially a father to his son: a woman may, poar thing!--she's no
other means of reventch, and is used to fight with underhand wepns
all her life through.

Well, whatever the pint might be, this Deuceace saw pretty clear
that he'd been beat by his father at his own game--a trapp set for
him onst, which had been defitted by my presnts of mind--another
trap set afterwids, in which my lord had been suxesfle. Now, my
lord, roag as he was, was much too good-natured to do an unkind
ackshn, mearly for the sake of doing it. He'd got to that pich
that he didn't mind injaries--they were all fair play to him--he
gave 'em, and reseav'd them, without a thought of mallis. If he
wanted to injer his son, it was to benefick himself. And how was
this to he done? By getting the hairiss to himself, to be sure.
The Honrabble Mr. D. didn't say so; but I knew his feelinx well
enough--he regretted that he had not given the old genlmn the money
he askt for.

Poar fello! he thought he had hit it; but he was wide of the mark
after all.

Well, but what was to be done? It was clear that he must marry the
gal at any rate--cootky coot, as the French say: that is, marry
her, and hang the igspence.

To do so he must first git out of prisn--to get out of prisn he
must pay his debts--and to pay his debts, he must give every
shilling he was worth. Never mind: four thousand pound is a small
stake to a reglar gambler, igspecially when he must play it, or rot
for life in prisn; and when, if he plays it well, it will give him
ten thousand a year.

So, seeing there was no help for it, he maid up his mind, and
accordingly wrote the follying letter to Miss Griffin:--

"MY ADORED MATILDA,--Your letter has indeed been a comfort to a
poor fellow, who had hoped that this night would have been the most
blessed in his life, and now finds himself condemned to spend it
within a prison wall! You know the accursed conspiracy which has
brought these liabilities upon me, and the foolish friendship which
has cost me so much. But what matters! We have, as you say,
enough, even though I must pay this shameful demand upon me; and
five thousand pounds are as nothing, compared to the happiness
which I lose in being separated a night from thee! Courage,
however! If I make a sacrifice it is for you; and I were heartless
indeed if I allowed my own losses to balance for a moment against
your happiness.

"Is it not so, beloved one? IS not your happiness bound up with
mine, in a union with me? I am proud to think so--proud, too, to
offer such a humble proof as this of the depth and purity of my

"Tell me that you will still be mine; tell me that you will be mine
tomorrow; and to-morrow these vile chains shall be removed, and I
will be free once more--or if bound, only bound to you! My
adorable Matilda! my betrothed bride! Write to me ere the evening
closes, for I shall never be able to shut my eyes in slumber upon
my prison couch, until they have been first blessed by the sight of
a few words from thee! Write to me, love! write to me! I languish
for the reply which is to make or mar me for ever. Your affectionate

"A. P. D."

Having polisht off this epistol, master intrustid it to me to
carry, and bade me at the same time to try and give it into Miss
Griffin's hand alone. I ran with it to Lady Griffinses. I found
Miss, as I desired, in a sollatary condition; and I presented her
with master's pafewmed Billy.

She read it, and the number of size to which she gave vint, and the
tears which she shed, beggar digscription. She wep and sighed
until I thought she would bust. She even claspt my hand in her's,
and said, "O Charles! is he very, very miserable?"

"He is, ma'am," says I; "very miserable indeed--nobody, upon my
honor, could be miserablerer."

On hearing this pethetic remark, her mind was made up at onst: and
sitting down to her eskrewtaw, she immediantly ableaged master with
an answer. Here it is in black and white:

"My prisoned bird shall pine no more, but fly home to its nest in
these arms! Adored Algernon, I will meet thee to-morrow, at the
same place, at the same hour. Then, then, it will be impossible
for aught but death to divide us.

"M. G."

This kind of flumry style comes, you see, of reading novvles, and
cultivating littery purshuits in a small way. How much better is
it to be puffickly ignorant of the hart of writing, and to trust to
the writing of the heart. This is MY style: artyfiz I despise, and
trust compleatly to natur: but revnong a no mootong, as our
continential friends remark: to that nice white sheep, Algernon
Percy Deuceace, Exquire; that wenrabble old ram, my Lord Crabs his
father; and that tender and dellygit young lamb, Miss Matilda

She had just foalded up into its proper triangular shape the noat
transcribed abuff, and I was just on the point of saying, according
to my master's orders, "Miss, if you please, the Honrabble Mr.
Deuceace would be very much ableaged to you to keep the seminary
which is to take place to-morrow a profound se--," when my master's
father entered, and I fell back to the door. Miss, without a word,
rusht into his arms, burst into teers agin, as was her reglar way
(it must be confest she was of a very mist constitution), and
showing to him his son's note, cried, "Look, my dear lord, how
nobly your Algernon, OUR Algernon, writes to me. Who can doubt,
after this, of the purity of his matchless affection?"

My lord took the letter, read it, seamed a good deal amyoused, and
returning it to its owner, said, very much to my surprise, "My dear
Miss Griffin, he certainly does seem in earnest; and if you choose
to make this match without the consent of your mother-in-law, you
know the consequence, and are of course your own mistress."

"Consequences!--for shame, my lord! A little money, more or less,
what matters it to two hearts like ours?"

"Hearts are very pretty things, my sweet young lady, but Three-per-
Cents are better."

"Nay, have we not an ample income of our own, without the aid of
Lady Griffin?"

My lord shrugged his shoulders. "Be it so, my love," says he.
"I'm sure I can have no other reason to prevent a union which is
founded upon such disinterested affection."

And here the conversation dropt. Miss retired, clasping her hands,
and making play with the whites of her i's. My lord began trotting
up and down the room, with his fat hands stuck in his britchis
pockits, his countnince lighted up with igstream joy, and singing,
to my inordnit igstonishment:

"See the conquering hero comes!
Tiddy diddy doll--tiddy doll, doll, doll."

He began singing this song, and tearing up and down the room like
mad. I stood amazd--a new light broke in upon me. He wasn't
going, then, to make love to Miss Griffin! Master might marry her!
Had she not got the for--?

I say, I was just standing stock still, my eyes fixt, my hands
puppindicklar, my mouf wide open and these igstrordinary thoughts
passing in my mind, when my lord having got to the last "doll" of
his song, just as I came to the sillible "for" of my ventriloquism,
or inward speech--we had eatch jest reached the pint digscribed,
when the meditations of both were sudnly stopt, by my lord, in the
midst of his singin and trottin match, coming bolt up aginst poar
me, sending me up aginst one end of the room, himself flying back
to the other: and it was only after considrabble agitation that we
were at length restored to anything like a liquilibrium.

"What, YOU here, you infernal rascal?" says my lord.

"Your lordship's very kind to notus me," says I; "I am here." And
I gave him a look.

He saw I knew the whole game.

And after whisling a bit, as was his habit when puzzled (I bleave
he'd have only whisled if he had been told he was to be hanged in
five minits), after whisling a bit, he stops sudnly, and coming up
to me, says:

"Hearkye, Charles, this marriage must take place to-morrow."

"Must it, sir?" says I; "now, for my part, I don't think--"

"Stop, my good fellow; if it does not take place, what do you

This stagger'd me. If it didn't take place, I only lost a
situation, for master had but just enough money to pay his detts;
and it wooden soot my book to serve him in prisn or starving.

"Well," says my lord, "you see the force of my argument. Now, look
here!" and he lugs out a crisp, fluttering, snowy HUNDRED-PUN NOTE!
"If my son and Miss Griffin are married to-morrow, you shall have
this; and I will, moreover, take you into my service, and give you
double your present wages."

Flesh and blood cooden bear it. "My lord," says I, laying my hand
upon my busm, "only give me security, and I'm yours for ever."

The old noblemin grin'd, and pattid me on the shoulder. "Right, my
lad," says he, "right--you're a nice promising youth. Here is the
best security." And he pulls out his pockit-book, returns the
hundred-pun bill, and takes out one for fifty. "Here is half to-
day; to-morrow you shall have the remainder."

My fingers trembled a little as I took the pretty fluttering bit of
paper, about five times as big as any sum of money I had ever had
in my life. I cast my i upon the amount: it was a fifty sure
enough--a bank poss-bill, made payable to Leonora Emilia Griffin,
and indorsed by her. The cat was out of the bag. Now, gentle
reader, I spose you begin to see the game.

"Recollect, from this day you are in my service."

"My lord, you overpoar me with your faviors."

"Go to the devil, sir," says he: "do your duty, and hold your

And thus I went from the service of the Honorabble Algernon
Deuceace to that of his exlnsy the Right Honorabble Earl of Crabs.

. . . . . .

On going back to prisn, I found Deuceace locked up in that oajus
place to which his igstravygansies had deservedly led him; and felt
for him, I must say, a great deal of contemp. A raskle such as he--
a swindler, who had robbed poar Dawkins of the means of igsistance;
who had cheated his fellow-roag, Mr. Richard Blewitt, and who was
making a musnary marridge with a disgusting creacher like Miss
Griffin, didn merit any compashn on my purt; and I determined quite
to keep secret the suckmstansies of my privit intervew with his
exlnsy my presnt master.

I gev him Miss Griffinses trianglar, which he read with a satasfied
air. Then, turning to me, says he: "You gave this to Miss Griffin

"Yes, sir."

"You gave her my message?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you are quite sure Lord Crabs was not there when you gave
either the message or the note?"

"Not there upon my honor," says I.

"Hang your honor, sir! Brush my hat and coat, and go CALL A COACH--
do you hear?"

. . . . . .

I did as I was ordered; and on coming back found master in what's
called, I think, the greffe of the prisn. The officer in waiting
had out a great register, and was talking to master in the French
tongue, in coarse; a number of poar prisners were looking eagerly

"Let us see, my lor," says he; "the debt is 98,700 francs; there
are capture expenses, interest so much; and the whole sum amounts
to a hundred thousand francs, moins 13."

Deuceace, in a very myjestic way, takes out of his pocketbook four
thowsnd pun notes. "This is not French money, but I presume that
you know it, M. Greffier," says he.

The greffier turned round to old Solomon, a money-changer, who had
one or two clients in the prisn, and hapnd luckily to be there.
"Les billets sont bons," says he. "Je les prendrai pour cent mille
douze cent francs, et j'espere, my lor, de vous revoir."

"Good," says the greffier; "I know them to be good, and I will give
my lor the difference, and make out his release."

Which was done. The poar debtors gave a feeble cheer, as the great
dubble iron gates swung open and clang to again, and Deuceace stept
out and me after him, to breathe the fresh hair.

He had been in the place but six hours, and was now free again--
free, and to be married to ten thousand a year nex day. But, for
all that, he lookt very faint and pale. He HAD put down his great
stake; and when he came out of Sainte Pelagie, he had but fifty
pounds left in the world!

Never mind--when onst the money's down, make your mind easy; and so
Deuceace did. He drove back to the Hotel Mirabew, where he ordered
apartmince infinately more splendid than befor; and I pretty soon
told Toinette, and the rest of the suvvants, how nobly he behayved,
and how he valyoud four thousnd pound no more than ditch water.
And such was the consquincies of my praises, and the poplarity I
got for us boath, that the delighted landlady immediantly charged
him dubble what she would have done, if it hadn been for my stoaries.

He ordered splendid apartmince, then, for the nex week; a carridge-
and-four for Fontainebleau to-morrow at 12 precisely; and having
settled all these things, went quietly to the "Roshy de Cancale,"
where he dined: as well he might, for it was now eight o'clock. I
didn't spare the shompang neither that night, I can tell you; for
when I carried the note he gave me for Miss Griffin in the evening,
informing her of his freedom, that young lady remarked my hagitated
manner of walking and speaking, and said, "Honest Charles! he is
flusht with the events of the day. Here, Charles, is a napoleon;
take it and drink to your mistress."

I pockitid it; but, I must say, I didn't like the money--it went
against my stomick to take it.



Well, the nex day came: at 12 the carridge-and-four was waiting at
the ambasdor's doar; and Miss Griffin and the faithfle Kicksey were
punctial to the apintment.

I don't wish to digscribe the marridge seminary--how the embasy
chapling jined the hands of this loving young couple--how one of
the embasy footmin was called in to witness the marridge--how Miss
wep and fainted as usial--and how Deuceace carried her, fainting,
to the brisky, and drove off to Fontingblo, where they were to pass
the fust weak of the honey-moon. They took no servnts, because
they wisht, they said, to be privit. And so, when I had shut up
the steps, and bid the postilion drive on, I bid ajew to the
Honrabble Algernon, and went off strait to his exlent father.

"Is it all over, Chawls?" said he.

"I saw them turned off at igsactly a quarter past 12, my lord,"
says I.

"Did you give Miss Griffin the paper, as I told you, before her

"I did, my lord, in the presents of Mr. Brown, Lord Bobtail's man;
who can swear to her having had it."

I must tell you that my lord had made me read a paper which Lady
Griffin had written, and which I was comishnd to give in the manner
menshnd abuff. It ran to this effect:--

"According to the authority given me by the will of my late dear
husband, I forbid the marriage of Miss Griffin with the Honorable
Algernon Percy Deuceace. If Miss Griffin persists in the union, I
warn her that she must abide by the consequences of her act.


"RUE DE RIVOLI, May 8, 1818."

When I gave this to Miss as she entered the cortyard, a minnit
before my master's arrivle, she only read it contemptiously, and
said, "I laugh at the threats of Lady Griffin;" and she toar the
paper in two, and walked on, leaning on the arm of the faithful and
obleaging Miss Kicksey.

I picked up the paper for fear of axdents, and brot it to my lord.
Not that there was any necessaty; for he'd kep a copy, and made me
and another witniss (my Lady Griffin's solissator) read them both,
before he sent either away.

"Good!" says he; and he projuiced from his potfolio the fello of
that bewchus fifty-pun note, which he'd given me yesterday. "I
keep my promise, you see, Charles," says he. "You are now in Lady
Griffin's service, in the place of Mr. Fitzclarence, who retires.
Go to Froje's, and get a livery."

"But, my lord," says I, "I was not to go into Lady Griffnses
service, according to the bargain, but into--"

"It's all the same thing," says he; and he walked off. I went to
Mr. Froje's, and ordered a new livry; and found, likwise, that our
coachmin and Munseer Mortimer had been there too. My lady's livery
was changed, and was now of the same color as my old coat at Mr.
Deuceace's; and I'm blest if there wasn't a tremenjious great
earl's corronit on the butins, instid of the Griffin rampint, which
was worn befoar.

I asked no questions, however, but had myself measured; and slep
that night at the Plas Vandome. I didn't go out with the carridge
for a day or two, though; my lady only taking one footmin, she
said, until HER NEW CARRIDGE was turned out.

I think you can guess what's in the wind NOW!

I bot myself a dressing-case, a box of Ody colong, a few duzen lawn
sherts and neckcloths, and other things which were necessary for a
genlmn in my rank. Silk stockings was provided by the rules of the
house. And I completed the bisniss by writing the follying ginteel
letter to my late master:--


"SUR,--Suckmstansies have acurd sins I last had the honner of
wating on you, which render it impossbil that I should remane any
longer in your suvvice. I'll thank you to leave out my thinx, when
they come home on Sattady from the wash.

"Your obeajnt servnt,



The athography of the abuv noat, I confess, is atrocious; but ke
voolyvoo? I was only eighteen, and hadn then the expearance in
writing which I've enjide sins.

Having thus done my jewty in evry way, I shall prosead, in the nex
chapter, to say what hapnd in my new place.



The weak at Fontingblow past quickly away; and at the end of it,
our son and daughter-in-law--a pare of nice young tuttle-duvs--
returned to their nest, at the Hotel Mirabew. I suspeck that the
COCK turtle-dove was preshos sick of his barging.

When they arriv'd, the fust thing they found on their table was a
large parsle wrapt up in silver paper, and a newspaper, and a
couple of cards, tied up with a peace of white ribbing. In the
parsle was a hansume piece of plum-cake, with a deal of sugar. On
the cards was wrote, in Goffick characters,

Earl of Crabs.

And, in very small Italian,

Countess of Crabs.

And in the paper was the following parrowgraff:--

"MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.--Yesterday, at the British embassy, the
Right Honorable John Augustus Altamont Plantagenet, Earl of Crabs,
to Leonora Emilia, widow of the late Lieutenant-General Sir George
Griffin, K. C. B. An elegant dejeune was given to the happy couple
by his Excellency Lord Bobtail, who gave away the bride. The elite
of the foreign diplomacy, the Prince Talleyrand and Marshal the
Duke of Dalmatia on behalf of H. M. the King of France, honored the
banquet and the marriage ceremony. Lord and Lady Crabs intend
passing a few weeks at Saint Cloud."

The above dockyments, along with my own triffling billy, of which I
have also givn a copy, greated Mr. and Mrs. Deuceace on their
arrivle from Fontingblo. Not being present, I can't say what
Deuceace said; but I can fancy how he LOOKT, and how poor Mrs.
Deuceace lookt. They weren't much inclined to rest after the
fiteeg of the junny; for, in 1/2 an hour after their arrival at
Paris, the hosses were put to the carridge agen, and down they came
thundering to our country-house at St. Cloud (pronounst by those
absud Frenchmin Sing Kloo), to interrup our chaste loves and
delishs marridge injyments.

My lord was sittn in a crimson satan dressing-gown, lolling on a
sofa at an open windy, smoaking seagars, as ushle; her ladyship,
who, to du her justice, didn mind the smell, occupied another end
of the room, and was working, in wusted, a pare of slippers, or an
umbrellore case, or a coal-skittle, or some such nonsints. You
would have thought to have sean 'em that they had been married a
sentry, at least. Well, I bust in upon this conjugal tator-tator,
and said, very much alarmed, "My lord, here's your son and

"Well," says my lord, quite calm, "and what then?"

"Mr. Deuceace!" says my lady, starting up, and looking fritened.

"Yes, my love, my son; but you need not be alarmed. Pray, Charles,
say that Lady Crabs and I will be very happy to see Mr. and Mrs.
Deuceace; and that they must excuse us receiving them en famille.
Sit still, my blessing--take things coolly. Have you got the box
with the papers?"

My lady pointed to a great green box--the same from which she had
taken the papers, when Deuceace fust saw them,--and handed over to
my lord a fine gold key. I went out, met Deuceace and his wife on
the stepps, gave my messinge, and bowed them palitely in.

My lord didn't rise, but smoaked away as usual (praps a little
quicker, but I can't say); my lady sat upright, looking handsum and
strong. Deuceace walked in, his left arm tied to his breast, his
wife and hat on the other. He looked very pale and frightened; his
wife, poar thing! had her head berried in her handkerchief, and
sobd fit to break her heart.

Miss Kicksey, who was in the room (but I didn't mention her, she
was less than nothink in our house), went up to Mrs. Deuceace at
onst, and held out her arms--she had a heart, that old Kicksey, and
I respect her for it. The poor hunchback flung herself into Miss's
arms, with a kind of whooping screech, and kep there for some time,
sobbing in quite a historical manner. I saw there was going to be
a sean, and so, in cors, left the door ajar.

"Welcome to Saint Cloud, Algy my boy!" says my lord, in a loud,
hearty voice. "You thought you would give us the slip, eh, you
rogue? But we knew it, my dear fellow: we knew the whole affair--
did we not, my soul?--and you see, kept our secret better than you
did yours."

"I must confess, sir," says Deuceace, bowing, "that I had no idea
of the happiness which awaited me in the shape of a mother-in-law."

"No, you dog; no, no," says my lord, giggling: "old birds, you
know, not to be caught with chaff, like young ones. But here we
are, all spliced and happy, at last. Sit down, Algernon; let us
smoke a segar, and talk over the perils and adventures of the last
month. My love," says my lord, turning to his lady, you have no
malice against poor Algernon, I trust? Pray shake HIS HAND." (A

But my lady rose and said, "I have told Mr. Deuceace, that I never
wished to see him, or speak to him, more. I see no reason, now, to
change my opinion." And herewith she sailed out of the room, by
the door through which Kicksey had carried poor Mrs. Deuceace.

"Well, well," says my lord, as Lady Crabs swept by, "I was in hopes
she had forgiven you; but I know the whole story, and I must
confess you used her cruelly ill. Two strings to your bow!--that
was your game, was it, you rogue?"

"Do you mean, my lord, that you know all that past between me and
Lady Grif--Lady Crabs, before our quarrel?"

"Perfectly--you made love to her, and she was almost in love with
you; you jilted her for money, she got a man to shoot your hand off
in revenge: no more dice-boxes, now, Deuceace; no more sauter la
coupe. I can't think how the deuce you will manage to live without

"Your lordship is very kind; but I have given up play altogether,"
says Deuceace, looking mighty black and uneasy.

"Oh, indeed! Benedick has turned a moral man, has he? This is
better and better. Are you thinking of going into the church,

"My lord, may I ask you to be a little more serious?"

"Serious! a quoi bon? I am serious--serious in my surprise that,
when you might have had either of these women, you should have
preferred that hideous wife of yours."

"May I ask you, in turn, how you came to be so little squeamish
about a wife, as to choose a woman who had just been making love to
your own son?" says Deuceace, growing fierce.

"How can you ask such a question? I owe forty thousand pounds--
there is an execution at Sizes Hall--every acre I have is in the
hands of my creditors; and that's why I married her. Do you think
there was any love? Lady Crabs is a dev'lish fine woman, but she's
not a fool--she married me for my coronet, and I married her for
her money."

"Well, my lord, you need not ask me, I think, why I married the

"Yes, but I DO, my dear boy. How the deuce are you to live?
Dawkins's five thousand pounds won't last forever; and afterwards?"

"You don't mean, my lord--you don't--I mean, you can't-- D---!"
says he, starting up, and losing all patience, "you don't dare to
say that Miss Griffin had not a fortune of ten thousand a year?"

My lord was rolling up, and wetting betwigst his lips, another
segar; he lookt up, after he had lighted it, and said quietly--

"Certainly, Miss Griffin had a fortune of ten thousand a year."

"Well, sir, and has she not got it now? Has she spent it in a


Deuceace sunk down in a chair; and I never see such a dreadful
picture of despair as there was in the face of that retchid man!--
he writhed, and nasht his teeth, he tore open his coat, and
wriggled madly the stump of his left hand, until, fairly beat, he
threw it over his livid pale face, and sinking backwards, fairly
wept alowd.

Bah! it's a dreddfle thing to hear a man crying! his pashn torn up
from the very roots of his heart, as it must be before it can git
such a vent. My lord, meanwhile, rolled his segar, lighted it, and
went on.

"My dear boy, the girl has not a shilling. I wished to have left
you alone in peace, with your four thousand pounds: you might have
lived decently upon it in Germany, where money is at 5 per cent,
where your duns would not find you, and a couple of hundred a year
would have kept you and your wife in comfort. But, you see, Lady
Crabs would not listen to it. You had injured her; and, after she
had tried to kill you and failed, she determined to ruin you, and
succeeded. I must own to you that I directed the arresting
business, and put her up to buying your protested bills: she got
them for a trifle, and as you have paid them, has made a good two
thousand pounds by her bargain. It was a painful thing to be sure,
for a father to get his son arrested; but que voulez-vous! I did
not appear in the transaction: she would have you ruined; and it
was absolutely necessary that YOU should marry before I could, so I
pleaded your cause with Miss Griffin, and made you the happy man
you are. You rogue, you rogue! you thought to match your old
father, did you? But, never mind; lunch will be ready soon. In
the meantime, have a segar, and drink a glass of Sauterne."

Deuceace, who had been listening to this speech, sprung up wildly.

"I'll not believe it," he said: "it's a lie, an infernal lie!
forged by you, you hoary villain, and by the murderess and strumpet
you have married. I'll not believe it; show me the will. Matilda!
Matilda!" shouted he, screaming hoarsely, and flinging open the
door by which she had gone out.

"Keep your temper, my boy. You ARE vexed, and I feel for you: but
don't use such bad language: it is quite needless, believe me."

"Matilda!" shouted out Deuceace again; and the poor crooked thing
came trembling in, followed by Miss Kicksey.

"Is this true, woman?" says he, clutching hold of her hand.

"What, dear Algernon?" says she.

"What?" screams out Deuceace,--"what? Why that you are a beggar,
for marrying without your mother's consent--that you basely lied to
me, in order to bring about this match--that you are a swindler, in
conspiracy with that old fiend yonder and the she-devil his wife?"

"It is true," sobbed the poor woman, "that I have nothing; but--"

"Nothing but what? Why don't you speak, you drivelling fool?"

"I have nothing!--but you, dearest, have two thousand a year. Is
that not enough for us? You love me for myself, don't you,
Algernon? You have told me so a thousand times--say so again, dear
husband; and do not, do not be so unkind." And here she sank on
her knees, and clung to him, and tried to catch his hand, and kiss

"How much did you say?" says my lord.

"Two thousand a year, sir; he has told us so a thousand times."

"TWO THOUSAND! Two thou--ho, ho, ho!--haw! haw! haw!" roars my
lord. "That is, I vow, the best thing I ever heard in my life. My
dear creature, he has not a shilling--not a single maravedi, by all
the gods and goddesses." And this exlnt noblemin began laffin
louder than ever: a very kind and feeling genlmn he was, as all
must confess.

There was a paws: and Mrs. Deuceace didn begin cussing and swearing
at her husband as he had done at her: she only said, "O Algernon!
is this true?" and got up, and went to a chair and wep in quiet.

My lord opened the great box. "If you or your lawyers would like
to examine Sir George's will, it is quite at your service; you will
see here the proviso which I mentioned, that gives the entire
fortune to Lady Griffin--Lady Crabs that is: and here, my dear boy,
you see the danger of hasty conclusions. Her ladyship only showed
you the FIRST PAGE OF THE WILL, of course; she wanted to try you.
You thought you made a great stroke in at once proposing to Miss
Griffin--do not mind it, my love, he really loves you now very
sincerely!--when, in fact, you would have done much better to have
read the rest of the will. You were completely bitten, my boy--
humbugged, bamboozled--ay, and by your old father, you dog. I told
you I would, you know, when you refused to lend me a portion of
your Dawkins money. I told you I would; and I DID. I had you the
very next day. Let this be a lesson to you, Percy my boy; don't
try your luck again against such old hands: look deuced well before
you leap: audi alteram partem, my lad, which means, read both sides
of the will. I think lunch is ready; but I see you don't smoke.
Shall we go in?"

"Stop, my lord," says Mr. Deuceace, very humble: "I shall not share
your hospitality--but--but you know my condition; I am penniless--
you know the manner in which my wife has been brought up--"

"The Honorable Mrs. Deuceace, sir, shall always find a home here,
as if nothing had occurred to interrupt the friendship between her
dear mother and herself."

"And for me, sir," says Deuceace, speaking faint, and very slow; "I
hope--I trust--I think, my lord, you will not forget me?"

"Forget you, sir; certainly not."

"And that you will make some provision--?"

"Algernon Deuceace," says my lord, getting up from the sophy, and
looking at him with sich a jolly malignity, as I never see, "I
declare, before heaven, that I will not give you a penny!"

Hereupon my lord held out his hand to Mrs. Deuceace, and said, "My
dear, will you join your mother and me? We shall always, as I
said, have a home for you."

"My lord," said the poar thing, dropping a curtsy, "my home is with

. . . . . .

About three months after, when the season was beginning at Paris,
and the autumn leafs was on the ground, my lord, my lady, me and
Mortimer, were taking a stroal in the Boddy Balong, the carridge
driving on slowly ahead, and us as happy as possbill, admiring the
pleasant woods and the goldn sunset.

My lord was expayshating to my lady upon the exquizit beauty of the
sean, and pouring forth a host of butifle and virtuous sentaments
sootable to the hour. It was dalitefle to hear him. "Ah!" said
he, "black must be the heart, my love, which does not feel the
influence of a scene like this; gathering as it were, from those
sunlit skies, a portion of their celestial gold, and gaining
somewhat of heaven with each pure draught of this delicious air!"

Lady Crabs did not speak, but prest his arm and looked upwards.
Mortimer and I, too, felt some of the infliwents of the sean, and
lent on our goold sticks in silence. The carriage drew up close to
us, and my lord and my lady sauntered slowly tords it.

Jest at the place was a bench, and on the bench sate a poorly drest
woman, and by her, leaning against a tree, was a man whom I thought
I'd sean befor. He was drest in a shabby blew coat, with white
seems and copper buttons; a torn hat was on his head, and great
quantaties of matted hair and whiskers disfiggared his countnints.
He was not shaved, and as pale as stone.

My lord and lady didn tak the slightest notice of him, but past on
to the carridge. Me and Mortimer lickwise took OUR places. As we
past, the man had got a grip of the woman's shoulder, who was
holding down her head sobbing bitterly.

No sooner were my lord and lady seated, than they both, with
igstream dellixy and good natur, burst into a ror of lafter, peal
upon peal, whooping and screaching enough to frighten the evening

DEUCEACE turned round. I see his face now--the face of a devvle of
hell! Fust, he lookt towards the carridge, and pinted to it with
his maimed arm; then he raised the other, AND STRUCK THE WOMAN BY
HIS SIDE. She fell, screaming.

Poor thing! Poor thing!


The end of Mr. Deuceace's history is going to be the end of my
corrispondince. I wish the public was as sory to part with me as I
am with the public; becaws I fansy reely that we've become frends,
and feal for my part a becoming greaf at saying ajew.

It's imposbill for me to continyow, however, a-writin, as I have
done--violetting the rules of authography, and trampling upon the
fust princepills of English grammar. When I began, I knew no
better: when I'd carrid on these papers a little further, and grew
accustmd to writin, I began to smel out somethink quear in my
style. Within the last sex weaks I have been learning to spell:
and when all the world was rejoicing at the festivvaties of our
youthful Quean--*when all i's were fixed upon her long sweet of
ambasdors and princes, following the splendid carridge of Marshle
the Duke of Damlatiar, and blinking at the pearls and dimince of
Prince Oystereasy--Yellowplush was in his loanly pantry--HIS eyes
were fixt upon the spelling-book--his heart was bent upon mastring
the diffickleties of the littery professhn. I have been, in fact,

* This was written in 1838.

You shall here how. Ours, you know, is a Wig house; and ever sins
his third son has got a place in the Treasury, his secknd a
captingsy in the Guards, his fust, the secretary of embasy at
Pekin, with a prospick of being appinted ambasdor at Loo Choo--ever
sins master's sons have reseaved these attentions, and master
himself has had the promis of a pearitch, he has been the most
reglar, consistnt, honrabble Libbaral, in or out of the House of

Well, being a Whig, it's the fashn, as you know, to reseave littery
pipple; and accordingly, at dinner, tother day, whose name do you
think I had to hollar out on the fust landing-place about a wick
ago? After several dukes and markises had been enounced, a very
gentell fly drives up to our doar, and out steps two gentlemen.
One was pail, and wor spektickles, a wig, and a white neckcloth.
The other was slim with a hook nose, a pail fase, a small waist, a
pare of falling shoulders, a tight coat, and a catarack of black
satting tumbling out of his busm, and falling into a gilt velvet
weskit. The little genlmn settled his wigg, and pulled out his
ribbins; the younger one fluffed the dust of his shoes, looked at
his whiskers in a little pockit-glas, settled his crevatt; and they
both mounted upstairs.

"What name, sir?" says I, to the old genlmn.

"Name!--a! now, you thief o' the wurrld," says he, "do you pretind
nat to know ME? Say it's the Cabinet Cyclopa--no, I mane the
Litherary Chran--psha!--bluthanowns!--say it's DOCTHOR DIOCLESIAN
LARNER--I think he'll know me now--ay, Nid?" But the genlmn called
Nid was at the botm of the stare, and pretended to be very busy
with his shoo-string. So the little genlmn went upstares alone.


"DOCTOR ATHANASIUS LARDNER!" says Greville Fitz-Roy, our secknd
footman, on the fust landing-place.

"DOCTOR IGNATIUS LOYOLA!" says the groom of the chambers, who
pretends to be a scholar; and in the little genlmn went. When
safely housed, the other chap came; and when I asked him his name,
said, in a thick, gobbling kind of voice:


"Sir what?" says I, quite agast at the name.

"Sawedwad--no, I mean MISTAWedwad Lyttn Bulwig."

My neas trembled under me, my i's fild with tiers, my voice shook,
as I past up the venrabble name to the other footman, and saw this
fust of English writers go up to the drawing-room!

It's needless to mention the names of the rest of the compny, or to
dixcribe the suckmstansies of the dinner. Suffiz to say that the
two littery genlmn behaved very well, and seamed to have good
appytights; igspecially the little Irishman in the whig, who et,
drunk, and talked as much as a duzn. He told how he'd been
presented at cort by his friend, Mr. Bulwig, and how the Quean had
received 'em both, with a dignity undigscribable; and how her
blessid Majisty asked what was the bony fidy sale of the Cabinit
Cyclopaedy, and how be (Doctor Larner) told her that, on his
honner, it was under ten thowsnd.

You may guess that the Doctor, when he made this speach, was pretty
far gone. The fact is, that whether it was the coronation, or the
goodness of the wine (cappitle it is in our house, I can tell you),
or the natral propensaties of the gests assembled, which made them
so igspecially jolly, I don't know; but they had kep up the meating
pretty late, and our poar butler was quite tired with the
perpechual baskits of clarrit which he'd been called upon to bring
up. So that about 11 o'clock, if I were to say they were merry, I
should use a mild term; if I wer to say they were intawsicated, I
should use a nigspresshn more near to the truth, but less
rispeckful in one of my situashn.

The cumpany reseaved this annountsmint with mute extonishment.

"Pray, Doctor Larnder," says a spiteful genlmn, willing to keep up
the littery conversation, "what is the Cabinet Cyclopaedia?"

"It's the littherary wontherr of the wurrld," says he; "and sure
your lordship must have seen it; the latther numbers ispicially--
cheap as durrt, bound in gleezed calico, six shillings a vollum.
The illusthrious neems of Walther Scott, Thomas Moore, Docther
Southey, Sir James Mackintosh, Docther Donovan, and meself, are to
be found in the list of conthributors. It's the Phaynix of
Cyclopajies--a litherary Bacon."

"A what?" says the genlmn nex to him.

"A Bacon, shining in the darkness of our age; fild wid the pure end
lambent flame of science, burning with the gorrgeous scintillations
of divine litherature--a monumintum, in fact, are perinnius, bound
in pink calico, six shillings a vollum."

"This wigmawole," said Mr. Bulwig (who seemed rather disgusted that
his friend should take up so much of the convassation), "this
wigmawole is all vewy well; but it's cuwious that you don't
wemember, in chawactewising the litewawy mewits of the vawious
magazines, cwonicles, weviews, and encyclopaedias, the existence of
a cwitical weview and litewary chwonicle, which, though the aewa of
its appeawance is dated only at a vewy few months pwevious to the
pwesent pewiod, is, nevertheless, so wemarkable for its intwinsic
mewits as to be wead, not in the metwopolis alone, but in the
countwy--not in Fwance merely, but in the west of Euwope--whewever
our pure Wenglish is spoken, it stwetches its peaceful sceptre--
pewused in Amewica, fwom New York to Ningawa--wepwinted in Canada,
from Montweal to Towonto--and, as I am gwatified to hear fwom my
fwend the governor of Cape Coast Castle, wegularly weceived in
Afwica, and twanslated into the Mandingo language by the
missionawies and the bushwangers. I need not say, gentlemen--
sir--that is, Mr. Speaker--I mean, Sir John--that I allude to the
Litewary Chwonicle, of which I have the honor to be pwincipal

"Very true; my dear Mr. Bullwig," says my master: "you and I being
Whigs, must of course stand by our own friends; and I will agree,
without a moment's hesitation, that the Literary what-d'ye-call'em
is the prince of periodicals."

"The pwince of pewiodicals?" says Bullwig; "my dear Sir John, it's
the empewow of the pwess."

"Soit,--let it be the emperor of the press, as you poetically call
it: but, between ourselves, confess it,--Do not the Tory writers
beat your Whigs hollow? You talk about magazines. Look at--"

"Look at hwat?" shouts out Larder. "There's none, Sir Jan,
compared to ourrs."

"Pardon me, I think that--"

"It is 'Bentley's Mislany' you mane?" says Ignatius, as sharp as a

"Why, no; but--"

"O thin, it's Co'burn, sure! and that divvle Thayodor--a pretty
paper, sir, but light--thrashy, milk-and-wathery--not sthrong, like
the Litherary Chran--good luck to it."

"Why, Doctor Lander, I was going to tell at once the name of the
periodical, it's FRASER'S MAGAZINE."

"FRESER!" says the Doctor. "O thunder and turf!"

"FWASER!" says Bullwig. "O--ah--hum--haw--yes--no--why,--that is
weally--no, weally, upon my weputation, I never before heard the
name of the pewiodical. By the by, Sir John, what wemarkable good
clawet this is; is it Lawose or Laff--?"

Laff, indeed! he cooden git beyond laff; and I'm blest if I could
kip it neither,--for hearing him pretend ignurnts, and being behind
the skreend, settlin somethink for the genlmn, I bust into such a
raw of laffing as never was igseeded.

"Hullo!" says Bullwig, turning red. "Have I said anything
impwobable, aw widiculous? for, weally, I never befaw wecollect to
have heard in society such a twemendous peal of cachinnation--that
which the twagic bard who fought at Mawathon has called an
anewithmon gelasma."

"Why, be the holy piper," says Larder, "I think you are dthrawing a
little on your imagination. Not read Fraser! Don't believe him,
my lord duke; he reads every word of it, the rogue! The boys about
that magazine baste him as if he was a sack of oatmale. My reason
for crying out, Sir Jan, was because you mintioned Fraser at all.
Bullwig has every syllable of it be heart--from the pailitix down
to the 'Yellowplush Correspondence.'"

"Ha, ha!" says Bullwig, affecting to laff (you may be sure my ears
prickt up when I heard the name of the "Yellowplush Correspondence").
"Ha, ha! why, to tell truth, I HAVE wead the cowespondence to which
you allude: it's a gweat favowite at court. I was talking with
Spwing Wice and John Wussell about it the other day."

"Well, and what do you think of it?" says Sir John, looking mity
waggish--for he knew it was me who roat it.

"Why, weally and twuly, there's considewable cleverness about the
cweature; but it's low, disgustingly low: it violates pwabability,
and the orthogwaphy is so carefully inaccuwate, that it requires a
positive study to compwehend it."

"Yes, faith," says Larner; "the arthagraphy is detestible; it's as
bad for a man to write bad spillin as it is for 'em to speak wid a
brrogue. Iducation furst, and ganius afterwards. Your health, my
lord, and good luck to you."

"Yaw wemark," says Bullwig, "is vewy appwopwiate. You will
wecollect, Sir John, in Hewodotus (as for you, Doctor, you know
more about Iwish than about Gweek),--you will wecollect, without
doubt, a stowy nawwated by that cwedulous though fascinating
chwonicler, of a certain kind of sheep which is known only in a
certain distwict of Awabia, and of which the tail is so enormous,
that it either dwaggles on the gwound, or is bound up by the
shepherds of the country into a small wheelbawwow, or cart, which
makes the chwonicler sneewingly wemark that thus 'the sheep of
Awabia have their own chawiots.' I have often thought, sir (this
clawet is weally nectaweous)--I have often, I say, thought that the
wace of man may be compawed to these Awabian sheep--genius is our
tail, education our wheelbawwow. Without art and education to pwop
it, this genius dwops on the gwound, and is polluted by the mud, or
injured by the wocks upon the way: with the wheelbawwow it is
stwengthened, incweased, and supported--a pwide to the owner, a
blessing to mankind."

"A very appropriate simile," says Sir John; "and I am afraid that
the genius of our friend Yellowplush has need of some such support."

"Apropos," said Bullwig, "who IS Yellowplush? I was given to
understand that the name was only a fictitious one, and that the
papers were written by the author of the 'Diary of a Physician;' if
so, the man has wonderfully improved in style, and there is some
hope of him."

"Bah!" says the Duke of Doublejowl; "everybody knows it's Barnard,
the celebrated author of 'Sam Slick.'"

"Pardon, my dear duke," says Lord Bagwig; "it's the authoress of
'High Life,' 'Almack's,' and other fashionable novels."

"Fiddlestick's end!" says Doctor Larner; "don't be blushing and
pretinding to ask questions; don't we know you, Bullwig? It's you
yourself, you thief of the world: we smoked you from the very

Bullwig was about indignantly to reply, when Sir John interrupted
them, and said,--"I must correct you all, gentlemen; Mr. Yellowplush
is no other than Mr. Yellowplush: he gave you, my dear Bullwig, your
last glass of champagne at dinner, and is now an inmate of my house,
and an ornament of my kitchen!"

"Gad!" says Doublejowl, "let's have him up."

"Hear, hear!" says Bagwig.

"Ah, now," says Larner, "your grace is not going to call up and
talk to a footman, sure? Is it gintale?"

"To say the least of it," says Bullwig, "the pwactice is iwwegular,
and indecowous; and I weally don't see how the interview can be in
any way pwofitable."

But the vices of the company went against the two littery men, and
everybody excep them was for having up poor me. The bell was
wrung; butler came. "Send up Charles," says master; and Charles,
who was standing behind the skreand, was persnly abliged to come

"Charles," says master, "I have been telling these gentlemen who
is the author of the 'Yellowplush Correspondence' in Fraser's

"It's the best magazine in Europe," says the duke.

"And no mistake," says my lord.

"Hwhat!" says Larner; "and where's the Litherary Chran?"

I said myself nothink, but made a bough, and blusht like pickle-

"Mr. Yellowplush," says his grace, "will you, in the first place,
drink a glass of wine?"

I boughed agin.

"And what wine do you prefer, sir? humble port or imperial burgundy?"

"Why, your grace," says I, "I know my place, and ain't above
kitchin wines. I will take a glass of port, and drink it to the
health of this honrabble compny."

When I'd swigged off the bumper, which his grace himself did me the
honor to pour out for me, there was a silints for a minnit; when my
master said:--

"Charles Yellowplush, I have perused your memoirs in Fraser's
Magazine with so much curiosity, and have so high an opinion of
your talents as a writer, that I really cannot keep you as a
footman any longer, or allow you to discharge duties for which you
are now quite unfit. With all my admiration for your talents, Mr.
Yellowplush, I still am confident that many of your friends in the
servants'-hall will clean my boots a great deal better than a
gentleman of your genius can ever be expected to do--it is for this
purpose I employ footmen, and not that they may be writing articles
in magazines. But--you need not look so red, my good fellow, and
had better take another glass of port--I don't wish to throw you
upon the wide world without the means of a livelihood, and have
made interest for a little place which you will have under
government, and which will give you an income of eighty pounds per
annum; which you can double, I presume, by your literary labors."

"Sir," says I, clasping my hands, and busting into tears, "do not--
for heaven's sake, do not!--think of any such think, or drive me
from your suvvice, because I have been fool enough to write in
magaseens. Glans but one moment at your honor's plate--every spoon
is as bright as a mirror; condysend to igsamine your shoes--your
honor may see reflected in them the fases of every one in the
company. I blacked them shoes, I cleaned that there plate. If
occasionally I've forgot the footman in the litterary man, and
committed to paper my remindicences of fashnabble life, it was from
a sincere desire to do good, and promote nollitch: and I appeal to
your honor,--I lay my hand on my busm, and in the fase of this
noble company beg you to say, When you rung your bell, who came to
you fust? When you stopt out at Brooke's till morning, who sat up
for you? When you was ill, who forgot the natral dignities of his
station, and answered the two-pair bell? Oh, sir," says I, "I know
what's what; don't send me away. I know them littery chaps, and,
beleave me, I'd rather be a footman. The work's not so hard--the
pay is better: the vittels incompyrably supearor. I have but to
clean my things, and run my errints, and you put clothes on my
back, and meat in my mouth. Sir! Mr. Bullwig! an't I right? shall
I quit MY station and sink--that is to say, rise--to YOURS?"

Bullwig was violently affected; a tear stood in his glistening i.
"Yellowplush," says he, seizing my hand, "you ARE right. Quit not
your present occupation; black boots, clean knives, wear plush, all
your life, but don't turn literary man. Look at me. I am the
first novelist in Europe. I have ranged with eagle wing over the
wide regions of literature, and perched on every eminence in its
turn. I have gazed with eagle eyes on the sun of philosophy, and
fathomed the mysterious depths of the human mind. All languages
are familiar to me, all thoughts are known to me, all men
understood by me. I have gathered wisdom from the honeyed lips of
Plato, as we wandered in the gardens of Acadames--wisdom, too, from
the mouth of Job Johnson, as we smoked our 'backy in Seven Dials.
Such must be the studies, and such is the mission, in this world,
of the Poet-Philosopher. But the knowledge is only emptiness; the
initiation is but misery; the initiated, a man shunned and bann'd
by his fellows. Oh," said Bullwig, clasping his hands, and
throwing his fine i's up to the chandelier, "the curse of
Pwometheus descends upon his wace. Wath and punishment pursue them
from genewation to genewation! Wo to genius, the heaven-scaler,
the fire-stealer! Wo and thrice bitter desolation! Earth is the
wock on which Zeus, wemorseless, stwetches his withing victim--men,
the vultures that feed and fatten on him. Ai, ai! it is agony
eternal--gwoaning and solitawy despair! And you, Yellowplush,
would penetwate these mystewies: you would waise the awful veil,
and stand in the twemendous Pwesence. Beware; as you value your
peace, beware! Withdwaw, wash Neophyte! For heaven's sake--O for
heaven's sake!--" here he looked round with agony--give me a glass
of bwandy-and-water, for this clawet is beginning to disagwee with

Bullwig having concluded this spitch, very much to his own
sattasfackshn, looked round to the compny for aplaws, and then
swigged off the glass of brandy-and-water, giving a sollum sigh as
he took the last gulph; and then Doctor Ignatius, who longed for a
chans, and, in order to show his independence, began flatly
contradicting his friend, addressed me, and the rest of the genlmn
present, in the following manner:--

"Hark ye," says he, "my gossoon, doan't be led asthray by the
nonsinse of that divil of a Bullwig. He's jillous of ye, my bhoy:
that's the rale, undoubted thruth; and it's only to keep you out of
litherary life that he's palavering you in this way. I'll tell you
what--Plush ye blackguard,--my honorable frind the mimber there has
told me a hunder times by the smallest computation, of his intense
admiration of your talents, and the wonderful sthir they were
making in the world. He can't bear a rival. He's mad with envy,
hatred, oncharatableness. Look at him, Plush, and look at me. My
father was not a juke exactly, nor aven a markis, and see,
nevertheliss, to what a pitch I am come. I spare no ixpinse; I'm
the iditor of a cople of pariodicals; I dthrive about in me
carridge: I dine wid the lords of the land; and why--in the name of
the piper that pleed before Mosus, hwy? Because I'm a litherary
man. Because I know how to play me cards. Because I'm Docther
Larner, in fact, and mimber of every society in and out of Europe.
I might have remained all my life in Thrinity Colledge, and never
made such an incom as that offered you by Sir Jan; but I came to
London--to London, my boy, and now see! Look again at me friend
Bullwig. He IS a gentleman, to be sure, and bad luck to 'im, say
I; and what has been the result of his litherary labor? I'll tell
you what; and I'll tell this gintale society, by the shade of Saint
Patrick, they're going to make him a BARINET."

"A BARNET, Doctor!" says I; "you don't mean to say they're going to
make him a barnet!"

"As sure as I've made meself a docthor," says Larner.

"What, a baronet, like Sir John?"

"The divle a bit else."

"And pray what for?"

"What faw?" says Bullwig. "Ask the histowy of litwatuwe what faw?
Ask Colburn, ask Bentley, ask Saunders and Otley, ask the gweat
Bwitish nation, what faw? The blood in my veins comes puwified
thwough ten thousand years of chivalwous ancestwy; but that is
neither here nor there: my political principles--the equal wights
which I have advocated--the gweat cause of fweedom that I have
celebwated, are known to all. But this, I confess, has nothing to
do with the question. No, the question is this--on the thwone of
litewature I stand unwivalled, pwe-eminent; and the Bwitish
government, honowing genius in me, compliments the Bwitish nation
by lifting into the bosom of the heweditawy nobility, the most
gifted member of the democwacy." (The honrabble genlm here sunk
down amidst repeated cheers.)

"Sir John," says I, "and my lord duke, the words of my rivrint
frend Ignatius, and the remarks of the honrabble genlmn who has
just sate down, have made me change the detummination which I had
the honor of igspressing just now.

"I igsept the eighty pound a year; knowing that I shall ave plenty
of time for pursuing my littery career, and hoping some day to set
on that same bentch of barranites, which is deckarated by the
presnts of my honrabble friend.

"Why shooden I? It's trew I ain't done anythink as YET to deserve
such an honor; and it's very probable that I never shall. But what
then?--quaw dong, as our friends say? I'd much rayther have a
coat-of-arms than a coat of livry. I'd much rayther have my blud-
red hand spralink in the middle of a shield, than underneath a tea-
tray. A barranit I will be; and, in consiquints, must cease to be
a footmin.

"As to my politticle princepills, these, I confess, ain't settled:
they are, I know, necessary; but they ain't necessary UNTIL ASKT
FOR; besides, I reglar read the Sattarist newspaper, and so
ignirince on this pint would be inigscusable.

"But if one man can git to be a doctor, and another a barranit, and
another a capting in the navy, and another a countess, and another
the wife of a governor of the Cape of Good Hope, I begin to
perseave that the littery trade ain't such a very bad un;
igspecially if you're up to snough, and know what's o'clock. I'll
learn to make myself usefle, in the fust place; then I'll larn to
spell; and, I trust, by reading the novvles of the honrabble
member, and the scientafick treatiseses of the reverend doctor, I
may find the secrit of suxess, and git a litell for my own share.
I've sevral frends in the press, having paid for many of those
chaps' drink, and given them other treets; and so I think I've got
all the emilents of suxess; therefore, I am detummined, as I said,
to igsept your kind offer, and beg to withdraw the wuds which I
made yous of when I refyoused your hoxpatable offer. I must,

"I wish you'd withdraw yourself," said Sir John, bursting into a
most igstrorinary rage, "and not interrupt the company with your
infernal talk! Go down, and get us coffee: and, hark ye! hold your
impertinent tongue, or I'll break every bone in your body. You
shall have the place as I said; and while you're in my service, you
shall be my servant; but you don't stay in my service after to-
morrow. Go down stairs, sir; and don't stand staring here!"

. . . . . .

In this abrupt way, my evening ended; it's with a melancholy regret
that I think what came of it. I don't wear plush any more. I am
an altered, a wiser, and, I trust, a better man.

I'm about a novvle (having made great progriss in spelling), in the
style of my friend Bullwig; and preparing for publigation, in the
Doctor's Cyclopedear, "The Lives of Eminent British and Foring



DEAR WHY,--Takin advantage of the Crismiss holydays, Sir John and
me (who is a member of parlyment) had gone down to our place in
Yorkshire for six wicks, to shoot grows and woodcox, and enjoy old
English hospitalaty. This ugly Canady bisniss unluckaly put an end
to our sports in the country, and brot us up to Buckly Square as
fast as four posterses could gallip. When there, I found your
parcel, containing the two vollumes of a new book; which, as I have
been away from the literary world, and emplied solely in athlatic
exorcises, have been laying neglected in my pantry, among my knife-
cloaths, and dekanters, and blacking-bottles, and bed-room candles,
and things.

* These Memoirs were originally published in Fraser's Magazine, and
it may be stated for the benefit of the unlearned in such matters,
that "Oliver Yorke" is the assumed name of the editor of that

This will, I'm sure, account for my delay in notussing the work.
I see sefral of the papers and magazeens have been befoarhand with
me, and have given their apinions concerning it: specially the
Quotly Revew, which has most mussilessly cut to peases the author
of this Dairy of the Times of George IV.*

* Diary illustrative of the Times of George the Fourth,
interspersed with Original Letters from the late Queen Caroline,
and from various other distinguished Persons.

"Tot ou tard, tout se scait."--MAINTENON.

In 2 vols. London, 1838. Henry Colburn.

That it's a woman who wrote it is evydent from the style of the
writing, as well as from certain proofs in the book itself. Most
suttnly a femail wrote this Dairy; but who this Dairy-maid may be,
I, in coarse, can't conjecter: and indeed, common galliantry
forbids me to ask. I can only judge of the book itself; which, it
appears to me, is clearly trenching upon my ground and favrite
subjicks, viz. fashnabble life, as igsibited in the houses of the
nobility, gentry, and rile fammly.

But I bare no mallis--infamation is infamation, and it doesn't
matter where the infamy comes from; and whether the Dairy be from
that distinguished pen to which it is ornarily attributed--whether,
I say, it comes from a lady of honor to the late quean, or a
scullion to that diffunct majisty, no matter: all we ask is
nollidge; never mind how we have it. Nollidge, as our cook says,
is like trikel-possit--it's always good, though you was to drink it
out of an old shoo.

Well, then, although this Dairy is likely searusly to injur my
pussonal intrests, by fourstalling a deal of what I had to say in
my private memoars--though many, many guineas, is taken from my
pockit, by cuttin short the tail of my narratif--though much that I
had to say in souperior languidge, greased with all the ellygance
of my orytory, the benefick of my classcle reading, the chawms of
my agreble wit, is thus abruply brot befor the world by an inferior
genus, neither knowing nor writing English; yet I say, that
nevertheless I must say, what I am puffickly prepaired to say, to
gainsay which no man can say a word--yet I say, that I say I
consider this publication welkom. Far from viewing it with enfy, I
greet it with applaws; because it increases that most exlent
specious of nollidge, I mean "FASHNABBLE NOLLIDGE:" compayred to
witch all other nollidge is nonsince--a bag of goold to a pare of

Could Lord Broom, on the Canady question, say moar? or say what he
had tu say better? We are marters, both of us, to prinsple; and
every body who knows eather knows that we would sacrafice anythink
rather than that. Fashion is the goddiss I adoar. This delightful
work is an offring on her srine; and as sich all her wushippers are
bound to hail it. Here is not a question of trumpry lords and
honrabbles, generals and barronites, but the crown itself, and the
king and queen's actions; witch may be considered as the crown
jewels. Here's princes, and grand-dukes and airsparent, and heaven
knows what; all with blood-royal in their veins, and their names
mentioned in the very fust page of the peeridge. In this book you
become so intmate with the Prince of Wales, that you may follow
him, if you please, to his marridge-bed: or, if you prefer the
Princiss Charlotte, you may have with her an hour's tator-tator.*

* Our estimable correspondent means, we presume, tete-a-tete.--O. Y.

Now, though most of the remarkable extrax from this book have been
given already (the cream of the Dairy, as I wittily say,) I shall
trouble you, nevertheless, with a few; partly because they can't be
repeated too often, and because the toan of obsyvation with which
they have been genrally received by the press, is not igsackly such
as I think they merit. How, indeed, can these common magaseen and
newspaper pipple know anythink of fashnabble life, let alone ryal?

Conseaving, then, that the publication of the Dairy has done reel
good on this scoar, and may probly do a deal moor, I shall look
through it, for the porpus of selecting the most ellygant passidges,
and which I think may be peculiarly adapted to the reader's benefick.

For you see, my dear Mr. Yorke, that in the fust place, that this
is no common catchpny book, like that of most authors and
authoresses, who write for the base looker of gain. Heaven bless
you! the Dairy-maid is above anything musnary. She is a woman of
rank, and no mistake; and is as much above doin a common or vulgar
action as I am superaor to taking beer after dinner with my cheese.
She proves that most satisfackarily, as we see in the following

"Her royal highness came to me, and having spoken a few phrases on
different subjects, produced all the papers she wishes to have
published: her whole correspondence with the prince relative to
Lady J---'s dismissal; his subsequent neglect of the princess; and,
finally, the acquittal of her supposed guilt, signed by the Duke of
Portland, &c., at the time of the secret inquiry: when, if proof
could have been brought against her, it certainly would have been
done; and which acquittal, to the disgrace of all parties concerned,
as well as to the justice of the nation in general, was not made
public at the time. A common criminal is publicly condemned or
acquitted. Her royal highness commanded me to have these letters
published forthwith, saying, 'You may sell them for a great sum.'
At first (for she had spoken to me before concerning this business),
I thought of availing myself of the opportunity; but upon second
thoughts, I turned from this idea with detestation: for, if I do
wrong by obeying her wishes and endeavoring to serve her, I will do
so at least from good and disinterested motives, not from any sordid
views. The princess commands me, and I will obey her, whatever may
be the issue; but not for fare or fee. I own I tremble, not so much
for myself, as for the idea that she is not taking the best and most
dignified way of having these papers published. Why make a secret
of it at all? If wrong, it should not be done; if right it should
be done openly, and in the face of her enemies. In her royal
highness's case, as in that of wronged princes in general, why do
they shrink from straightforward dealings, and rather have recourse
to crooked policy? I wish, in this particular instance, I could
make her royal highness feel thus: but she is naturally indignant at
being falsely accused, and will not condescend to an avowed

Can anythink be more just and honrabble than this? The Dairy-lady
is quite fair and abovebored. A clear stage, says she, and no
favior! "I won't do behind my back what I am ashamed of before my
face: not I!" No more she does; for you see that, though she was
offered this manyscrip by the princess FOR NOTHINK, though she knew
that she could actially get for it a large sum of money, she was
above it, like an honest, noble, grateful, fashnabble woman, as she
was. She aboars secrecy, and never will have recors to disguise or
crookid polacy. This ought to be an ansure to them RADICLE
SNEERERS, who pretend that they are the equals of fashnabble
pepple; wheras it's a well-known fact, that the vulgar roagues have
no notion of honor.

And after this positif declaration, which reflex honor on her
ladyship (long life to her! I've often waited behind her chair!)--
after this positif declaration, that, even for the porpus of
DEFENDING her missis, she was so hi-minded as to refuse anythink
like a peculiarly consideration, it is actially asserted in the
public prints by a booxeller, that he has given her A THOUSAND
POUND for the Dairy. A thousand pound! nonsince!--it's a phigment!
a base lible! This woman take a thousand pound, in a matter where
her dear mistriss, friend, and benyfactriss was concerned! Never!
A thousand baggonits would be more prefrabble to a woman of her
xqizzit feelins and fashion.

But to proseed. It's been objected to me, when I wrote some of my
expearunces in fashnabble life, that my languidge was occasionally
vulgar, and not such as is genrally used in those exqizzit famlies
which I frequent. Now, I'll lay a wager that there is in this
book, wrote as all the world knows, by a rele lady, and speakin of
kings and queens as if they were as common as sand-boys--there is
in this book more wulgarity than ever I displayed, more nastiness
than ever I would dare TO THINK ON, and more bad grammar than ever
I wrote since I was a boy at school. As for authografy, evry
genlmn has his own: never mind spellin, I say, so long as the sence
is right.

Let me here quot a letter from a corryspondent of this charming
lady of honor; and a very nice corryspondent he is, too, without
any mistake:

"Lady O---, poor Lady O---! knows the rules of prudence, I fear me,
as imperfectly as she doth those of the Greek and Latin Grammars:
or she hath let her brother, who is a sad swine, become master of
her secrets, and then contrived to quarrel with him. You would see
the outline of the melange in the newspapers; but not the report
that Mr. S--- is about to publish a pamphlet, as an addition to the
Harleian Tracts, setting forth the amatory adventures of his
sister. We shall break our necks in haste to buy it, of course
crying 'Shameful' all the while; and it is said that Lady O--- is
to be cut, which I cannot entirely believe. Let her tell two or
three old women about town that they are young and handsome, and
give some well-timed parties, and she may still keep the society
which she hath been used to. The times are not so hard as they
once were, when a woman could not construe Magna Charta with
anything like impunity. People were full as gallant many years
ago. But the days are gone by wherein my lord-protector of the
commonwealth of England was wont to go a lovemaking to Mrs.
Fleetwood, with the Bible under his arm.

"And so Miss Jacky Gordon is really clothed with a husband at last,
and Miss Laura Manners left without a mate! She and Lord Stair
should marry and have children in mere revenge. As to Miss Gordon,
she's a Venus well suited for such a Vulcan,--whom nothing but
money and a title could have rendered tolerable, even to a kitchen
wench. It is said that the matrimonial correspondence between this
couple is to be published, full of sad scandalous relations, of
which you may be sure scarcely a word is true. In former times,
the Duchess of St. A---s made use of these elegant epistles in
order to intimidate Lady Johnstone: but that ruse would not avail;
so in spite, they are to be printed. What a cargo of amiable
creatures! Yet will some people scarcely believe in the existence
of Pandemonium.

"Tuesday Morning.--You are perfectly right respecting the hot rooms
here, which we all cry out against, and all find very comfortable--
much more so than the cold sands and bleak neighborhood of the sea;
which looks vastly well in one of Vander Velde's pictures hung upon
crimson damask, but hideous and shocking in reality. H--- and his
'elle' (talking of parties) were last night at Cholmondeley House,
but seem not to ripen in their love. He is certainly good-humored,
and I believe, good-hearted, so deserves a good wife; but his cara
seems a genuine London miss made up of many affectations. Will she
form a comfortable helpmate? For me, I like not her origin, and
deem many strange things to run in blood, besides madness and the
Hanoverian evil.

"Thursday.--I verily do believe that I shall never get to the end
of this small sheet of paper, so many unheard of interruptions have
I had; and now I have been to Vauxhall, and caught the toothache.
I was of Lady E. B---m and H---'s party: very dull--the Lady giving
us all a supper after our promenade--

'Much ado was there, God wot
She would love, but he would not.'

He ate a great deal of ice, although he did not seem to require it:
and she 'faisoit les yeux doux' enough not only to have melted all
the ice which he swallowed, but his own hard heart into the
bargain. The thing will not do. In the meantime, Miss Long hath
become quite cruel to Wellesley Pole, and divides her favor equally
between Lords Killeen and Kilworth, two as simple Irishmen as ever
gave birth to a bull. I wish to Hymen that she were fairly
married, for all this pother gives one a disgusting picture of
human nature."

A disgusting pictur of human nature, indeed--and isn't he who
moralizes about it, and she to whom he writes, a couple of pretty
heads in the same piece? Which, Mr. Yorke, is the wust, the
scandle or the scandle-mongers? See what it is to be a moral man
of fashn. Fust, he scrapes togither all the bad stoaries about all
the people of his acquentance--he goes to a ball, and laffs or
snears at everybody there--he is asked to a dinner, and brings
away, along with meat and wine to his heart's content, a sour
stomick filled with nasty stories of all the people present there.
He has such a squeamish appytite, that all the world seems to
DISAGREE with him. And what has he got to say to his delicate
female frend? Why that--

Fust. Mr. S. is going to publish indescent stoaries about Lady O---,
his sister, which everybody's goin to by.

Nex. That Miss Gordon is going to be cloathed with an usband; and
that all their matrimonial corryspondins is to be published too.

3. That Lord H. is going to be married; but there's some thing
rong in his wife's blood.

4. Miss Long has cut Mr. Wellesley, and is gone after two Irish

Wooden you phancy, now, that the author of such a letter, instead
of writin about pipple of tip-top qualaty, was describin Vinegar
Yard? Would you beleave that the lady he was a-ritin to was a
chased, modist lady of honor, and mother of a famly? O trumpery!
O morris! as Homer says: this is a higeous pictur of manners, such
as I weap to think of, as evry morl man must weap.

The above is one pritty pictur of mearly fashnabble life: what
follows is about families even higher situated than the most
fashnabble. Here we have the princessregient, her daughter the
Princess Sharlot, her grandmamma the old quean, and her madjisty's
daughters the two princesses. If this is not high life, I don't
know where it is to be found; and it's pleasing to see what
affeckshn and harmny rains in such an exolted spear.

"Sunday 24th.--Yesterday, the princess went to meet the Princess
Charlotte at Kensington. Lady ---- told me that, when the latter
arrived, she rushed up to her mother, and said, 'For God's sake, be
civil to her,' meaning the Duchess of Leeds, who followed her.
Lady ---- said she felt sorry for the latter; but when the Princess
of Wales talked to her, she soon became so free and easy, that one
could not have any FEELING about her FEELINGS. Princess Charlotte,
I was told, was looking handsome, very pale, but her head more
becomingly dressed,--that is to say, less dressed than usual. Her
figure is of that full round shape which is now in its prime; but
she disfigures herself by wearing her bodice so short, that she
literally has no waist. Her feet are very pretty; and so are her
hands and arms, and her ears, and the shape of her head. Her
countenance is expressive, when she allows her passions to play
upon it; and I never saw any face, with so little shade, express so
many powerful and varied emotions. Lady ---- told me that the
Princess Charlotte talked to her about her situation, and said, in
a very quiet, but determined way, she WOULD NOT BEAR IT, and that
as soon as parliament met, she intended to come to Warwick House,
and remain there; that she was also determined not to consider the
Duchess of Leeds as her GOVERNESS but only as her FIRST LADY. She
made many observations on other persons and subjects; and appears
to be very quick, very penetrating, but imperious and wilful.
There is a tone of romance, too, in her character, which will only
serve to mislead her.

"She told her mother that there had been a great battle at Windsor
between the queen and the prince, the former refusing to give up
Miss Knight from her own person to attend on Princess Charlotte as
sub-governess. But the prince-regent had gone to Windsor himself,
and insisted on her doing so; and the 'old Beguin' was forced to
submit, but has been ill ever since: and Sir Henry Halford declared
it was a complete breaking up of her constitution--to the great
delight of the two princesses, who were talking about this affair.
Miss Knight was the very person they wished to have; they think
they can do as they like with her. It has been ordered that the
Princess Charlotte should not see her mother alone for a single
moment; but the latter went into her room, stuffed a pair of large
shoes full of papers, and having given them to her daughter, she
went home. Lady ---- told me everything was written down and sent
to Mr. Brougham NEXT DAY."

See what discord will creap even into the best regulated famlies.
Here are six of 'em--viz., the quean and her two daughters, her
son, and his wife and daughter; and the manner in which they hate
one another is a compleat puzzle.

{his mother.
The Prince hates . . . {his wife.
{his daughter.

Princess Charlotte hates her father.

Princess of Wales hates her husband.

The old quean, by their squobbles, is on the pint of death; and her
two jewtiful daughters are delighted at the news. What a happy,
fashnabble, Christian famly! O Mr. Yorke, Mr. Yorke, if this is
the way in the drawin-rooms, I'm quite content to live below, in
pease and charaty with all men; writin, as I am now, in my pantry,
or els havin a quiet game at cards in the servants-all. With US
there's no bitter, wicked, quarling of this sort. WE don't hate
our children, or bully our mothers, or wish 'em ded when they're
sick, as this Dairywoman says kings and queens do. When we're
writing to our friends or sweethearts, WE don't fill our letters
with nasty stoaries, takin away the carricter of our fellow-
servants, as this maid of honor's amusin' moral frend does. But,
in coarse, it's not for us to judge of our betters;--these great
people are a supeerur race, and we can't comprehend their ways.

Do you recklect--it's twenty years ago now--how a bewtiffle
princess died in givin buth to a poar baby, and how the whole
nation of Hengland wep, as though it was one man, over that sweet
woman and child, in which were sentered the hopes of every one of
us, and of which each was as proud as of his own wife or infnt? Do
you recklect how pore fellows spent their last shillin to buy a
black crape for their hats, and clergymen cried in the pulpit, and
the whole country through was no better than a great dismal
funeral? Do you recklet, Mr. Yorke, who was the person that we all
took on so about? We called her the Princis Sharlot of Wales; and
we valyoud a single drop of her blood more than the whole heartless
body of her father. Well, we looked up to her as a kind of saint
or angle, and blest God (such foolish loyal English pipple as we
ware in those days) who had sent this sweet lady to rule over us.
But heaven bless you! it was only souperstition. She was no better
than she should be, as it turns out--or at least the Dairy-maid
says so. No better?--if my daughters or yours was 1/2 so bad, we'd
as leaf be dead ourselves, and they hanged. But listen to this
pritty charritable story, and a truce to reflexshuns:--

"Sunday, January, 9, 1814.--Yesterday, according to appointment, I
went to Princess Charlotte. Found at Warwick House the harp-
player, Dizzi; was asked to remain and listen to his performance,
but was talked to during the whole time, which completely prevented
all possibility of listening to the music. The Duchess of Leeds
and her daughter were in the room, but left it soon. Next arrived
Miss Knight, who remained all the time I was there. Princess
Charlotte was very gracious--showed me all her bonny dyes, as B---
would have called them--pictures, and cases, and jewels, &c. She
talked in a very desultory way, and it would be difficult to say of
what. She observed her mother was in very low spirits. I asked
her how she supposed she could be otherwise? This QUESTIONING
answer saves a great deal of trouble, and serves two purposes--i.e.
avoids committing oneself, or giving offence by silence. There was
hung in the apartment one portrait, amongst others, that very much
resembled the Duke of D---. I asked Miss Knight whom it represented.
She said that was not known; it had been supposed a likeness of the
Pretender, when young. This answer suited my thoughts so comically
I could have laughed, if one ever did at courts anything but the
contrary of what one was inclined to do.

"Princess Charlotte has a very great variety of expression in her
countenance--a play of features, and a force of muscle, rarely seen
in connection with such soft and shadeless coloring. Her hands and
arms are beautiful; but I think her figure is already gone, and
will soon be precisely like her mother's: in short it is the very
picture of her, and NOT IN MINIATURE. I could not help analyzing
my own sensations during the time I was with her, and thought more
of them than I did of her. Why was I at all flattered, at all more
amused, at all more supple to this young princess, than to her who
is only the same sort of person set in the shade of circumstances
and of years? It is that youth, and the approach of power, and the
latent views of self-interest, sway the heart and dazzle the
understanding. If this is so with a heart not, I trust, corrupt,
and a head not particularly formed for interested calculations,
what effect must not the same causes produce on the generality of

"In the course of the conversation, the Princess Charlotte contrived
to edge in a good deal of tum-de-dy, and would, if I had entered
into the thing, have gone on with it, while looking at a little
picture of herself, which had about thirty or forty different
dresses to put over it, done on isinglass, and which allowed the
general coloring of the picture to be seen through its transparency.
It was, I thought, a pretty enough conceit, though rather like
dressing up a doll. 'Ah!,' said Miss Knight, 'I am not content
though, madame--for I yet should have liked one more dress--that of
the favorite Sultana.'

"'No, no!' said the princess, 'I never was a favorite, and never
can be one,'--looking at a picture which she said was her father's,
but which I do not believe was done for the regent any more than
for me, but represented a young man in a hussar's dress--probably a
former favorite.

"The Princess Charlotte seemed much hurt at the little notice that
was taken of her birthday. After keeping me for two hours and a
half she dismissed me; and I am sure I could not say what she said,
except that it was an olio of decousus and heterogeneous things,
partaking of the characteristics of her mother, grafted on a
younger scion. I dined tete-a-tete with my dear old aunt: hers is
always a sweet and soothing society to me."

There's a pleasing, lady-like, moral extract for you! An innocent
young thing of fifteen has picturs of TWO lovers in her room, and
expex a good number more. This dellygate young creature EDGES in a
good deal of TUMDEDY (I can't find it in Johnson's Dixonary), and
would have GONE ON WITH THE THING (ellygence of languidge), if the
dairy-lady would have let her.

Now, to tell you the truth, Mr. Yorke, I doan't beleave a single
syllible of this story. This lady of honner says, in the fust
place, that the princess would have talked a good deal of TUMDEDY:
which means, I suppose, indeasnsy, if she, the lady of honner WOULD
HAVE LET HER. This IS a good one! Why, she lets every body else
talk tumdedy to their hearts' content; she lets her friends WRITE
tumdedy, and, after keeping it for a quarter of a sentry, she
PRINTS it. Why then, be so squeamish about HEARING a little! And,
then, there's the stoary of the two portricks. This woman has the
honner to be received in the frendlyest manner by a British
princess; and what does the grateful loyal creature do? 2 picturs
of the princess's relations are hanging in her room, and the Dairy-
woman swears away the poor young princess's carrickter, by swearing
they are picturs of her LOVERS. For shame, oh, for shame! you
slanderin backbitin dairy-woman you! If you told all them things
to your "dear old aunt," on going to dine with her, you must have
had very "sweet and soothing society" indeed.

I had marked out many more extrax, which I intended to write about;
but I think I have said enough about this Dairy: in fack, the
butler, and the gals in the servants'-hall are not well pleased
that I should go on reading this naughty book; so we'll have no
more of it, only one passidge about Pollytics, witch is sertnly
quite new:--

"No one was so likely to be able to defeat Bonaparte as the Crown
Prince, from the intimate knowledge he possessed of his character.
Bernadotte was also instigated against Bonaparte by one who not
only owed him a personal hatred, but who possessed a mind equal to
his, and who gave the Crown Prince both information and advice how
to act. This was no less a person than Madame de Stael. It was
not, as some have asserted, THAT SHE WAS IN LOVE WITH BERNADOTTE;
for, at the time of their intimacy, MADAME DE STAEL WAS IN LOVE
WITH ROCCA. But she used her influence (which was not small) with
the Crown Prince, to make him fight against Bonaparte, and to her
wisdom may be attributed much of the success which accompanied his
attack upon him. Bernadotte has raised the flame of liberty, which
seems fortunately to blaze all around. May it liberate Europe; and
from the ashes of the laurel may olive branches spring up, and
overshadow the earth!"

There's a discuvery! that the overthrow of Boneypart is owing to
MADAME DE STAEL! What nonsince for Colonel Southey or Doctor
Napier to write histories of the war with that Capsican hupstart
and murderer, when here we have the whole affair explaned by the
lady of honor!

"Sunday, April 10, 1814.--The incidents which take place every hour
are miraculous. Bonaparte is deposed, but alive; subdued, but
allowed to choose his place of residence. The island of Elba is
the spot he has selected for his ignominious retreat. France is
holding forth repentant arms to her banished sovereign. The
Poissardes who dragged Louis XVI. to the scaffold are presenting
flowers to the Emperor of Russia, the restorer of their legitimate
king! What a stupendous field for philosophy to expatiate in!
What an endless material for thought! What humiliation to the
pride of mere human greatness! How are the mighty fallen! Of all
that was great in Napoleon, what remains? Despoiled of his usurped
power, he sinks to insignificance. There was no moral greatness in
the man. The meteor dazzled, scorched, is put out,--utterly, and
for ever. But the power which rests in those who have delivered
the nations from bondage, is a power that is delegated to them from
heaven; and the manner in which they have used it is a guarantee
for its continuance. The Duke of Wellington has gained laurels
unstained by any useless flow of blood. He has done more than
conquer others--he has conquered himself: and in the midst of the
blaze and flush of victory, surrounded by the homage of nations, he
has not been betrayed into the commission of any act of cruelty or
wanton offence. He was as cool and self-possessed under the blaze
and dazzle of fame as a common man would be under the shade of his
garden-tree, or by the hearth of his home. But the tyrant who kept
Europe in awe is now a pitiable object for scorn to point the
finger of derision at: and humanity shudders as it remembers the
scourge with which this man's ambition was permitted to devastate
every home tie, and every heartfelt joy."

And now, after this sublime passidge, as full of awfle reflections
and pious sentyments as those of Mrs. Cole in the play, I shall
only quot one little extrak more:--

"All goes gloomily with the poor princess. Lady Charlotte Campbell
told me she regrets not seeing all these curious personages; but
she says, the more the princess is forsaken, the more happy she is
at having offered to attend her at this time. THIS IS VERY AMIABLE
IN HER, and cannot fail to be gratifying to the princess."

So it is--wery amiable, wery kind and considerate in her, indeed.
Poor Princess! how lucky you was to find a frend who loved you for
your own sake, and when all the rest of the wuld turned its back
kep steady to you. As for believing that Lady Sharlot had any hand
in this book,* heaven forbid! she is all gratitude, pure gratitude,
depend upon it. SHE would not go for to blacken her old frend and
patron's carrickter, after having been so outrageously faithful to
her; SHE wouldn't do it, at no price, depend upon it. How sorry
she must be that others an't quite so squemish, and show up in this
indesent way the follies of her kind, genrus, foolish bennyfactris!

* The "authorized" announcement, in the John Bull newspaper, sets
this question at rest. It is declared that her ladyship is not the
writer of the Diary.--O. Y.





The suckmstansies of the following harticle are as follos:--Me and
my friend, the sellabrated Mr. Smith, reckonized each other in the
Haymarket Theatre, during the performints of the new play. I was
settn in the gallery, and sung out to him (he was in the pit), to
jine us after the play, over a glass of bear and a cold hoyster, in
my pantry, the family being out.

Smith came as appinted. We descorsed on the subjick of the comady;
and, after sefral glases, we each of us agreed to write a letter to
the other, giving our notiums of the pease. Paper was brought that
momint; and Smith writing his harticle across the knife-bord, I
dasht off mine on the dresser.

Our agreement was, that I (being remarkabble for my style of
riting) should cretasize the languidge, whilst he should take up
with the plot of the play; and the candied reader will parding me
for having holtered the original address of my letter, and directed
it to Sir Edward himself; and for having incopperated Smith's
remarks in the midst of my own:--

MAYFAIR, Nov. 30, 1839. Midnite.

HONRABBLE BARNET!--Retired from the littery world a year or moar, I
didn't think anythink would injuice me to come forrards again: for
I was content with my share of reputation, and propoas'd to add
nothink to those immortial wux which have rendered this Magaseen so

Shall I tell you the reazn of my re-appearants?--a desire for the
benefick of my fellow-creatures? Fiddlestick! A mighty truth with
which my busm labored, and which I must bring forth or die?
Nonsince--stuff: money's the secret, my dear Barnet,--money--
l'argong, gelt, spicunia. Here's quarter-day coming, and I'm blest
if I can pay my landlud, unless I can ad hartificially to my inkum.

This is, however, betwigst you and me. There's no need to blacard
the streets with it, or to tell the British public that Fitzroy
Y-ll-wpl-sh is short of money, or that the sallybrated hauthor of
the Y--- Papers is in peskewniary difficklties, or is fiteagued by
his superhuman littery labors, or by his famly suckmstansies, or by
any other pusnal matter: my maxim, dear B, is on these pints to be
as quiet as posbile. What the juice does the public care for you or
me? Why must we always, in prefizzes and what not, be a-talking
about ourselves and our igstrodnary merrats, woas, and injaries? It
is on this subjick that I porpies, my dear Barnet, to speak to you
in a frendly way; and praps you'll find my advise tolrabbly holesum.

Well, then,--if you care about the apinions, fur good or evil, of
us poor suvvants, I tell you, in the most candied way, I like you,
Barnet. I've had my fling at you in my day (for, entry nou, that
last stoary I roat about you and Larnder was as big a bownsir as
ever was)--I've had my fling at you; but I like you. One may
objeck to an immense deal of your writings, which, betwigst you and
me, contain more sham scentiment, sham morallaty, sham poatry, than
you'd like to own; but, in spite of this, there's the STUFF in you:
you've a kind and loyal heart in you, Barnet--a trifle deboshed,
perhaps; a kean i, igspecially for what's comic (as for your
tradgady, it's mighty flatchulent), and a ready plesnt pen. The
man who says you are an As is an As himself. Don't believe him,
Barnet! not that I suppose you wil,--for, if I've formed a correck
apinion of you from your wucks, you think your small-beear as good
as most men's: every man does,--and why not? We brew, and we love
our own tap--amen; but the pint betwigst us, is this stewpid,
absudd way of crying out, because the public don't like it too.
Why shood they, my dear Barnet? You may vow that they are fools;
or that the critix are your enemies; or that the wuld should judge
your poams by your critticle rules, and not their own: you may beat
your breast, and vow you are a marter, and you won't mend the
matter. Take heart, man! you're not so misrabble after all: your
spirits need not be so VERY cast down; you are not so VERY badly
paid. I'd lay a wager that you make, with one thing or another--
plays, novvles, pamphlicks, and little odd jobbs here and there--
your three thowsnd a year. There's many a man, dear Bullwig that
works for less, and lives content. Why shouldn't you? Three
thowsnd a year is no such bad thing,--let alone the barnetcy: it
must be a great comfort to have that bloody hand in your skitching.

But don't you sea, that in a wuld naturally envius, wickid, and
fond of a joak, this very barnetcy, these very cumplaints,--this
ceaseless groning, and moning, and wining of yours, is igsackly the
thing which makes people laff and snear more? If you were ever at
a great school, you must recklect who was the boy most bullid, and
buffited, and purshewd--he who minded it most. He who could take a
basting got but few; he who rord and wep because the knotty boys

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