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written Review that comprehended more interesting matter about Byron---(and matter too that the gravest might read,) than the world had yet seen, must be cancelled. After that night where would be the contributors ? Mr. Heaviside was going the circuitMr. Murray to Abbotsford--Mr Merton to Leicestershire--Mr. Vyvyan to St. Petersburgh-Mr. Gerard to the Cape of Good Hope--the Editor to the Lakes and his humble self upon a few day's excursion to Putney. In case of need articles must be provided, and those immediately. He therefore, for one hour, presumed to summon the glorious band to their duty, a call from which they had never shrunk."

Mr. Aymer's speech was received with the applause it deserved ; but the expression of sentiment was still not loud but deep. Gentian looked very mournful, and even Vyvyan's lip {fell

. We ordered the waiter to bring in a dozen of claret and six ink-stands, and the Vice locked the door.

“ Gentlemen,” said Tristram, “ the bravest and the most glorious nations of antiquity were sometimes constrained to employ mercenaries. Let us look out for foreign aid."

“Good," replied Vyvyan," I will write to my particular friend, the Editor of the European Review: He has monopolized all the knowing men of Europe, except ourselves. The three sheets will be at the printer's in four and twenty hours." The following was written in Mr. Joyeuse's fairest hand, and sent by that night's post:

LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE EUROPEAN REVIEW.

Christopher Inn, Eton, July 10, 1824. MY DEAR SIR,

I have not the honour of your personal acquaintance, though I feel satisfied that we must be more than personal friends. I know that you, as a man of genius, must have admired my prodụctions, and I only attribute it to the supremely careless omission of Mrs. Boyle, in her last edition of the Court Guide, that your letter, dated, no doubt, from No. 17, Westbourne Terrace, Bayswater, has not been forwarded to my town-house. I have been in Devonshire. In that letter I know you have solicited me to join that illustrious body of worthies assembled around you, who, as you forcibly observe in your Prospectus,“ have acquired over their equals the authority of thought,"=" who are, according to universal consent, the best acquainted with the court, the cabinet, and the country of which they treat, and the best hopes of enlightened, brave, and generous men.” I know that you have so solicited me, and I therefore assume at once the privilege of friendship, and address you with the frankness and confidence of kindred' talent.

You may probably have heard of me only as an occasional writer in a piquant periodical (very different indeed in its conduct and its objects from the European Review, but still possessing great merit in its way) entitled “ Knight's Quarterly Magazine. I confess that I do occasionally recreate my pen in that Miscellany; but it was an entire hoax of that erring person, the Editor of Blackwood's Magazine, to represent me as a young man.

I was for several years the Editor of the British Review, and that venerable cognomen, my grandmother, which has been improperly applied to a gentleman very much my inferior in years and gravity, properly belongs to me. I cannot surrender this honour even to you, the representative of “ Mind and its Productions in Britain, France, Italy, Germany, &c.;" but the common consent of Europe votes to you the appellation of my grandfather ; and be assured, my dear Sir, that no exertion shall be wanting on my part to make the proud distinction your sole and inalienable possession.

I think now that I am entitled to ask a favour. I have condescended to dine at this place with some promising boys who write for the miscellany to which I have alluded-clever lads in their vocation—but who (entre nous) are of that class which you properly describe as “ inexperienced young men, who write under the imposing mask of sages." They are in a dilemma. Some legal proceedings about an obscure volume have compelled the Editor of this Magazine to suppress two or three sheets of matter, (by the bye how much do you pay per sheet for Mind and its productions ?) having reference to this volume. The Editor knows not how to fill his Number; and the lads have, una voce, requested me to write to you. Assuming then the character of this Editor (who is really too modest to apply himself to a person of your gravity,) and in his name, I address you.

We have a claim upon you. You told us “ the journal” which you announced would be composed of all that was WANTING in the BEST JOURNALS. We never doubted the truth of your promises. To say nothing of your previous character, there was a simplicity in your Prospectus, and particularly in this member of it, which at once insured conviction. Every great man must know his own powers. We were glad to find you superior to the affectation of modesty. Our Magazine not only ranks among the BEST JOURNALS, but is without doubt THE BEST JOURNAL of the present day of good journals. We therefore boldly come to you to supply our wants. We want MATTER. “ Mind and its productions" we Must have. We have read your first Number with infinite delight

We have seen in that a vast deal of what is wanting in the best journals indeed the whole number bears that characteristic of excellence. If therefore, in the prolific hot-bed of your correspondence throughout the civilized world, there should be an over-. How,--if there should be some rising genius, who is not yet worthy to have his name printed at full length, in the “ second Edition of the Prospectus of the European Review," some burning candidate for your honours, who has not yet arrived at the immortality of finding “ his portrait successively, amongst the British, French, Italian, and German writers, distinguished throughout Europe, and engaged as regular contributors in your Journal,”-hand him over to us. We do not ask you to spare any of the products of “ Britain, France, Germany, Italy, &c.”—but surrender to our distresses the

Illuminati of Lapland and Crim Tartary. You tell us that “ all the intellect of this old Continent will be found in the European Review, as it were in deposit"--we only ask that you should send us some of your unredeemed pledges.

We should be happy to see you amongst us here. Mr. Garraway has a French cook who understands something of matter and its productions, 8c., and though we drink claret, the tap will supply heavy-wet at a moment's notice. Believe me, my dear brother, ever yours,

VYVYAN JOYEUSE, To

the Editor of the European Review, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. 17, Westbourne Terrace, Bayswater. [MOST PRIVATE.]

N. B. Our publisher has desired us to say, that if “ Mumbo. Jumbo” unfortunately has wasted its sweetness on the desert air". owing to the lack of taste and spirit in the trade, he is ready to bid for it, and will engage to publish editions—“ in English, at London ; in French, at Paris ; in Italian, at Florence : and in German, at Stuttgardt."

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VERNON.

Infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Joyeuse. That letter relieves me from a world of anxiety. We shall have shoals of these “great general scholars” pouring in upon us from all parts of the habitable globe. We shall die of a surfeit.

Rather than have no Number, my little Sub., what think you of a nice handy Paper, written by a friend of mine, called No House?

MR. GENTIAN.

OMNES.

Read ! read!

NO HOUSE.

A STRANGER in London, when he has seen the theatres, St. Paul's Cathedral, and the lions in the Tower, feels that after all he shall cut but a poor figure when he gets home, if he omits to visit the House of Commons.

Aware of this, I, a few weeks back, directed my steps towards St. Stephen's Chapel. I had nearly got through Westminsterhall, when a person, standing about two feet six with his shoes on, threw his head back as if a balloon had just been passing over him, to get a view of my face; and having succeeded, he civilly asked “if I wanted to see the House of Commons?” I answered in the affirmative; upon which I saw his little broad-back twaddle before me as expeditiously as the two duck-legs belonging to its owner could move with such a load. We passed along a short passage, and ascended a few steps, when my guide pushing open a door, beckoned me to follow.

“ This is the lobby, sir,” he called out; "and there," pointing to the spot on which I stood immediately after entering, “ Mr. Perceval was murdered."

I was about to indulge in some reflections on that mournful event, when my hand was suddenly grasped by my neighbour, Squire Heathfield, a very worshipful magistrate, and the owner of an estate considered worth five thousand

per annum. Of course solemn meditation instantly gave way to polite recognition. I expressed satisfaction at seeing Mr. Heathfield so well, and, as I ventured to remark, in such excellent spirits.

Why,” said he, “I am a little in spirits, for I have succeeded in two things which I wished to accomplish by coming here.

“ Indeed,” said I, concluding that something very great had been done for the county as well as for himself.

“ Yes,” said he, “ I was lucky enough to get hold of our member, Old Boroughby, and at once secured a frank for my letter, and an order for the gallery.”

I passed with Mr. Heathfield to a staircase, which I understood led to the gallery, towards which I began to ascend, when my dwarf guide again presented himself before me. He spoke not, but the turn of his eye furnished a memorandum not to be mistaken. It cost me sixpence.

A few steps higher brought us to a door, where my neighbour shewed his order. I, at the same time, exhibited half-a-crown, and both were admitted.

On entering the gallery we ran helter skelter towards the front seat. But on looking round I perceived that the reporters of the debates preferred the back seat of all. It struck me that they

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must know which was the best place, so I retrograded and took my seat immediately in front of them. Heathfield did the same.

If no other good resulted from the movement I had made, I flattered myself

that a material advantage would be secured by my getting in the immediate vicinity of the historians of the day, who could so easily explain anything which I might not comprehend, and moreover tell me who was who. Feeling that I should have occasion for their services, like most persons in the same situation, it never occurred to me that it was at all likely they would have something else to do than to attend to me.

I now began addressing a gentleman who had snuffed with me. By way of preface I remarked that " I supposed a debate was no treat to him.” Next I said, " I took it for granted that he could point out all the members, and for what places they sat," and when he replied “a considerable number of them," I rejoined that “I could not think how he could possibly do it."

Matters being in this promising train, I now proceeded to business, by asking if the clerk sitting at the table in a gown and wig, was the Speaker ? if the messenger, with a silver-gilt representation of the King's arms suspended from his neck, was the Ser: jeant at Arms ? and which was the Treasury

Bench ? I received courteous answers, but I thought the reporter looked rather disposed to smile as I put my last interrogatory. Every thing, however, went on very smoothly, and the ice being fairly broken, I rapidly multiplied my questions, still demanding " Who's that--who's that - and who's that!" as the members entered.

Squire Heathfield, profiting by my example, was not backward in making his inquiries. His great anxiety however was to see Mr. Lushington, to whom he said he had been introduced in the country.

The gallery was now crowded. The reporters near me were calculating at what time the debate would begin, and whether the motion would be acquiesced in or opposed. I continued my questions, and inwardly resolved to do so till I found some difficulty in getting answers.

“ Who is that,” said I (it was my fiftieth question), as Mr. Wilberforce approached the table. I have since seen this gentleman at a public meeting. " That,” said my informant (I really wondered at his patience) " is Mr. Butterworth.” I next pointed to Sir J. Newport and desired his name.

“Sir Robert Vaughan," was the answer; and next my eyes glistened with joy at beholding Mr. Secretary Canning, as I supposed, in a senator, whose name I have since learned is really Mr. Spring Rice.

“We are in luck, Heathfield," said I. He smiled assent. А

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