can you know of the bounty and magnificence showered about you? No more than a silly fly, that, finding itself in the palace of a king, sips and sips, and tumbles headlong into the first syrup it may light upon. Have I not seen you leaden-eyedclay-pated-almost dumb with pain hammering at your temples -degraded by nausea tugging at your stomach-your hand shaking like a leaf-your mouth like the mouth of an oven-and your tongue, I am sure of it, like burnt shoe-leather? And for what, Peter Rubygill? For some six hours' madness the night before?

You were left a comfortable competence. Where is it now? Gone. The bottle is the devil's crucible, and melts all!

You were tolerably good-looking. And now is your countenance but as a tavern sign; where numberless little impsliberated by drawn corks-continue to give a daily touch and touch of red, proud of their work, as portrait-painters to the devil himself.

There was a time when your word was true as gold. And now, upon whom can you pass it? From the mouth of a drunkard, the inost solemn promise is no better than the bestmade bad money: it may pass for a time, but is certain to be nailed to the world's counter at last.

You had friends. But there is a mortal fever in the reputation of a drunkard, and sober men wisely avoid it.

You have a wife. Has she a husband? No. She vowed to love a man, and you are a liquor-cask. Can you expect her affection? You might as reasonably expect her wedding-ring to hoop a wine-barrel.

You have children. Poor things! They see a satyr sprawl and reel before them; and, in their innocence, blush not as yet to call the creature father!

But, my dear Peter, there is yet hope. Learn to love home. Avoid the tavern. It is in the tavern-cellar that the devil draws up his army array against the brains and good resolves of men It is there that he reviews his legions of bottles, and prepares them for the attack upon weak humanity. But, arm yourself, Peter; meet the assailants with cold water; and, in the fight, you shall have the earnest prayers of your old friend,

CORYDON RIVERS.

LETTER XVIII.

THE ANSWER.

MY DEAR CORYDON,-You talk of the beauty of the earth— you talk of the magnificence of the world! Why, then, let moles sing psalms to the moon, and that hermit in feathers, the screech-owl, tune a ditty to the noonday sun. The bottle is the true philosopher's microscope, and shows him worlds within worlds that such as you, poor naked-eyed wretches, never had the heart to dream of.

You say that you have seen me with my brain in a fog. Poor ignorance! After a night's say three nights'-continual happiness, you little know the bliss I walk in. You little think of the genius within me, that turns your scoundrel streets of London into the abodes of the blessed. What see I there but love and truest brotherhood? The very knockers wink and laugh at me; and roses and honeysuckles grow about every lamp-post. There are, I know, weak, puling creatures, who talk of headaches; but these are milksop neophytes, not yet of the true priesthood of our order. What if now and then I have a twinge? Think you I accuse the bottle? I should be a villain to do so. No it's the d-d east wind.

As for the fortune that was left me, it is true I have invested it in the bottle; and, oh! what compound interest have I had for my money! Whilst you would count every rascal guinea, and, after you had counted all, would break into a cold sweat to think there was no more, I-seated on my tavern-throne-have had wealth that would confound all arithmetic. All about me has been glorious riches! I have drunk out of hollowed diamonds, and spat in gold-dust.

It is my darling faith that every bottle contains in it a pair of beautiful wings, to lift poor man above the gutter-mud which this sober world is made of. A pair of wings! And I, like Mercury, can't do without three pair.

I have somewhere read it at school-ha! Rivers, sometimes at the heel of the night I see you again in your green jacket, and I sit and enjoy myself, and let the sweetest of tears run down my nose-well, never mind that I read it at old Canetwig's-that Jupiter fastened the earth to heaven with a gold chain. All a flam, my dear boy! It was no chain, but a

splendid, a most magnificent line of linked bottles. The higher you climb, the further you are from this vagabond world. Pity, my dear fellow-pity it is, that the road is so devilish slippery!

You say I had friends. Had! I have millions. Ha! my good creature for you are good, I believe, sober and stupid as you are,—you don't know the philanthropy that a corkscrew lets out upon me. I may have been ruffled; may I be pardoned for it, I may now and then have thought harshly of my poor erring fellow creatures, when-pop!-out comes the cork, and the wine, as it bubbles forth, speaks pacifyingly, soothingly. Again -again! The bottle cooes like any dove; and I have not listened to it above two or three hours, when I feel myself turned into one large lump of human honey! And then these two hands of mine are multiplied ten million times, and I shake hands with every man, woman, and child upon this beautiful earth, my creditors included.

But all this, though much, is nothing to the wisdom-the knowledge that drink so subtly lets in upon poor, darkened man. What is it? You have studied these things; but then you have studied them with a dry, dusty throat; and so, can know no more of the true operations of the intellect―glorious intellect of majestic man, than a monkey knows of a steamengine. Well, what is it? I say, what is it? Ha! my dear soul, if you had only two bottles of the stuff that is now shining before me-shining like a lion's eye-you'd know all about it. Then you'd know metaphysics—that is, metaphysics assisted by glorious wine-here's a bumper to you, old cock! God bless your little green jacket!—metaphysics is this, as you'd know. Every man has an angel within him. Lord love us! and yet, sometimes, we use one another as though we lodged nothing but devils. Well, as I said, every man has an angel within him; and this angel-poor thing!—you dull, sober, miserly fellows, board in the most rascally way; giving him nothing generous to drink, or just wetting his lips, and there an end. And what's the consequence? Why, he tells you nothing worth knowingjust casts up your accounts for you-gives you a nudge when stocks are going, or some small chandler matter of the kind; but, with a noble resentment of your shabbiness, he does nothing more. What does he to me, who know how to treat him? I give him bumper after bumper,—and my brain feels him expanding his wings-(you, poor wretch! don't know that he has wings)yes, bumper after bumper, until, at last, my angel takes up his golden fiddle, and plays me such a tune (I can feel him rosining his bow at this minute,)—such a tune, that as it sounds I catch

all sorts of wisdom; thoughts like diamonds, bright and everlasting!

Ha ha! he's playing now, and I drop the pen to listen, and feel myself an emperor.

*

MY DEAR CORYDON,

*

Don't mind the stuff I've

scrawled above-for I've been mad this month past. I am just arrested. You'll find me at —, Chancery-lane. Come, comefor God's sake, bring fifty pounds, and you will everlastingly oblige

Your wretched friend,

PETER RUBYGILL.

LETTER XIX.

FROM A COUNTRY ACTOR TO A LONDON MANAGER, FOR AN

ENGAGEMENT.

DEAR SIR,-It may probably have escaped your recollection, that in the year did me the high honour to pay me a you 2 very flattering compliment on my acting-imperfect as it wasof Catesby. You then said, sir,—and I have treasured the words —that should it be ever your destiny to manage a London Theatre, you would be only too happy to make me one of your little set. Yes, sir, little set were the words! I am, indeed, sir, most happy to find by the newspapers that that time has arrived. It is a great day for the profession. Such an event has long been wanted; and at length Shakespear - that really great creature!—will have fair play done him. How happy, indeed, shall I be, if permitted in the smallest degree to assist in that national triumph!

66

To return, sir, to the compliment you so kindly paid to my Catesby. That, sir, was ten years ago, and—but on their own merits modest men are dumb"-I flatter myself that an unceasing attention to my profession, and more especially to the advice you were pleased to give me, has made me not less worthy of applause. You may forget that advice-I never shall. The Horatio had been arrested coming to the theatre, and I studied the part from scene to scene. It was where Hamlet discovers Ophelia's death, and falls upon Horatio's neck! Pardon me! but can I ever forget the point-the telling point-you made there? Never! It was then you said to me, "My good sir, I have been

much pleased with your attention-very much pleased-you are in the rough, very much in the rough at present; in fact you know nothing: but keep your eye on me-do as I do exactly as I do, and you can't be wrong." From that moment, sir, I set you up as my model, and—but friends are partial—I have been told that the resemblance between our styles of acting is extraordinary.

You may possibly have forgotten me, and therefore will excuse it, if I remind you that my figure is good, indeed much improved since we met. My voice is powerful; its intonationI have been told-like Kean's (of course I mean Edmund),— my face expressive, and capable of any sort of making up— and for my study, I can swallow anything. With all this, sir, I shall be very happy to come in as one of the team. Yes, sir, all I want is opportunity; the chance of playing before a London audience, quite convinced that the rest is in myself, and

must come out.

On the other side I forward a list of parts. I have gained— I may say it great reputation in the provinces in all of them. The Stranger is a favourite bespeak part of mine-and my Claude Melnotte a great hit with all the boarding-schools. Some critics have given the palm to my Macbeth, and some to my Jonathan Bradford. If I may be allowed to have any opinion, I think them both equally good in their way, though I need not say to you, requiring different touches from the artist. Still, he must be something of a painter who can use the delicate camelhair of that great creature Shakespear, and the four-pound brush of the melodramatist. My sailors, too, have been accounted remarkably good; especially at the seaports. I have played William in the Surrey trash of Black-Eyed Susan, in a way to make T. P. Cooke shake in his shoe-buckles. I could say more, but it is painful to speak of one's-self. I therefore take the liberty of forwarding with this, a small book in which you will find a great number of criticisms carefully pasted, from the first provincial papers of the day. They have been preserved by my wife; for though not insensible of the power of the press, I myself make it a point never to look into a newspaper. Speaking of my wife, can you find a corner for her? A clever little chambermaid-sings well and all that—and a faultless breeches figure. It is often difficult for a husband to speak of a wife's merits, but sometimes it must be done. The acting of Mrs. Wilkins is wonderfully natural. She has it born in her what other actresses have too often to labour for. She has such impulse! The French actors have a better word for itabandon-yes, abandon is the word. Well, sir, other actresses