may obtain this from art; now Mrs. Wilkins is abandoned by

nature.

I have not spoken of salary, nor will I. On that point, sure am I, we shall be unanimous. All I want is London gaslight, for, indeed, I am tired of acting as I have too long acted, under a bushel. In a word, sir, "I am a poor man who'd fain grow richer," and hoping to be—in your old and long-prized words— I remain, yours truly,

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one of your little set,"

BULCAZEM WILKINS.

LETTER XX.

THE MANAGER'S ANSWER.

SIR,-It has been my misfortune to play with so many provincial Catesbys-a part, by the way, singularly neglected in all country theatres-that, at the date you name, it is almost impossible for me to have any recollection of your merits. I think, however, you were then the sucking actor who entirely marred my fifth act. I think Wilkins was the name. If you are, I am glad to hear that you are improved; though I would rather have that fact certified by any other authority. If, however, you are the Wilkins I mean, you have at least this consolation-worse you cannot be. It is quite true that I have entered on the arduous task of management, and I cannot consent to make that task more irksome by adding to my difficulties, on the strength of a promise made I know not when-where-or to whom. I am afraid that frequent acts of civility when playing in the provinces have been sadly misinterpreted; for you are at least the twentieth applicant that has applied to me upon the encouragement of some vague compliment meant for nothingnothing, I assure you.

And now, sir, I will give you a small piece of valuable counsel. You are an actor (at least you say so); well, never promise what you will do when you become a manager. You praise an author's piece, and regret that you have no power to bring it out-(if you had, ah! how happy you should be !)— well, sir, you praise it and think you have done with it. It may be, in ten or fifteen years' you become a manager, and back comes the piece to you with your own commendatory letter, and the pest of an author claiming the fulfilment of your implied service. It might be difficult, but were my time to come over again, I should in these matters endeavour to speak the truth.

Never say what you'll do when you become a manager. It is just like a Prince of Wales promising what he'll do when he becomes King: flummery, sir-polite flummery.

With your great natural qualifications of figure, face, and voice, it would only distress me to see such fine advantages thrown away upon mere utility, could I even offer you that-and anything beyond is entirely impossible. You are not a man for the team; no, but a racer that should start upon his own account. There is, no doubt, a plate for you somewhere, though not at my theatre.

Your list of parts is certainly very long. You seem to have played in everything except one piece-The Bashful Man.

I have not read the criticisms you sent, but I at once detected the source of their eulogy-tobacco and gin-and-water. Such criticisms must be valuable, for they have every appearance of having cost you a great deal.

Your praise of Mrs. Wilkins does honour to your feelings as a man and a husband; but the chambermaids are filled. Your obedient servant,

MAGNUS PUFF.

LETTER XXI.

FROM A POOR RELATION.

MY DEAR COUSIN.-Although so many years have passed since we last met―này, since we last corresponded—I feel that I should do much wrong to the goodness of your heart, to the truth and dignity of our early friendship, did I fail to write to you in my present strait. Did I listen to the sarcasms of the worldly and ungenerous, I should suffer in silence—but my soul revolts from their harsh, cold creed, that confounds prosperity with selfishness, and makes a golden barrier between kin and kin. I fear it may be too true that a profitable commerce with the world is apt to change some men-but there are others whose lustre of soul nothing can dim. Let them possess the diamonds of Golconda, and their minds would remain to them priceless and unchangeable.

Though there has been silence between us, it has often delighted me to learn in this obscure nook that you were still increasing in worldly goods and in the respect of all men. I have sent you no line, yet have I spiritually again and again congratulated you on the happiness that a wise enjoyment of

wealth bestows-on the enviable power of doing good to all around you. For I remembered the candour and generosity of your soul, and knew that riches would be only acceptable to you as bestowing a power to assist your fellow-creatures; that you would consider gold, not as the familiar of avarice, but as the beneficent charm of a fairy, by which you might profit and delight your species.

There are foolish gossiping folks, whose pleasure it seems to be to set friends against friends: people, whose happiness (at least it would almost appear so) is to find or make a flaw in the best of hearts. Had I listened to them, I should have believed that you were desirous of forgetting all your poorer kindred; that you looked upon your good fortune as giving you the best right to deny your own blood; that, in a word, being rich, you were no longer of the family-that you had, in fact, been altogether new made by Plutus and had no relationship whatever with the Robinses. But how base, how wicked would it have been in me, to believe in such a scandal!

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"He has never written to any of you," these people would say—“ depend upon it, he looks upon you all as a disgrace—as blots upon his finer fortune." But I knew too well that every moment of your time was occupied-that you had so many demands upon your hours that folks living in the quiet of the country have no thought of. Again," I've said, "if cousin doesn't write to us, you must remember we never write to him." To this they've answered, "that was a different matter; for as you were the rich party, you ought to write first." A sort of argument, I must say, I never could see the reason of; for suppose you a thousand times richer than you are, what difference should that make? Lord bless us! as if your poor father and my dear mother-fond brother and sister as they were-would ever have thought about their children standing on any ceremony with one another!

You will, I know, be sorry to hear that I have had a great loss-for me, a very great one. The house of Flimsy and Straw stopped payment last week, and the consequence is, that I am at the present moment without a penny. Nevertheless, it isn't so bad as it seems; for they do say that the estate will pay some day ten shillings and odd in the pound. But the worst of it is, I am not able from this accident to meet two or three matters which are fast pressing upon me; and therefore in my difficulty must beg your assistance. I would not do so, were I not certain that it would even annoy you if I were to apply to anybody else. I know your heart so well that you would never forgive me for

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hesitating. It would-I am sure you would feel it so-be an affront to you as a friend and a kinsman.

How delightful then is it, on a stroke of ill-fortune like the present, to know that we have a relative—a flourishing, cordial soul-who looks upon himself as the steward of Providence ; who is too happy to show his gratitude for prosperity, by shaking some few crumbs from his sumptuous, loaded board to his poor relations who acknowledges the solemn claims of blood, not alone with lip-acknowledgment, but with a sympathy that elevates “him that gives and him that takes.”

I will by the next post send you all particulars.

Your affectionate Cousin,

EDWARD ROBINS.

LETTER XXII.

THE ANSWER.

DEAR COUSIN,-You are quite right. Although so many years have gone by since you have written, you, nevertheless, only pay me my due, when you believe that I am by no means forgetful of my father's relations. As for the sarcasms and illwords of people, I have too much faith in my own motives to attend to them. You will always find idle-too often, disreputable-persons who make the high and the wealthy their licensed game. It is enough to be rich, to be abused by them. Philosophy, however, and my bank-book, have taught me to despise them. Not that I am a jot altered from the time when we were intimate; certainly not-nevertheless, the prejudices of the world require a certain dignity of appearance that the vulgar mistake for pride and ostentation.

I am pleased to find that, though we have not corresponded, you have, nevertheless, not forgotten me. I assure you, many a time, worried and oppressed by the toil of a commercial life, I have, in thought, visited your beautiful little house-(ha! my dear friend, if we only knew it, in such humility is true happiness!)—and have wished that I could change all the glitter and ceremony of life for the simple, yet substantial happiness of that homestead. You are quite right in believing that I consider wealth as only an agent for the ease and felicity of those about me—that is, if I really had the wealth which the world, out of its ignorance or waywardness, is pleased to credit me.

Forget my poorer kindred? Impossible! No man, who, by

the superiority of his talents and the energy of his character made an advance in the world, was ever yet permitted to forget them. They take too good care of that. It is true, my dear friend, that you and I have not corresponded; but you little know, how frequently, and how very peculiarly, I have been made to remember the existence of the Robinses. As for being new-made by Plutus, I am sure they have believed in such a re-creation, for they have again and again addressed me as one lump of goldagain and again would have been happy to change me among them.

They who have maligned me by urging that I considered the poverty of my relations as a disgrace, know little of my true judgment. I have, it is true, been compelled to look upon it as a great misfortune, inasmuch as I have too frequently felt its influence. Your allusion to my father and your mother touches me-takes me back again to the days of my youth-when I thought the world was all that we read of in fairy books. Ha! my dear cousin, that was, indeed, a time! Pity is it that so sweet a dream should give way to so hard and cold a reality.

Your news about Flimsy and Straw affects me deeply. I would have wished to keep the ill-tidings from you, but the truth is, I fear that I shall be seriously compromised by their failure. Very seriously, indeed. I have been engaged in a mining speculation, in which—but I will not distress you with what I fear may be the result. Not that I have to dread anything fatal-certainly not; nevertheless, I fear-indeed, I am sure, that I shall be so driven into a corner that my heart will not be allowed to act as it could wish; and therefore-but you must take courage, my dear friend, and not suffer yourself to be dismayed by what may end in, comparatively, a trifle.

I know you think me rich-very rich. Well, I am not ungrateful. Notwithstanding, a man may be Croesus himself, yet not have a shilling in his pocket. This may appear strange to you; but nevertheless, men with large floating capital-but you must understand—I hav'n't at this present moment a shilling that I can fairly lay my hands upon.

Otherwise, as a friend, as a relative, it would have given me the greatest pleasure to see you through this little difficulty. I am not insensible of family ties-I should hope not: but what are family ties with money at its present price in the market? Nevertheless, let your motto be, Nil desperandum, and believe me,

Yours truly,

JOSEPH GOODENOUGH.