courts, but could not fix upon any one of the venerable and learned persons who preside over them, as likely to write a book with so strange a title. My fancy, it is true, rested for a moment on the Court of Chancery. Upon looking more closely, however, I found the book was written, by a Prussian (not an English) judge, and treated of matters very remote from jurisprudence. I regarded this as a treasure to me at the moment, took a light reading posture, leaning back in an easy-chair, my feet resting on the fender, and began communing with the Devil in the pages of the learned judge. How long I had been reading I know not, when a loud but ambiguous knock-it might be an attorney's clerk, or the postman-startled me. I heard my clerk open the door (his chief business), and after waiting a few moments, was surprised at his non-appearance. Impatient to know the cause, I went out to see what detained him. I beheld-how shall I express it? - beheld him and the postman, face to face, at the door,-horror bristling in their hair, staring at their eyes, and gaping at their mouths. “What,” said I, “in the Devil's name, is the meaning of this?" The expression must have been derived from the edifying book I had just been reading--for I am not a swearer. Both pointed, in speechless terror, to a letter lying between them on the threshold. It struck me that there was something indescribably queer in the appearance of the letter-and even that it stirred! I experienced immediately an oddly awful sensation, but mustered resolution to take it up, exclaming at the same instant, "The Devil's in it." Scarcely had the words escaped my lips, when the letter flew violently open in my hand, and out jumped, or sprang, or flew, what might be man, or beast, or spirit-a strange, fearful, lank, long-limbed, comical, grinning creature, which suddenly expanding beyond the compass of the letter, to a whimsically indefinite form, went off in a cloud of brimstone, knocking out, by design or accident I knew not, the postman's eye. Poor fellow! he may be seen at post-hour any morning in the Temple, Sunday excepted, with his lacklustre-socket shrouded in a black patch. He is rather shy latterly of relating the adventure to strangers, because, as he informs me, a numerous and troublesome swarm of authors, Scots, Cocknies, Irishmen, and others, have been pumping the story out of him, in order to "get it up" for the stage, or "do it" into a romance.

I now ventured to look at the letter. It was written with a sort of “blue-blaze” ink, and in a wild, ghostly hand, which I remembered having seen before, though I did not particularly recognize it. To remove all uncertainty, I looked at "the tail" of the epistle, and "thereby hung" the sign manual of Harry Lackrbyme, the ingenious author of "The Marquis of Caribbus, or Puss in Boots," a romantic drama. Poor Harry had met with a heavy, though not uncommon affliction, the damnation of his play, and had never been seen or heard of since the "horrible catastrophe," as the newspapers called it. The letter began "My dear fellow," in his usual good-natured way, and was dated--I shuddered when I read-from Hell! The following is a

copy.

Poetaster-row, Hell.

My dear fellow,-You and the rest of my friends must be anxious to know what became of me. It will, no doubt, be a satisfaction to you to be informed that I am here. This letter will reach you by favour of an acquaintance of

mine, little Belphegor, a devilish obliging good-humoured fellow, though, like the brotherhood in general, a little given to mischief. He however assures me, he will play none of his pranks upon you. Having business in the world above, he politely offered to execute any commissions for me, adding that his business lay chiefly among the gentlemen of the law. I instantly proposed to trouble him with a letter for you. Having no recollection of your name, he took out his memorandum-book, or it may be called his lawfist, and ran his eye over the names beginning with the letter-"I am sorry to say," said he, "I do not find your friend down in my book, which contains the name of every gentleman who has any considerable share of practice in Westminster Hall." I thanked him for his concern, put in a word for you under the rose, and he has promised to do something for you with his friends the attornies. Do not be surprised, if next term your business should improve. But let me narrate to you the cause and manner of my coming to this place.

You remember, as who does not ?

"The great, the important day, big with the fate
Of Lackrhyme's "Puss in Boots.""

What splendid preparation in getting up the piece! Under the able di-
rection of Messrs. Fawcet and Farley, upon whose genius as actors, judg
ment as critics, taste as scholars, and manners as gentlemen, I had already
sketched the form of a panegyric, which should be prefixed to the printed
play. Indeed I felt myself under such obligations to Mr. Farley, that if he
had not objected to the thing as too hackneyed and common, I should have
given him the dedication. I will say nothing of my own opinion. It is said,
the best critic may in those cases deceive himself; and yet, should not a
man be the best judge of his own work, with which he must be the best
acquainted? But to pass this-how high and confident were the anticipa-
tions of my friends! You frankly told me, "Puss in Boots" would place me
by the side of Shakspeare and Mr. How magnificently the illuminated
garden of the Marquis of Caribbas opened upon an enlightened and ad-
miring audience! What rapturous applause when Joe Grimaldi-the inimi
table Joe-mounted and mewed upon the top of my Lord Marquis's gate!
Yet was this the moment when the cabal in the pit, fired at the sublime
trait of dramatic invention, commenced its operations, and barbarously hissed
my very best scenes, until at last, amidst a terrific explosion, the curtain
fell! Still, my dear friend, it was a glorious struggle: the cabal was strong,
but the friends of genius and the drama were vehement in their applause. 1
moreover called to mind so many plays hissed quite as much as mine, which
were announced, in the play-bills of the next morning, as having been re
ceived with enthusiasm by a delighted audience. Above all, I calculated
upon having justice from the critics in the newspapers. Surely, said I, those
liberal critics who have praised the plays of
and
and Co. and made
the town swallow them nightly for a month, will discern and do justice to
the merits of "Puss in Boots." But my spirits were chiefly, nay completely
cheered by the temper in which I found my friends assembled, after the per-
formance, to sup with me at The Grecian. I never saw you all in a merrier
humour, which surely could not be the case, if you had the remotest idea of
the damnation of your friend. We made a night of it, and parted, as you re-
member, at sunrise. Finding it impossible to think of sleep, I walked
about, still in the neighbourhood of Covent-garden. At length my eye
lighted on the joyful exhibition of the play-bill in a green-grocer's window.
I went up and looked, and read, and read again, "The romantic drama of
'PUSS IN BOOTS' is for the present withdrawn." It would have shocked me
less to read my own name in the bills of mortality. One only hope
remained the newspapers. A little urchin, with a parcel, soon ran by me-
I stopped him, obtained one, and looked with trepidation to the "THE-
ATRE COVENt-Garden."—"It is," said the critic, "
extraordinary that
managers, who, to our knowledge (the words were in Italics), have good plays

in their hands, should be so blind to their own interests, as to produce such execrable stuff as it was our misfortune to witness at this theatre last night." I could read no more of this inhuman barbarian, and determined not to venture upon another paper. Another, however, came, and I could not resist a certain fearful instinct of curiosity to peruse it. I approached gradually and by glimpses. Judge my delight when I read as follows: "It is truly refreshing to our critical sensibilities, when we can witness a drama in the taste of the good old times. Such is Mr. Lackrhyme's Puss in Boots,' which was produced last night at Covent-Garden. This capital play had previously been read and commended by several of the choicest wits and most learned spirits of the age, among others, by ourselves. We were more especially reminded by it of the venerable Middleton. Mr. Lackrhyme, like our old playwriters, is not ashamed to shew nature in puris naturalibus. He calls a pennyworth of butter a pennyworth of butter, and a toin-cat a tom-cat. It is true Mr. Lachryme's cat does not, like Middleton's, spit French and Latin,'-but his puss, like the cat in the elder worthy, sings a brave treble in his own language. This, perhaps, is as much of the simplicity of the olden time,' as a prudent dramatist should risk on the stage, until the genius and success of a few more such worthies as Mr. Lackrhyme, shall have completed their triumph over the false taste and spurious refinement introduced by the dandy willings and drawing-roomy poets of the age, so called, of Anne. Were we to select any particular scene of this inimitable drama for especial praise, it should be the catastrophe. The ogre, with a judicious adherence to the history, is transformed into a mouse, runs for refuge under his own throne, but is pursued, caught, and swallowed clean down,' by Puss in Boots. Here that excellent performer Mr. Grimaldi, surpassed himself," &c. This was balm to my wounded spirit, and I felt that I was on my legs once more. Suddenly I heard a shrill voice and the blowing of a horn. It was a newsboy running and blowing, to catch the passengers by the morning stagecoaches, and lustily crying before and after each blast, Melancholy catastrophe last night, at the Theatre-Royal Covent-Garden.' How, said I, some accident, no doubt, from the crush to see the performance! I bought a paper and proceeded to ascertain. Judge my surprise and horror when I found the melancholy catastrophe' was that of my own play! The cruel editor had caused execution to be done upon me, by his police-reporter! This was too much for human fortitude to bear. I wandered about for some time in a forlorn state. At last I found myself near my lodgings, in that favourite retreat of the suburban muse, Lisson Grove. I could not muster courage to knock at the door, lest the old lady of the house, to whom I had often read my play, should question me of its fate. I continued to wander about in the most sequestered haunts of Paddington, the awful cry of 'melancholy catastrophe' still ringing in my ears, until at last-in short-in short, my dear friend-at last, I took my passage for this place by the Paddington canal. We made such quick way, that I can give you no account of our voyage, or of my fellow-travellers. Immediately on my arrival I was commanded to give an account of myself, as every one is, I can tell you, whatever certain persons may say to the contrary: they will find themselves woefully mistaken when they come. The judge before whom I was suinmoned to appear was old Rhadamanthus. He began by asking how I passed my time in the world above. I replied with the boldness of conscious innocence, in making verses, producing at the same time a copy of Puss in Boots. The judge frowned, the standers-by looked blue, and the awful sentence of the law' (you know what that is here) was solemnly pronounced upon me. The sin of scribbling, so authorship is termed, is here subjected to the last penalty. After recovering the first shock I mustered courage to say a word in remission or commutation of the sentence. May it please your lordship,' said I, it is the privilege of an Englishman that he cannot be twice tried and punished for the same offence. Now, my lord, I have been tried and damned already for my romantic drama of "Puss in Boots,' at the Theatre Royal, Covent-Garden, and surely, my Lord, one damnation— VOL. XIII. NO. L.

L

Before I could finish my appeal, which evidently made an impression, a learned gentleman who practises with great distinction in this court, rose up and proposed to argue the point as amicus curiæ. Rhadamanthus nodded assent, and the learned counsel proceeded. Suffice it to say, that after a long and learned speech from him, and a patient hearing from the court, the point was decided in my favour. You will of course take every opportunity of making known this important decision for the comfort of the many ingenious gentlemen, who, like myself, have met with a mishap at Drury-Lane or Covent-Garden. Having now liberty to go where I pleased, and time to look about me, it struck me that there was more bustle than one might expect in this tranquil region. I enquired the cause, of the first person I met. Who do you think it was? No other than Dionysius, called the Tyrant of Sicily. He is here our chief journalist, and publishes a periodical work, entitled The Infernal Review.' I think it right to tell you that this worthy person has, like many others, been villainously slandered in the world above. He is, I assure you, a liberal of the first water, and has sometimes animadverted so freely on the government of Pluto as to be brought over the coals for it, which is no trifling punishment here, let me tell you, as you will find when you come. I told him the whole history of Puss in Boots,' and he recounted to me, in his turn, how scurvily his own tragedy was used by the Athenians. He has just at this moment made me a visit, and desires me to request, with his best compliments, that you will have the goodness to send down for his journal, some news of what is going on in the world above. He will do himself the honour, so he expresses it, in return, of sending for your acceptance, by little Belphegor, the forthcoming number of the Infernal Review.' But, to come back to what has excited this unusual stir here, and ruffled the habitual good temper of King Pluto. It is the old grievance. Her Majesty Queen Proserpine, who, according to ancient custom and her marriage-contract, still visits the world above for a few months each year, is just returned after passing the winter in London. Her head is so filled with plays, operas, routs, and conversazioni, that she insists upon having those entertainments in Hell. Pluto opposed this very firmly at first, and even took the opinion of the Judges upon it. But her Majesty stormed and wheedled alternately, and (the wisest thing after all a husband can do in such a case) he has permitted his household to be turned topsy turvey, for quietness' sake. The Queen, resolving to have her revenge upon the Judges, insists upon their providing and superintending the entertainments. They protested against the scandal of imposing such a task on grave and learned persons: but it would not do: her Majesty was peremptory, and charged Minos, the lord high chancellor of this realm, with the direction of the theatrical department. Between ourselves, I have some hope of getting outPuss in Boots' again. You know eadem sequitur cura tellure repostos. His lordship finds the opera an embarrassing concern. Two of the principal performers are very refractory: these are Doctor Johnson and Johanna Southcote, who are to figure in the corps de ballet. The Doctor pleads his gravity, and some inconvenience felt by him ever since his arrival here, from having been tossed in a blanket as a punishment for his treatment of Pope and Milton. Johanna's excuse is of a delicate nature. She has declared herself in an interesting situation,' which would by no means comport with her appearing in the ballet; but she has no objection to sing as prima donna in the opera, if she is allowed to introduce a few canticles composed by her friend and follower Doctor Tozer. I shall take advantage of my friend Belphegor's next visit to give you some account of these fine doings of her Majesty. By the by, little Belphegor is just at my elbow, and I must conclude. Believe me, my dear fellow, in this world or the next-but I forget that I am already in the next, Yours ever, H. LACKRHYME."

"Door opens-clerk entering-" Mr. Lackrhyme."-" Eh! who?""Mr. Lackrhyme, sir." Lackrhyme, entering--"Well, how do ye do,

my dear fellow?"-" Ha! how did you get back ?"—" Get back! I have just been with the manager-he still keeps me in purgatory."-"How did you get away from Hell?"-"Hell! zounds you would not damn me before my time."-"Did you return by the Paddington Canal?""Why you are either mad or dreaming.' -"Ah! egad I believe I have been, and the oddest dream about you. Cetera desunt.

"

LONDON PAVED WITH GOLD!

RUSTICS in former days were told
That London town was paved with gold;
They thought a gilt M'Adam
Sate breaking ingots in the street,
But, when they ran to share the treat,
They found it all a sad hum.

In these Dorado days we seem
Resolved to realise the dream;

For highways, hedges, ditches,
Proffer me gold at every turn,
And all my kind acquaintance burn
To smother me with riches.
Early or late, where'er 1 rove,
In park or square, suburban grove,
In civic lanes or alleys,
Riches are hawk'd, while rivals rush
To pour into mine ear a gush
Of money-making sallies.

Haste instantly and buy, cries one,
Real Del Monte shares, for none
Will yield a richer profit;
Another cries-No mining plan
Like ours-the Anglo-Mexican;
As for Del Monte, scoff it.
This grasps my button, and declares
There's nothing like Columbian shares,
The capital a million ;—

That, cries La Plata 's sure to pay,
Or bids me buy without delay
Hibernian or Brazilian.

'Scaped from these torments of the Mine,
Rivals in Gas, an endless line,

Arrest me as I travel;

Each sure my suffrage to receive,
If I will only give him leave
His project to unravel.

By Fire and Life Insurers next
I'm intercepted, pester'd, vex'd,
Almost beyond endurance;

And though the schemes appear unsound,
Their advocates are seldom found
Deficient in assurance.

Last I am worried shares to buy
In the Canadian Company,

The Milk Association,

The Laundrymen who wash by steam,
Railways, Pearl-fishing, or the scheme
For inland Navigation.