southey, that virtuous man, whom wisdom calls her own, somewhere thanks god that he was not born to a great estate. we quite agree with the seer of keswick; it is a bore. provided a man can enjoy every personal luxury, what profits it that your flag waves on castles you never visit, and that you count rents which you never receive? and yet there are some things which your miserable, moderate incomes cannot command, and which one might like to have; for instance, a band.

a complete, a consummate band, in uniforms of uncut white velvet, with a highly-wrought gold button, just tipped with a single pink topaz, appears to me [greek phrase]. when we die, ‘band’ will be found impressed upon our heart, like ‘frigate’ on the core of nelson. the negroes should have their noses bored, as well as their ears, and hung with rings of rubies. the kettle-drums should be of silver. and with regard to a great estate, no doubt it brings great cares; or, to get free of them, the estate must be neglected, and then it is even worse.

elections come on, and all your members are thrown out; so much for neglected influence. agricultural distress prevails, and all your farms are thrown up; so much for neglected tenants. harassed by leases, renewals, railroads, fines, and mines, you are determined that life shall not be worn out by these continual and petty cares. thinking it somewhat hard, that, because you have two hundred thousand a-year, you have neither ease nor enjoyment, you find a remarkably clever man, who manages everything for you. enchanted with his energy, his acuteness, and his foresight, fascinated by your increasing rent-roll, and the total disappearance of arrears, you dub him your right hand, introduce him to all your friends, and put him into parliament; and then, fired by the ambition of rivalling his patron, he disburses, embezzles, and decamps.

but where is our hero? is he forgotten? never! but in the dumps, blue devils, and so on. a little bilious, it may be, and dull. he scarcely would amuse you at this moment. so we come forward with a graceful bow; the jack pudding of our doctor, who is behind.

in short, that is to say, in long — for what is true use of this affected brevity? when this tale is done, what have you got? so let us make it last. we quite repent of having intimated so much: in future, it is our intention to develop more, and to describe, and to delineate, and to define, and, in short, to bore. you know the model of this kind of writing, richardson, whom we shall revive. in future, we shall, as a novelist, take clarendon’s rebellion for our guide, and write our hero’s notes, or heroine’s letters, like a state paper, or a broken treaty.

the duke, and the young duke — oh! to be a duke, and to be young, it is too much — was seldom seen by the gay crowd who feasted in his hall. his mornings now were lonely, and if, at night, his eye still sparkled, and his step still sprang, why, between us, wine gave him beauty, and wine gave him grace.

it was the dreary end of dull november, and the last company were breaking off. the bird of paradise, according to her desire, had gone to brighton, where his grace had presented her with a tenement, neat, light, and finished; and though situated amid the wilds of kemp town, not more than one hy?na on a night ventured to come down from the adjacent heights. he had half promised to join her, because he thought he might as well be there as here, and consequently he had not invited a fresh supply of visitors from town, or rather from the country. as he was hesitating about what he should do, he received a letter from his bankers, which made him stare. he sent for the groom of the chambers, and was informed the house was clear, save that some single men still lingered, as is their wont. they never take a hint. his grace ordered his carriage; and, more alive than he had been for the last two months, dashed off to town.