y, It is
all right; the young man is used to claret.

And when the waiter had retired I took a second glass of the wine, which
I found excellent; and, observing a newspaper lying near me, I took it up
and began perusing it. It has been observed somewhere that people who
are in the habit of reading newspapers every day are not unfrequently
struck with the excellence of style and general talent which they
display. Now, if that be the case, how must I have been surprised, who
was reading a newspaper for the first time, and that one of the best of
the London journals! Yes, strange as it may seem, it was nevertheless
true that, up to the moment of which I am speaking, I had never read a
newspaper of any description. {293} I of course had frequently seen
journals, and even handled them; but, as for reading them, what were they
to me?--I cared not for news. But here I was now with my claret before
me, perusing, perhaps, the best of all the London journals--it was not
the -----and I was astonished: an entirely new field of literature
appeared to be opened to my view. It was a discovery, but I confess
rather an unpleasant one; for I said to myself, if literary talent is so
very common in London, that the journals, things which, as their very
name denotes, are ephemeral, are written in a style like the article I
have been perusing, how can I hope to distinguish myself in this big
town, when, for the life of me, I don't think I could write anything half
so clever as what I have been reading. And then I laid down the paper,
and fell into deep musing; rousing myself from which, I took a glass of
wine, and, pouring out another, began musing again. What I have been
reading, thought I, is certainly very clever and very talented; but
talent and cleverness I think I have heard some one say are very
commonplace things, only fitted for everyday occasions. I question
whether the man who wrote the book I saw this day on the bridge was a
clever man; but, after all, was he not something much better? I don't
think he could have written this article, but then he wrote the book
which I saw on the bridge. Then, if he could not have written the
article on which I now hold my forefinger--and I do not believe he
could--why should I feel discouraged at the consciousness that I, too,
could not write it? I certainly could no more have written the article
than he could; but then, like him, though I would not compare myself to
the man who wrot