n 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, wh