ve into sealed and dark
futurity, how does it return from its several expeditions? Confused,
alarmed, unhappy; willing to rest, yet restless; willing to believe, yet
doubting; willing to end its futile travels, yet setting forth anew. Yet,
how is a superior understanding envied! how coveted by all!--a gift which
always leads to danger, and often to perdition.

Thank Heaven! I have not been entrusted with one of those thorough-bred,
snorting, champing, foaming sort of intellects, which run away with Common
Sense, who is jerked from his saddle at the beginning of its wild career.
Mine is a good, steady, useful hack, who trots along the high-road of life,
keeping on his own side, and only stumbling a little now and then, when I
happen to be careless,--ambitious only to arrive safely at the end of his
journey, not to pass by others.

Why am I no longer ambitious? Once I was, but 'twas when I was young and
foolish. Then methought "It were an easy leap to pluck bright honour from
the pale-faced moon;" but now I am old and fat, and there is something in
fat which chokes or destroys ambition. It would appear that it is requisite
for the body to be active and springing as the mind; and if it is not, it
weighs the latter down to its own gravity. Who ever heard of a fat man
being ambitious? Caesar was a spare man; Buonaparte was thin as long as he
climbed the ladder; Nelson was a shadow. The Duke of Wellington has not
sufficient fat in his composition to grease his own Wellington-boots. In
short, I think my hypothesis to be fairly borne out, that fat and ambition
are incompatible.

It is very melancholy to be forced to acknowledge this, for I am convinced
that it may be of serious injury to my works. An author with a genteel
figure will always be more read than one who is corpulent. All his
etherealness departs. Some young ladies may have fancied me an elegant
young man, like Lytton Bulwer, full of fun and humour, concealing all my
profound knowledge under the mask of levity, and have therefore read my
books with as much delight as has been afforded by "Pelham." But the truth
must be told. I am a grave, heavy man, with my finger continually laid
along my temple, seldom speaking unless spoken to--and when ladies talk, I
never open my mouth; the consequence is, that sometimes, when there is a
succession of company, I do not speak for a week. Moreover, I am married,
with five small children; and now all I look forward to, and all I