a vile practice. It is
an erroneous idea got abroad (and which I will contradict here) that
paragraphs are paid for in the leading journals. It is quite out of the
question. A favourable notice of an author, an actress, etc., may be
inserted through interest, or to oblige a friend, but it must invariably
be done for _love,_ not _money!_

When I formerly had to do with these sort of critical verdicts, I was
generally sent out of the way when any _debutant_ had a friend at
court, and was to be tenderly handled. For the rest, or those of robust
constitutions, I had _carte blanche_ given me. Sometimes I ran out of
the course, to be sure. Poor Perry! what bitter complaints he used to
make, that by _running-a-muck_ at lords and Scotchmen I should not leave
him a place to dine out at! The expression of his face at these moments,
as if he should shortly be without a friend in the world, was truly
pitiable. What squabbles we used to have about Kean and Miss Stephens,
the only theatrical favourites I ever had! Mrs. Billington had got some
notion that Miss Stephens would never make a singer, and it was the
torment of Perry's life (as he told me in confidence) that he could not
get any two people to be of the same opinion on any one point. I shall
appearance in the _Beggar's Opera._ I have reason to remember that
article: it was almost the last I ever wrote with any pleasure to
myself. I had been down on a visit to my friends near Chertsey, and on
my return had stopped at an inn near Kingston-upon-Thames, where I had
got the _Beggar's Opera_, and had read it over-night. The next day I
walked cheerfully to town. It was a fine sunny morning, in the end of
autumn, and as I repeated the beautiful song, 'Life knows no return
of Spring,' I meditated my next day's criticism, trying to do all the
justice I could to so inviting a subject. I was not a little proud of it
by anticipation. I had just then begun to stammer out my sentiments on
paper, and was in a kind of honeymoon of authorship. But soon after, my
final hopes of happiness and of human liberty were blighted nearly at
the same time; and since then I have had no pleasure in anything--

And Love himself can flatter me no more.

It was not so ten years since (ten short years since.--Ah! how fast
those years run that hurry us away from our last fond dream of bliss!)
when I loitered along thy green retreats, O Twickenham! and conned
over (with enthusiastic delight) the chequered vie