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bitter trials, and heroic endurance, would not a disclosure of the workings of this great city expose!-and, not confined to genius among the destitute, for those dressed up with brief authority, feel in a degree nearly equally poignant fear of losing their power, and anxiety to soar higher. And thence taking a more extended survey, may we not see the lawyer, the physician, the artizan, and the labourer, looking towards the mighty public for their support, and having embarked on the stream of popular opinion, anxiously hoping to be impelled by its tide!

Having brought to London a number of manuscripts, enough in the estimation of any moderate person to make some considerable sum of money, I experienced, in my attendance on booksellers, not only the lingering sickness arising from hope deferred, but the mortification of cold neglect, or repulsive denial.

-.

My first essay was presenting a manuscript to Mr. After an interval of about a month, I received it with a regret, that being a collection of tales, he could not undertake it, and advised me to try their insertion in some Magazine. The New Monthly got the preference of me, but not I of the Editor, who declined it "with his compliments." Fraser, Blackwood, Metropolitan, Library of Fiction, all have received from time to time communications from me, and begged leave

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to decline them. Yet I was not downcast. Of all the schools for trying a man's patience, I would advise a literary attendance on Editors.

London had early been pointed out to me as the mart where talent can be exchanged, for the means of procuring subsistence; but somehow or other I failed to make a bargain.

Though I was disappointed at my ill success in almost every quarter, yet I did not despair being blessed, thank God! with parents who were enabled to supply me with ample funds. Yet often have I thought, as I retired from the door of the publisher, with my returned manuscript in my pocket, how wretched would the feelings of him be, who possessing no other livelihood than the offspring of his brain, was solely dependent on that for subsistence, not alone for himself perhaps, but for a wife and children. I own I used to shudder at the idea, and think there was not in the world a more fatal gift than that of writing. Like the lamp of the wrecker, it was lit but to deceive; and now when depended on, instead of conducting the hapless being who relied on it into a haven of security and peace, left him to be lost or shattered, among the rough and flinty rocks of cold, and withering and gnawing poverty.

"The Sons of Genius" would be a good title for a novel of real life. I remember being much struck with the following passage in Blackwood:

"If all who have suffered would confess their

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sufferings, would shew themselves in the stark, shivering, squalor, in which they first walked the street, would shew their wounds which first bled in their garret,-what a book might be placed in the hands of pride! What stern, wholesome rebukes for the selfish sons of fortune! What sustaining sweetness for the faint and weary! True, among them might be tales of blood-tales of agony and horror- of noble nature looking serenely, with the hungry fox gnawing their bowels, -of distress sinking to despair; and then how many petty shifts to mask a haggard face with smiles!-how many self-denials, how many artifices to hide a nakedness from laughing scorn! Nor would the tome be all of wretchedness. No! beautiful emanations of the human heart-the kindest minglings of human affections would sweeten and exalt many a sad story. We would find the lowly comforting the high; the ignorant giving lessons to the accomplished; the poor on earth aiding and sustaining the richly dowered."

Truly may this be called a picture of life. It is the apportioned lot of genius to meet with this neglect. This is the crucible in which he must be tried or tested, ere, purified by this severe ordeal, he enters the temple of Fame, and takes his place by the side of those master spirits, who, having shared the pain before him, now receive the rich reward of their labours, in the admiration of posterity. No one experienced this damping of the noblest fire

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that can burn in the human breast more poignantly than the man who became mightiest for his literature afterwards,-Dr. Samuel Johnson; and it is my opinion, that in addition to his want of early polite education, what most tended to keep up the roughness of his manners, and the acerbity of his temper towards mankind, was, the cold neglect he received on his first entering life. Misfortunes will sour the most placid temper, especially where we are conscious of their being undeserved; and to a person of real talent, the rejection of his works when solely dependant on them for subsistence, must be misery of the most acute description. I conceive Sir W. Scott's definition of literature, to be well placed here: "It is a good staff, but bad crutch."

CHAPTER VIII.

Present House of Commons.-First night of the Raphael Inquiry-Chaplain reads Prayers.-Mr. O'Connell.-Lord Stanley. Mr. Hume.—Mr. Shiel.

February 28th.

HAVING procured a Member's order, I went to the House of Commons. The present house is merely temporary, and by no means remarkable for architectural beauty, affording but a large hall, with benches raised from the floor at each side, and a gallery all round. Above the members are other seats, reserved for them only. At the back of the speaker's chair, and above it, is the gallery for the gentlemen of the Press, and facing them, that for the strangers. The speaker's chair stands at some distance from the wall, and is ornamented with gilding, having the royal arms on the top. In front of the chair is a table, at which the clerks sit, who take the minutes of the proceedings, read the titles of bills, &c. In the centre of the room, between the table and bar, is a spacious area. The seats of members occupy each side. On the right hand of