which distinguishes my former acknowledgments, I confess that visions of this instrument have occasionally obtruded themselves somewhat forcibly upon may fancy, in the paroxysms of an article, dampening the glow of composition, and causing certain qualify ing interlineations and prudent erasures, prompted by the representations of memory or the whispers of prudence. The reader must not fancy, from the form of my expression, that I have ever been horsewhipped. I have hitherto escaped, (for which heaven be praised!) | although my horizon has been darkened by many a cloudy threat, and thundering denunciation.

Nose-pulling is another disagreeable branch of the editorial business. To have any part of one pulled is annoying; but there is a dignity about the nose impatient even of observation or remark; while the act of taking hold of it with the thumb and finger is worse than murder, and can only be washed out with blood. | Kicking, cuffing, being turned out of doors, being abused in the papers, &c. are bad, but these are mere minor considerations. Indeed, many of my brother editors rather pique themselves upon some of them, as a soldier does on the scars obtained in fighting the battles of his country; they fancy that, thereby, they are invested with claims upon their party, and suffer indefinite dreams of political eminence to be awakened in their bosoms. I have seen a fellow draw his hat fercely down over his brow, and strut about, with insufferable importance, on the strength of having been thoroughly kicked by the enemy.

This is a long digression, but it passed rapidly through my mind as the little, hard-faced old gentleman stood before me, looking at me with a piercing glance, and a resolute air. At length, unlike a ghost, he spoke first.

"You are the editor ?"-&c.

A slight motion of acquiescence with my head, and an affirmative wave of my hand, a little leaning toward the majestic, announced to my unknown friend the accuracy of his conjecture.

The little old gentleman's face relaxed-he took off his broad-brimmed hat, and laid it down with his cane carefully on the table, then seized my hand and shook heartily. People are so polite and friendly when about to ask a favour.

"My dear sir," said he, "this is a pleasure I have long sought vainly. You must know, sir, I am the editor of a theatrical weekly—a neat thing in its way -here's the last number." He fumbled about in his pocket, and produced a red-covered pamphlet.

"I have been some time publishing it, and though it is admitted by all acquainted with its merits, to be clearly the best thing of the kind ever started this side of the Atlantic, yet people do not seem to take much notice of it. Indeed, my friends tell me that the public are not fully aware of its existence. Pray let me be indebted to you for a notice. I wish to get fairly afloat. You see I have been too diffident about it. We modest fellows allow our inferiors to pass us often. I will leave this number with you. Pray, pray give it a good notice."

He placed in my hands the eleventh number of the "North American Thespian Magazine," devoted to the drama, and also to literature, science, history, and the arts. On reading over the prospectus, I found it vastly comprehensive, embracing pretty much every subject in the world. If so extensive a plan were decently filled up in the details, the "North American Thespian Magazine" was certainly worth the annual subscription money, which was only one dollar. I said so under my "literary notices," in the next impression of my journal; and, although I had not actually read the work, yet it sparkled so with asterisks, dashes, and notes of admiration, that it looked interesting. I added in my critique, that it was elegantly got up, that its typographical execution reflected credit on the publishers, that its failure would be a grievous reproach to the city, that its editor was a scholar, a writer, and a gentleman, and was favourably known to the literary circles by the eloquence, wit, and feeling of his former productions. What those productions were, I should have been rather puzzled to say, never having read, or even heard of them. This, however, was the cant criticism of the day, which is so exorbitant and unmeaning, and so universally cast in one mould, that I was in some tribulation, on reading over the article in print, to find that I had omitted the words, "native genius," which possesses a kind of common-law right to a place in all articles on American literary productions. Forth, however, it went to the world, and I experienced a philanthropic emotion in fancying how pleased the little, hard-faced, old gentleman would be with these flattering encomiums on his "Thespian Magazine."

The very day my paper was out, as I was sitting "full fathom five" deep in an article on "The Advantages of Virtue," (an interesting theme, upon my views of which I rather flattered myself,) I was startled by three knocks at the door, and my "Come in " exhibited to view the broad-brimmed hat of the hard-faced old gentleman, with his breeches, buckles, gold-headed cane, and all. He laid aside his hat and cane with the air of a man who has walked a great way, and means to rest himself a while. I was very busy. It was one of my inspired moments. Half of a brilliant idea was already committed to paper. There it lay-a fragment -a flower cut off in the bud-a mere outline-an embryo; and my imagination cooling like a piece of red-hot iron in the open air. I raised my eyes to the old gentleman, with a look of solemn silence, retaining my pen ready for action, with my little finger extended, and hinting, in every way, that I was "not i' the vein." I kept my lips closed. I dipped the pen in the inkstand several times, and held it hovering over the sheet. It would not do. The old gentleman was not to be driven off his ground by shakes of the pen, inkdrops, or little fingers. He fumbled about in his pockets, and drew forth the red-covered "North American Thespian Magazine," devoted to the drama, &c., number twelve. He wanted "a good notice. The last was rather general. I had not specified its peculiar claims upon the public. I had copied nothing.

Remember, Peter," said I, the second morning after the foregoing, "I have gone out."

"Where have you gone ?" inquired Peter, with grave simplicity. "They always ask me where you have gone, sir. The little man with the hat was here last night, and wanted to go after you."

"Forbid it heaven! I have gone to Albany, Peter, on business."

I can hear in my room pretty much what passes in the adjoining one, where visitors first enter from the street. I had scarcely got comfortably seated, in a rare mood for poetry, giving the last touches to a poem, which, whatever might be the merits of Byron and Moore, I did not think altogether indifferent, when I heard the little old gentleman's voice inquiring for me.

"I must see him; I have important business," it said.

He has gone out," replied Peter, in an under

I re-entered my little study, and closed the door after me with a slam, which could only have been perceptible to those who knew my ordinary still and mild manner. There might have been also a slight accent in my way of turning the key, and (candour is a merit!) I could not repress a brief exclamation of displeasure at the little old gentleman with his magazine, who had broken in so provokingly upon my "essay on virtue." "Virtue or no virtue," thought I, "I wish him to the d-.”

My room is on the ground-floor, and a window adjoining the street lets in upon me the light and air through a heavy crimson curtain, near which I sit and scribble. I was just enlarging upon the necessity of resignation, while the frown yet lingered on my brow, and was writing myself into a more calm and complacent mood, when-another knock at the door. As I opened it, I heard Peter's voice asserting, sturdily, that I had "gone out." Never dreaming of my old enemy, I betrayed too much of my person to withdraw, and I was recognised and pounced upon by the little old gentleman, who had come back to inform me that he intended, as soon as the increase of his subscription would permit, to enlarge and improve the "North American Thespian Magazine," and to employ all the writers in town. "I intend also," said he, and he was in the act of again laying aside that everlasting hat and cane, when a cry of fire in the neighbourhood, and the smell of the burning rafters attracted him into the street, where, as I feared, he escaped unhurt. In many respects fires are calamities; but I never saw a more forcible exemplification of Shakspeare's remark, "There is some spirit of good in things evil," than in the relief afforded me on the present occasion. I wrote, after that, with my door locked. This I knew was, from the confined air, prejudicial to my health;

he was uttering a bouncer.

"But I must see him," said the voice.

"The scoundrel!" muttered I.

"He is not in town, sir," said Peter.

I heard his retreating footsteps, and inwardly resolved to give Peter a half-dollar, although he deserved to be horsewhipped for his readiness at deception. I laughed aloud triumphant), and slapped my hand down upon my knee with the feelings of a fugitive debtor, who, hotly pursued by a sheriff's officer, escapes over the line into another county and snaps his fingers at Monsieur Bailiff. I was aroused from my merry mood of reverie by a touch on my shoulder. I turned suddenly. It was the hard-faced little old gentleman, peeping in from the street. Ilis broad-brimmed hat and two-thirds of his face were just lifted above the window-sill. He was evidently standing on tiptoe; and the window being open, he had put aside the curtain, and was soliciting my attention with the end of his cane.

"Ah!" said he, "is it you? Well, I thought it was you, though I wasn't sure. I won't interrupt you. Here are the proofs of number thirteen; you'll find something glorious in that-just the thing for youdon't forget me next week-good-bye. I'll see you again in a day or two."

themselves to flight; the bells ring; stacks are set on fire; beacons blaze from cliff to cliff; the alarm runs along the country; and darkness arrives again, while the whole land is in commotion, and French columns are formed on English soil.

Some thoughtful patriots fly to the railway station. By a few quivering motions of two little black needles," there appear simultaneously upon "the white dials of all the electric telegraphs in the United Kingdom the three words-MENE, Tekel, Upharsi; Anglicè, THEY ARE COMING!"

What sensations would thrill the nerves of all peaceful people! The great fearing for their property; the bishops for their revenues; the fundholders for their dividends; the landlords for their rents; the placemen for their salaries; the farmers for their crops; the parsons for their tithes; the tradesmen for their stocks; and the women for all but themselves. Then would the country, in unavailing sorrow, repent its niggardly economy. Had the proposition of Sir Francis Head been adopted, what a splendid result! Had we raised and paid a standing army of 150,000 men, we might set up the British banner, spread its folds to the blast, and meet the force of invasion by a shock of tenfold power. Our author draws a richly-coloured picture of the scenes that would ensue after the alarm was spread through England.

In our dockyards every ship of war would swarm like an ant-hill with labourers. Masts, yards, sails, and riggings, would assume their places as if by magic. Guns and powder-barrels would be rolled on deck. Trains of hardy tars, ready primed for battle, would pour on board; ship after ship would weigh anchor, and soon a mighty fleet, with the British flag displayed, would sail forth in search of the impudent invader. Next day the town would blaze with placards; "LATEST INTELLIGENCE HALF-PAST FIVE. GLORIOUS NEWS-BY ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH. DESTRUCTION OF THE FRENCH FLEET OFF THE COAST OF KENT.-ROUT OF THE INVADERS AND TRIUMPH OF THE BRITISH ARMS!!!”

With proper deference to the military science of Sir Francis Head, we imagine that if ever our neighbours should be so mad as to attempt an invasion of our shores, the newspaper-proprietors might print such placards beforehand, and rest certain of the receipt of such news. He, however, confides little trust to the navy-the sole and sufficient bulwark of our island. From all parts of England he would have the red-coated gentry issue in swarms out of their barracks to crowd down and defend their coasts. Soldiers, rammed, crammed, and jammed by thousands into first, second, and third-class carriages, bullock, ballast, coal, and luggage-trucks, "would, in silent joy, through the verdant fields of merry England be seen flying along every railway in the kingdom towards the metropolis." Cheers would welcome them as they passed; the chink of arms; the roll of drums, the tramp of feet, and "horses to battle going," the exciting shout, and all the varied notes of war would

cannon would rumble through our streets, bayonets glimmer by myriads along our roads, every ray of sunlight be reflected from a sword, and the land quake under the ceaseless tramp of cavalry. The end of all this is most comfortable. The invaders, we are told, would be caught in the awkward position of having one leg on sea and the other on shore. The French officers would have to excite their troops, the English to restrain theirs. Ultimately, the Gallic host is to be smitten with the edge of the sword, routed, scattered, and driven back into the sea with awful and unsparing slaughter.

Next day the enemy would send by electric telegraph apologies and proposals of peace. London would be illuminated; John Bull would shed tears of joy. Pewter medals would be distributed among the soldiers of the line; stars and pensions among the officers. The army would then go comfortably into peace quarters, and be paid thirty millions a-year for standing between the people and their liberties. The nation could then express its thanks to Sir Francis Head by creating him field-marshal, giving him ten thousand a-year, erecting him a monument five hundred feet high, and getting the great sculptor Baily to execute a bust of him for the British Walhalla.

But supposing the French come now, says Sir Francis, before my plan is adopted! Ay, there's the rub! The Queen, he tells us, is to be packed off to a fortified dockyard, in a safe conveyance, marked, This side up." The army Royalty; with care. is to follow her into close quarters, and abandon the palaces, the Houses of Parliament, the bishops' castles, the Bank, the wealth, the property, not to mention the people of London, to their fate. What would Sir Francis will explain presently. that fate be? Meanwhile, he tells the reason why the useless and costly army we already have should not fight. If it fought and were destroyed, "the British nation would be ANNIHILATED; whereas, if London only were to be captured, the nation would be RUINED, but not ANNIHILATED." The country must wait three years to stir its blood up for an assault on the invader!

As for defending London by an entrenched line of positions, it would take a long time, and cost, at least, two millions, which Sir Francis hardly hopes will be expended on it. Holding it unfortified, would be impossible. The cities of Spain, containing massivelybuilt convents, with flat roofs and covered balconies, can resist no siege, therefore London could not. The reasoning is cogent; but we pass it by. The French army is on the march! It sweeps the country as it goes. Farmhouses, villages, towns, and cities, are devastated by the way, and foreign troops are quartered under every English roof on the road. Sir Francis shall carry on the narrative :

"The French army, after leisurely marching towards London, through-say Maidstone, Tunbridge, and Chatham, its right resting on the Thames, would probably encamp on and in the neighbourhood of Blackheath, and here Woolwich, OUR MAIN AND ALMOST ONLY ARSENAL,

in which all our brass guns are made,—the great dépôt