Soon after this our old tin candlesticks were superseded by bronzethis may be designated the age of - brass !

I need not pursue further the mutability of human affairs-the philosophic reader has already perceived that human affairs are transitory and evanescent-that reform bills and bills of fare are enacted, discussed, objected to, and forgotten, and that an equal obscurity awaits the names of Lord John Russell and Dick the waiter! Eatables and empires disappeardrinkables like dynasties are swallowed and forgotten. But this is a trite subject and trite subjects are not the subjects for me!

The professional student will not fail to have observed, if he has followed my description with the attention it deserves, that there are two different classes of lawyers-those, to wit, who are never seen at Westminster Hall, and those who are never seen any where else-lawyers who are all teeth, and lawyers who are, on the contrary, all jaw!

I do not, I honestly confess, belong to the talking class; I might have been born deaf and dumb for all the opportunity I have ever had of displaying my forensic powers; I have therefore, in common with nine hundred and ninety-nine barristers out of every thousand, turned my attention exclusively to mastication. Of course, I would gladly have done the other thing if I could have got it to do; but, God help me! my father was not a successful attorney, which I take to be the true and only essential preliminary towards being a successful barrister; indeed, I do not think any one belonging to me ever saw that rare and curious animal an attorney, and it was for this very reason, I be lieve, that they put me to the barristerial business!

Accordingly I am grown old, and as I grew old I grew poor. The lit tle substance that in trade, commerce, or manufacture, might have served as the nucleus of an independence, I have dissipated in the vain pursuit of a profession that has never yielded me a shilling. My dinner is now my

business and my enjoyment-during term time I am happy-in the vacation I am miserable-would that I were a dormouse to sleep away the tedious interval!

Ambitious reader, you are coming to the bar! I know you are-I know you must be, unless you are already a clergyman or a doctor; for your dear paternal father and mother have discovered that you are a genius; and the only sphere for their genius is the profession of the law! Perhaps you have had the bad luck to distinguish yourself at college, or at the spouting club; if so, may the Lord have mercy upon you-you are decidedly undone!

My young friend, I have been jocular; I am now serious. As you value your future happiness, take your own advice in the disposal of your life, and let your father and mother mind their own business; do not let them delude you into a fatal confidence that you are clever, or that you are loquacious. Loquacity and cleverness, as such, have little to do in amassing an independence. Do not desert the profession of arms, as Erskine did, for the law

believe me, you are not an Erskine, -nor the profession of medicine, as did Sir James Macintosh, for the law-fifty such sucking geniuses as yourself, could not make one Sir James Macintosh. Look to your prospects! look to your prospects! I repeat, for the third time, look to your prospects! and of a profession let your prospects govern the choice. Then may your fate be happier than mine; then, in some unenvied sphere of quiet and successful industry, may you decently maintain your wife, and creditably rear your children; then may you sce the friend of your bosom at your hospitable board; then may you lend a helping hand to a fellow Christian in distress-to me, perhaps, who began the race of life thoughtlessly, and with foolish confidence of success, now, in the evening of my days, comfortless, childless, without society, solace, or station; in loneliness passing away my appointed time in a naked garret, too happy to be permitted the opportunity of scribbling for my daily bread!

THERE is nothing in which the caprice of fashion is more strikingly ma nifested than in travelling. In this instance, as in numerous others, John Bull seems to take a pride in showing himself the mere creature of imitation. As when the foremost sheep in a flock leap a ditch, or scramble through a hedge, all the rest make a point of per forming the same feat; so when the leaders of ton, at the close of the London season, order their horses' heads to be turned in any particular direction, a host of the middle classes -imitatorum servum pecus-are sure to follow in the track of their chariot wheels. Next to being fashionable himself, the best thing is, in John Bull's estimation, to be seen in the haunts of people of "mark and likelihood." If he goes to Brighton, it is not so much because he likes the place for who that has the slightest taste for the picturesque can like such a bleak, formal, gewgaw town?—as because it is frequented by the beau monde. Aristocratic Cheltenham is visited for the same reason; as, for reasons diametrically the reverse, some of the loveliest little nooks in the king dom remain unnoticed, save by poor artists and still poorer poets. Many years ago Weymouth was all the rage, because it was the favourite resort of royalty. Next came the Highland influenza, when John Bull scampered, like a lunatic, across the Border, in order that he might be enabled to boast that he had seen those romantic regions which Scott's Lady of the Lake had just made the town talk. In 1814, the silly fellow must needs rush to Paris, the presence of the Allied Sovereigns there having made a trip to the French capital indispensable to his notions of gentility. His next fancy was for the Rhine and Switzerland, whither he was seduced by the example of Byron; for how could he possibly confess to ignorance of the scenes depicted in so celebrated a poem as Childe Harold? Just now, he is all for the Spas of Germany, Captain Head's popular Bubbles of Brunnen having recently brought these watering-places under the special notice of

the "Sir Oracles" of taste and ton. There is something supremely absurd in this eagerness on the part of our middle classes to follow blindly wherever fashion leads the way. Only imagine Russell Square, with Burton Crescent and half the Regent's Park at its heels, rushing off to Cheltenham or Brighton, or across the water to Spa or Baden-Baden, for no better reason than that the list of "fashionable arrivals" in these watering-places occu pies an imposing space in the columns of the Morning Post! We laugh at the French for their vanity, and they may well laugh at us for the sacrifices we make in order to be thought genteel. This is the rock against which we are constantly wrecking our peace of mind. We had rather cease to live, than not live à-la-mode. In a word, we are the slaves of the lamp-and that lamp is, Fashion!

I cannot say I have any sympathy with this pupy, sickly ambition so prevalent among our middle classes-especially those of the metropolis; and still less can I enter into the feelings which too often prompt them to underrate their own country, and to fancy that the word "Continent" has a genteeler and more imposing sound. Britain, so far as my travelling experience enables me to form an opinion, is unquestionably the noblest, the most marvellous, and-taking into consideration its lavish varieties of the sublime and beautiful-the most picturesque country in the world. Its numerous towns and cities, and their inhabitants, are unrivalled in intelligence, industry, and opulence; its Menai bridge and its railroads are equal in grandeur of design, and superior in utility, to the boasted passes of the Simplon; its proud "meteor-flag" streams in every port, and is familiar with every wave; and its armies are the conquerors of Waterloo. Then, as regards its scenery, which our wouldbe fashionable tourists are so prone to depreciate,-in the heart of its Scottish and Welsh Alps are to be found glens, waterfalls, and green, sunny, winding strips of valleys, quite as romantic as any that one meets with

even among the snowy ranges of the Jura or the Pyrenees; and in the softness and luxuriance of its sylvan landscapes, Provence, renowned in song, will not bear an instant's comparison with it. Let St John-as he has done in his delightful tale of Margaret Ravenscroft-speak in raptures of the "wooded Apennines," I, being a man of moderate expectations, am quite satisfied with the shades and "green retreats" of Windsor Forest, even though they be but twenty miles distant from Cockaigne. Talk of Tempe and Arcadia! I care not for the prose of Elian or the verse of Theocritus; give me the view from the summit of the Long Walk, whence the eye ranges over a rich and apparently an endless variety of all that constitutes the perfection of home scenery-hill and dale, wood and water; flowery knolls, alive with the hum of bees; far-stretching glades and thick groves, from whose shady depths comes the distinct, mellow note of that "wandering voice," the cuckoo; sloping lawns, whereon the quiet sheep feed, and the sun lies like a smile from heaven; majestic avenues of oaks, elms, and beeches; and, in the remote distance, the Royal castle-worthy of England's monarchs-rearing up its noble head as though it were the guardian spirit of the scene!

Landscapes superior to this are not, I am persuaded, to be found in any part of Europe, let our enthusiasts for all that lies on the other side the Channel say what they will to the contrary. How would the refined Claude, or the vigorous Ruysdael, with his greater truth and exactitude of details, have exulted in the contemplation of such a prospect! But, exquisite as it is, it is by no means peculiar to the Forest, for the whole country is picturesque in an eminent degree. What, for instance, can be lovelier of its kind, than Miss Mitford's village of Three-mile-cross, with its wild common, which should

never be without a gipsy encampment, its clear gravelly springs, its one rustic mill, graceful in its simplicity as Rembrandt's, and its broad daisied meadows, through which winds the sleepy Loddon, here in the open sunshine, and there under the shade of trees which turn an untrained arch above its head? How well I know every spot of ground in this neighbourhood! Here I spent the only six weeks (far too brief) of a chequered life I would ever desire to spend over again. Happy moments such as these are like the refreshing springs that the wearied traveller meets with in the desert, and that give him strength to resume his journey. But if" our village" be deemed too tame and homely, pass on, pursuing the high-road, to the adjacent town of Reading, and an easy two-hours' walk shall bring you to the retired out of-the-way hamlet of Caversham, whose many scenic attractions have been eloquently insisted on by Sergeant Talfourd in a sonnet worthy of his theme.

It was a painting of this pretty little village which hung near the bowwindow in the Picture Gallery, that suggested the foregoing remarks. The artist, I suspect, was Havell, and there was much in his sketch that reminded me of Gainsborough, whose freshness, vigour, and rare truth of delineation, had been imitated with happy effect. The perspective, in particular, was managed with consummate tact; and the disposition of the cattle in the foreground, together with the rich warm colouring of the clouds, and of the autumn-tinted foliage of Caversham park, showed that the artist had been a close observer of nature, even while he availed himself of hints furnished by the great masters of English landscape-painting. The subjoined tale is in illustration of this sketch; and, if it possess no other recommendation, it has at least the merit of being correct in its local descriptions.

"More exercise, my dear sir-you should really take much more exercise; for, with a constitution such as yours, I know no other way of pre. serving health,"

"Just so, doctor, and that's the reason why I always make a point of walking five or six times up and down my study before breakfast, and the same number of times before dinner;

to say nothing of an occasional stroll down the lane, and a ten minutes' turn in my garden before lunch. If this be not exercise, I know not what the word means; unless, indeed, you would have me jump over the chairs and tables, or play at leap frog or hop-scotch with my housekeeper!"

My dear Mr Waddilove, when I talk of exercise, I mean that you should take a good long walk every day-say, three or four miles-so that you may feel something like a whole some, moderate fatigue."

"Three or four miles! You're joking-why, such an exertion would be my death! No, Thompson, prescribe any remedy but that. It is the very worst form in which martyrdom can develope itself."

"Well, if you will not be advised by me in this respect, at least go out more into society than you are in the habit of doing, which is in itself a sort of exercise, by the stimulus it gives

to "

"Right, doctor, so it is; and it is this conviction which has induced me to accept our mutual friend, Captain Capulet's invitation for tomorrow. He is going to leave Caversham in a day or two for the sea-side, and has asked me to a farewell dinner. I doubt, however, whether I shall be able to go, so very indifferent is my health. The dyspeptic symptoms that I spoke to you of last week, have"

"Like all your other maladies, real or imaginary, their origin in want of exercise."

"Pshaw, doctor, you're a man of one idea-always harping on the same string!"

Finding further remonstrance useless, at least for the present, the apothecary, who was a shrewd man of the world, contented himself with giving his patient a few commonplace directions with regard to regimen, in order to keep up the appearance of paying attention to his case, and then took his leave, with a promise that he would look in again in a day or two.

Mr Miles Waddilove, as may be inferred from the above conversation, was a gentleman of lethargic, and somewhat hypochondriacal, temperament, and of studious and secluded habits. He was a bachelor, about forty-five years of age; was tolerably independent in circumstances; and resided in an old-fashioned red brick

building, with two clipped yews in front, which stood halfway down a shady lane that terminated in the London road, on the outskirts of the town of Reading. In person, Waddilove was of the middle height; he had a goodly, though not a preposterous paunch; and legs as sturdy as those which we so often see in the possession of a drayman. His face was a dead white, like plaster of Paris; he was bald as a turnip, and wore a wig; and had a thick under-lip, which drooped over an expansive chin, one-half of which was always imbedded in a padded neckcloth.

All men have their peculiarities, and the one prominent feature in Miles's idiosyncrasy was his abhorrence of pedestrian exercise. For days together he never stirred outside his gates. Even to talk of walking roused his spleen, for it brought to mind a rash peripatetic experiment which he had been prevailed on to make in the year 1814, when he crawled upwards of four miles along the dusty high-road, under a blistering sun, in order to get a peep at the Allied Sovereigns on their way back to London from Oxford; and returned home with a face scorching hot, fingers swollen to the size of sausages, the stitch in his side, and the cramp in both legs! When, in addition to this peculiarity, I observe that Waddilove was a bit of an epicure, and addicted at times to absence of mind, I have said all that is necessary to prove that he was one of those quiet homespun characters, whom young ladies are apt to look on as oddities, and quiz as such.

Immediately on the apothecaryquitting him, Miles rang the bell for his housekeeper, and told her to hasten instantly into the town, and desire Toulmin's coach to be ready at the door next day at five o'clock, in order to convey him to Caversham, where his friend Capulet resided. As this vehicle was something of a curiosity, a passing mention of it may not be amiss. It was a sort of cross between a carriage and a hackney-coach of the olden time; its box was low and spacious; its ill-conditioned wheels stood out afar from its sides, like the red ears of a Yorkshire ostler; and its two ends, back and front, came down with a gradual slant inwards from the roof, which, instead of being flat, bellied out like the top crust of a

gooseberry pie. Being the only coach in Reading that was let out on hire on the principle of the London hackneycoach, it was generally known by the name of the "town-tub ;" and in its rickety motion, and, above all, in its extraordinary genius for upsetting, it had the rare merit of rivalling even an Irish post-chaise!

Punctual to the hour appointed, this eccentric vehicle drew up at Waddilove's door, who in a few minutes made his appearance, attired in all the finery of black shorts and silks, with his best bob-wig newly frizzed and powdered. He was in high glee at the idea of having escaped a hot dusty walk; and as the "town-tub" went clattering down Friar Street on its way to the neighbouring little village of Caversham, he kept humming the tune of "Old King Cole," which he always did when in good humour, and glancing every now and then, with visible satisfaction, at the magnificent clocks which ran halfway up his silk stockings.

He was thus pleasantly occupied, when suddenly, just as he had accomplished about a third of his journey, a loud crash was heard-off flew one of the wheels, and down came the coach on its side, right in the middle of the road! Fortunately Mr Waddilove, though not a little alarmed, sustained no injury from the catastrophe, and was promptly extricated by the cool and collected coachman, whom long experience had taught to look on an upset quite as a matter of course. On examining into the nature of the injuries sustained by the town-tub, it was found that it would take upwards of an hour to remedy them; and, as such a delay was not to be thought of under the circumstances, poor Miles, groaning bitterly, as a recollection of his walk in 1814 flashed across his mind, proceeded on his road on foot, this being the only chance he had left of reaching Caversham in time for dinner.

It was a dry, warm, autumn evening, with just enough wind to put the dust into a state of brisk activity—a special annoyance when one happens to be walking in full dress, and is anxious to wear a becoming aspect, as was just now the case with Waddilove, who lost much time in his various tackings and manoeuvrings to avoid the whirling clouds that beset him at certain turns and angles of the road.

NO. CCLXXXV. VOL. XLVI.

After plodding straight on for nearly half-an-hour, he reached that long, irregular, picturesque bridge which spans the Thames, there of imposing breadth, and leads direct into the village of Caversham. Arrived at this spot, he might have admired— for few can behold it without admiration-the singular sylvan beauty of the landscape about him; the flowery meadows stretching for miles along the nearest bank of the river; the wooded uplands of the distant Mapledurham; and the rich autumn-tinted foliage of Caversham park, which shone with a thousand gorgeous colours in the setting sun; the broad reaches of the lake-like Thames, with the numerous cottage lawns and flower-gardens sloping down its edge; the straggling village at the foot of the bridge, and the high chalk cliffs immediately beyond it, planting their white feet in the stream, and redeeming, by their bold precipitous character, what might otherwise have seemed too tame in the landscape ;all this, Miles, had he been so disposed, might have regarded with just admiration: but his thoughts were otherwise occupied, dwelling with more complacency on the rich soups, juicy meats, and luscious wines that awaited him at his journey's end, and alone reconciled him to his unforeseen walk. The clock struck six as he turned off the bridge into the village. He halted. The last stroke rung like a knell in his ear. At that very moment the servants were bringing in the first course. He should then be too late for the soup and fish! Horrid anticipation! Nevertheless, there was still a faint chance; and, buoyed up by this reflection, he quickened his pace almost to a trot, but had yet to toil through the village and up the hill that rises beyond it, ere he could reach the desired haven.

At length he arrived at his friend's house, and the first agreeable moment he had known since his ejection from the town-tub was, when he rang the garden-bell, and saw an old female servant hurrying down the gravelwalk to answer the summons.

"Is dinner on table?" he enquired in tremulous accents, that betrayed the great interest he took in the question,

"Dinner!" replied the old dame, who was rather hard of hearing-"did you say dinner, sir?"

D