in medicine and surgery, but in every art and science in the world, which, without some accidental circumstance, some coincidence for which none of us are prepared, to bring them into notice, remain to

"Waste their 'powers' on the desert air."

In no pursuit is this truth more evident than that of literature. If ever I should have an influence over publishers,—which, since my literary hopes were nipped in the bud by the unequivocal condemnation of my first and only farce at the Haymarket playhouse, now seven years ago, is not likely, I would endeavour to impress upon their minds the vast injustice they do, not only to the said genius and talent, but to themselves, in unequivocally rejecting works by unknown authors. Every author must be at first unknown, and every author must write a first work—unless, indeed, he could adopt the course proposed by an Irish gentleman who wished to learn German." The first half-dozen lessons, Sir," said the master, "are tedious, difficult, and disagreeable; but after that,

you will begin to appreciate the beauties of the language."—"Then, Sir," said Mr. O'Brallaghan, "hadn't we better begin with the seventh?"

One of the strongest proofs that genius must triumph without the aid of a name, is to be found in the anonymous publication of " Waverly." Of the author of "Waverly," when it first appeared, who knew anything? Not a human being supposed that this leader of the most splendid course of fiction that ever graced the annals of our literature would have been rejected—most probably unread-because it bore no known writer's name on its title-page! The supposition is perfectly natural. Such things happen every day, as injudiciously as unjustly; and sure I am, that, if I were a writer enjoying a considerable share of popularity, derived more perhaps from good fortune than merit, I should be the first to endeavour to overturn this system of exclusion, and give every man or woman of talent (equal in all probability to my own, although kept in obscurity by adverse circumstances) a fair chance of starting in the race, if not for fame, at

least for that which, in these mercenary days, is perhaps a more substantial reward for their labours.

However, able or not, skilful or a bungler, wise or foolish, my wife will not have Sniggs; so I must look out.

In the course of the afternoon, peace was perfectly re-established, and Cuthbert, quite overcome by the effort of hearing Sniggs's scientific description of Tom's accident, and making his arrangements with Mr. Kittington, was reclining on the sofa, with Kitty sitting rubbing his ancles, and Jenny bathing his temples with what his man Hutton called "O go along," meaning thereby "Eau de Cologne." Tom, with his head dressed like Cupid, but in every other respect looking like an imp, was seated at a table thumbing over a book, which he affected to be reading, and Fanny Wells was occupied in painting a rose upon the top of a paper card-box.

"Well," said I, as I entered the room, "the invitation to Mrs. Brandyball is gone—are you pleased, Kitty?"

"Oh yes, uncle," said Kitty, "it will make her so good-natured to us when we go back."

"Ah, poor things," said Cuthbert, " they have enough to do when they are at school. Oh dear! Well, Gilbert, I have settled about the dancing. He can come very early in the morning twice a-week, and about the middle of the day on the other two days; but he seems to think you must have the carpet taken up in the drawing-room. They can't do their-what does he call them?-some of the steps-on a carpet. So I told him I thought it would take great labour to do that; but Hutton says that he, and James, and the coachman, can take it up in an hour."

"Yes," said I, not quite gratified at the proposal of uncarpeting the best room in my house, and converting it into a dancing-school; the more especially as it joined our own bed-room, and as the early lessons might in some degree interfere with Harriet's morning slumbers. However, I said yes.

"What a nice little foot Mr. Kittington has got!" said Kitty Falwasser, as she rubbed, as I thought with an air of invidious comparativeness, those of Cuthbert.

"Law, my dear child," said Fanny, "how came you to notice that?”

"I'm sure I don't know, cousin," said Kitty; "I always look at gentlemen's feet. He is a very nice man altogether I think, and so does cousin Bessy."

Yes, thought I, and you are a very nice young lady; however, the holidays don't last

for ever.

"He is quite a swell," said Tom, looking out from under the bandage which Sniggs had applied to his darkening eyes.

Charming boy, said I to myself.

"Much smarter than the chap as teaches at Doctor Brusher's."

"Tom," said I, "what sort of a master is the doctor ?"

66

"He's a rum-un to look at," said Tom;

a hold chap and wears a wig, all fuzzy out,