3. An Address without a Phoenix. By. S. T. P. (this was a real address sent in by the writer).

4. Cui Bono? By Lord B. (Byron)-except the first stanza, which was written by James.

6. The Living Lustres. By T. M. (Moore).

8. Drury's Dirge. By L. M. (Laura Matilda). 9. A Tale of Drury Lane. By W. S. (Scott). 10. Johnson's Ghost.

11. The Beautiful Incendiary. By the Hon. W. S. (Spencer).

12. Fire and Ale. By M. G. L. (Lewis).

15. Architectural Atoms. By Dr. B. (Busby).

21. Punch's Apotheosis. By T. H.

A note to the last article runs thus:

"Theodore Hook, at that time a very young man, and the companion of the author in many wild frolics. The cleverness of his subsequent prose compositions has cast his early stage songs into oblivion. This parody was, in the second edition, transferred from Colman to Hook."

It was so transferred, because Colman was exceedingly annoyed, and Hook, it is well known, would laugh at it. We cannot discover the slightest resemblance to either.

The numbers in the above lists are copied from the table of contents of the last and best edition, published by Mr. Murray in 1839.' The preface was written by Horatio, and the notes by James.

"To one of us," it is stated in the preface, "the totally unexpected success of this little work proved an important event, since it mainly decided him some years afterwards to embark in that literary career which the continued favor of the novel reading public has rendered both pleasant and profitable to him." Mr. Horatio Smith, the author of Bram

1 Mr. Murray gave £131 for the copyright in 1819, after the 16th edition. He has since published three editions, and sold nearly four thousand copies.

bletye House, Zillah, and other popular works of fiction, is the member of the brotherhood who speaks here. James, though he felt proud of his brother's increasing reputation,' doggedly adhered to his favourite maxim, that when a man has once made a good hit, he should rest upon it,—a maxim which he was wont to strengthen by bishop Warburton's authority. When Anster, the author of the Bath Guide, was presented to the veteran, he said, "Young man, I will give you a piece of advice: you have written a highly successful work-never put pen to paper again."

At the same time he was obliged to own that a man's reputation might require an occasional burnishing, and would humorously illustrate the limited and ephemeral nature of fame by an incident that once happened to himself in a Brighton coach. An old lady, struck by his extraordinary familiarity with things and people, at length burst forth; "And pray, sir, you who seem to know every body— pray may I ask who you are?" "James Smith, ma'am." This evidently conveyed nothing to her mind, and a fellow-passenger added, "One of the authors of Rejected Addresses." The old lady stared at them by turns, and then ejaculated, "I never heard of the gentleman or the book before."

He considered it no breach of his maxim to contribute occasionally to the lighter periodical publications of the day, or to assist his friend Mathews in the concoction of his entertainments. Most of the best songs of the great comedian were from his pen. Brevity, however, whatever it may be with others, was certainly the soul of wit with him; and the only article of any length we remember from his pen-a critique of some cookery books, written for a review started on a new plan by Mr. Cumberland-was a compara

1 He used to say to Horatio: "I am often complimented on your writings, but people don't like to be contradicted, and so I let it pass."

2 See Mrs. Mathews's Life of Mathews on this subject.

tive failure, notwithstanding the obvious fitness of the subject for a pleasantry.

He was also frequently applied to by dramatic writers for a comic song, a hit at the follies of the day, or other assistance of the kind, which was always readily afforded, and generally proved eminently useful to the piece. The interest thus taken in theatrical matters naturally led to his being made free of the green-room; and he used to relate an incident curiously illustrative of the morals of the stage twenty or thirty years ago. An actress of note one night addressed him thus: "Mr. Smith, you are constantly here, but you do not appear to attach yourself to any of our ladies." "Ah, madam,” was the reply, "that proves my discretion; you little know what is going on in private between me and some of you."

From the commencement of the New Monthly Magazine, in 1821, he was a frequent contributor. His Grimm's Ghost in particular attracted much attention, and a collection of his papers, under the title of East and West, was once advertised by Mr. Colburn, though the intention was subsequently abandoned.

His social qualities, however, were those which will live the longest in the recollection of his friends; for he was one of the most agreeable companions imaginable, and it was difficult to pass an evening in his company without feeling in better humor with the world; such was the influence of his inexhaustible funds of amusement and information, his lightness, liveliness, and good sense. He was not very witty or brilliant, nor even very ready at repartee. Indeed, we are pretty sure that most of the best things recorded of him were impromptus faits à loisir; but no man ever excelled him in starting pleasant topics of conversation, and sustaining it; nor was it well possible for a party of moderate dimensions, when he was of it, to be dull. The droll anecdote, the apt illustration, the shrewd

remark-a trait of humor from Fielding, a scrap of a song from the Beggars' Opera, a knock-down retort of Johnson's, a couplet from Pope or Dryden-all seemed to come as they were wanted, and, as he was always just as ready to listen as to talk, acted each in turn as a sort of challenge to the company to bring forth their budgets and contribute towards the feast. As Scott says of Rashleigh Osbaldistone, "he was never loud, never overbearing, never so much occupied with his own thoughts as to outrun either the patience or the comprehension of those he conversed with. His ideas succeeded each other with the gentle but unintermitting flow of a plentiful and bounteous spring, whilst others, who aim at distinction in conversation, rush along like the turbid gush from the sluice of a millpond, as hurried and as easily exhausted." His gentlemanly manners and fine person-set off by strict attention to his dress —added not a little to the effect; and as he disliked argument, and never lost his temper or willingly gave offence, it would have been no easy matter for others to lose theirs or offend him. His memory was prodigious, but it was principally stored with the choicest morsels from the standard English poets, comic writers, and dramatists (which formed his favourite reading), and like Mackintosh, as described by Mr. Sydney Smith, he so managed it as to make it a source of pleasure and instruction rather than “that dreadful engine of colloquial oppression into which it is sometimes erected." Of late years he was occasionally accused of repeating his favourite stories and epigrams too often, but they were generally new to some persons in the company, and most of them were of such a nature as a cultivated mind always recurs to with delight-decies repetita placebunt. We must not forget one very great, and very rare, merit that he undoubtedly possessed as a diner-out. As we once heard a woman of celebrity declare emphatically, he was safe-he never let drop an allusion, or was

hurried into a joke, which true delicacy (we will not answer for false) could suffer from. He had a good ear for music, and voice enough to sing his own songs with full effect.

We need hardly state, that, long after the first flush of his celebrity, he was a welcome guest in the best houses, town and country. Latterly, however, he seldom left town except on occasional visits to Mr. H. Smith at Brighton, Mr. Croker at Moulsey, and lord Abinger at Abinger Hall. Though never guilty of intemperance, he was a martyr to the gout; and independently of the difficulty he experienced in locomotion, he partook largely of the feeling avowed by his old friend Jekyll, who used to say that, if compelled to live in the country, he would have the drive before his house paved like the streets of London, and hire a hackney coach to drive up and down all day long.

He used to tell with great glee a story showing the general conviction of his dislike to ruralities. He was sitting in the library at a country-house, when a gentleman proposed a quiet stroll into the pleasure grounds:

"Stroll! why don't you see my gouty shoe?"

"Yes, I see that plain enough, and I wish I'd brought one too, but they're all out now."

“Well, and what then?

"What then? Why, my dear fellow, you don't mean to say that you have really got the gout? I thought you had only put on that shoe to get off being shown over the improvements."

In town, one of the houses at which he visited most was lord Harrington's. He was a nice observer of manners; and the perfect high-breeding which characterises every member of the Stanhope family without exception, was exactly to his taste.

Another of his favourite houses was lady Blessington's. He admired her powers of conversation; he loved to mingle amongst social, literary and political celebrities; and he thought count D'Orsay one of the most accomplished and agreeable men he had ever known. At lady Blessington's