lark is carolling high in heaven, and
the bright rivulets are laughing in the gay sunlight, R. N. F. will
issue from his dungeon to taste again the sweets of liberty, and to
partake once more of the fleshpots of some confiding landlord. F. is a
man of great resources, doubtless. When he repeats a part, he feels
the same sort of repugnance that Fechter would to giving a fiftieth
representation of Hamlet, but he would bow to the necessity which a
clamorous public imposes, however his own taste might rebel against the
dreariness of the task. Still, I feel assured that he will next appear
in a new part. We shall hear of him--that is certain. He will be in
search of a lost will, by which he would inherit millions, or a Salvator
Rosa that he has been engaged to buy for the Queen, or perhaps he will
be a missionary to assist in that religious movement now observable in
Italy. How dare I presume, in my narrow inventiveness, to suggest to
such a master of the art as he is? I only know that, whether he comes
before the world as the friend of Sir Hugh Rose, a proprietor of the
'Times,' the agent of Lord Palmerston, or a recent convert from Popery,
he will sustain his part admirably; and that same world that he has
duped, robbed, and swindled for more than a quarter of a century will
still feed and clothe him--still believe in the luggage that never
comes, and the remittance that will never turn up.

After all, the man must be a greater artist than I was willing to
believe him to be. He must be a deep student of the human heart--not,
perhaps, in its highest moods; and he must well understand how to touch
certain chords which give their response in unlimited confidence and
long credit.

No doubt there must be some wondrous fascination in these changeful
fortunes--these ups and downs of life--otherwise no man could have
gone, as he has, for nigh thirty years, hunted, badgered, insulted,
and imprisoned in almost every capital of Europe, and yet no sooner
liberated than, like a giant refreshed, he again returns to his old
toil, never weary wherever the bread of idleness can be eaten, and where
a lie will pay for his liquor.

Talk of novel-writers--this is the great master of fiction--the man who
brings the product of imagination to the real test of credibility--the
actual interest of his public. Let him fail in his description, his
narrative, the progress of his events, or their probability, and he
is ruined at once. He must not al