this, admirals and captains on half-pay! hear this, port-admirals
and captains afloat! I have often heard that the service was
deteriorating, going to the devil, but I never became a convert to the
opinion before.

Gracious Heaven! what a revengeful feeling is there in the exclamation
"O that mine adversary had _written a book_!" To be snarled at, and
bow-wowed at, in this manner, by those who find fault because their
intellect is not sufficient to enable them to appreciate! Authors, take
my resolution; which is, never to show your face until your work has
passed through the ordeal of the Reviews--keep your room for the month
after your literary labour. Reviews are like Jesuit father
confessors--guiding the opinions of the multitude, who blindly follow
the suggestions of those to whom they may have entrusted their literary
consciences. If your work is denounced and to be released at once from
your sufferings by one blow from the paw of a tiger, than to be worried
piecemeal by creatures who have all the will, but not the power, to
inflict the _coup de grace_?

The author of "Cloudesley," enumerating the qualifications necessary to
a writer of fiction, observes, "When he introduces his ideal personage
to the public, he enters upon his task with a preconception of the
qualities that belong to this being, the principle of his actions, and
its necessary concomitants, &c, &c." That such preparation ought to be
made, I will not deny; but were I to attempt an adherence to these
rules, the public would never be troubled with any production of mine.
It would be too tedious a journey in perspective for my wayward
intellect; and if I calculated stages before I ordered my horses, I
should abandon the attempt, and remain quietly at home. Mine is not a
journey of that methodical description; on the contrary, it is a ramble
hand-in-hand with Fancy, with a light heart and a lighter baggage; for
my whole wallet, when I set off, contains but one single idea--but ideas
are hermaphrodite, and these creatures of the brain are most prolific.
To speak more intelligibly, I never have made any arrangement of plot
when I commenced a work of fiction, and often finish a chapter without
having the slightest idea of what materials the ensuing one is to be
constructed. At times I feel so tired that I throw down the pen in
despair; but t is soon taken up again, and, like a pigmy Ant, it
seems to have imbibed fresh vigour from its prostration.

I rem