the
position of sub-editor. I knew, that, however valuable Mr. Hook might be
as a large contributor, he was utterly unfitted to discharge editorial
duties, and that, as sub-editor, I could have no power to do aught but
obey the orders of my superior, while, as co-editor, I could both
suggest and object, as regarded articles and contributors. This view was
the view of Mr. Colburn, but not that of Mr. Hook. The consequence was
that I retired. As to the conduct of the "New Monthly" in the hands of
Mr. Hook, until it came into those of Mr. Hood, and, not long
afterwards, was sold by Mr. Colburn to Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, it is not
requisite to speak.

A word here of Mr. Colburn. I cherish the kindliest memory of that
eminent bibliopole. He has been charged with many mean acts as regards
authors; but I know that he was often liberal, and always considerate
towards them. He could be implacable, but also forgiving; and it was
ever easy to move his heart by a tale of sorrow or a case of distress.
For more than a quarter of a century he led the general literature of
the kingdom; and I believe his sins of omission and commission were very
few. Such is my impression, resulting from six years' continual
intercourse with him. He was a little, sprightly man, of mild and kindly
countenance, and of much bodily activity. His peculiarity was, that he
rarely or never finished a sentence, appearing as if he considered it
hazardous to express fully what he thought. Consequently one could
seldom understand what was his real opinion upon any subject he debated
or discussed. His debate was always a "possibly" or "perhaps"; his
discussion invariably led to no conclusion for or against the matter in
hand.

It was during my editorship of the "New Monthly" that the best of all
Hook's works, "Gilbert Gurney," was published in that magazine. The part
for the ensuing number was rarely ready until the last moment, and more
than once at so late a period of the month, that, unless in the
printer's hands next morning, its publication would have been
impossible. I have driven to Fulham to find not a line of the article
written; and I have waited, sometimes nearly all night, until the
manuscript was produced. Now and then he would relate to me one of the
raciest of the anecdotes before he penned it down,--sometimes as the raw
statement of a fact before it had received its habiliments of fiction,
but more often as even a more brilliant story than the rea