-spinner or a Dealer in Hardware.

Let it not be supposed that this originates in any real depravity, or
any actual want of honesty, in the mercantile world. No! the whole is
attributable to the "Censor." By _his_ arbitrary dictate the entire of
a piece is often re-cast, and so habituated have authors become to
the prevailing taste, that they now never think of occasioning him the
trouble of the correction. Tradesman there stands for scoundrel, as
implicitly as with us an Irishman is a blunderer and a Scotchman a
knave. Exercised as this power is, and committed to such hands as we
find it in foreign countries, it is hard to conceive any more quiet but
effectual agent for the degradation of a national taste. It is but a few
weeks back I saw a drama marked for stage representation in a city of
Lombardy, in which the words "Pope" and "Cardinal" were struck out as
irreverent to utter; but all the appeals--and most impious they were--to
the Deity were suffered to remain unmutilated.

And now I am reminded of rather a good theme for one of those little
dramatic pieces which amuse the public of the Palais Royal and the
Varietes. I chanced upon it in an old French book, called "Memoires et
Souvenirs de Jules Auguste Prevost, premier Valet de Charge de S. A. le
Duc de Courcelles." Printed at the Hague, anno 1742.

I am somewhat sceptical about the veraciousness of many of M. Prevost's
recitals; the greater number are, indeed, little else than chronicles of
his losses at _Ombre_, with a certain Mdlle. Valencay, or narratives
of "_petits soupers_," where his puce-coloured shorts and coat of ambre
velvet were the chief things worthy of remembrance. Yet here and there
are little traits that look like facts, too insignificant for fiction,
and preserving something of the character of the time to which they
are linked. The whole bears no trace of ever having been intended for
publication; and it is not difficult to see where the new touches have
been laid on over the original picture. It was in all probability a mere
commonplace book, in which certain circumstances of daily life got mixed
up with the written details of his station in the Duke's household.

Neither its authenticity nor correctness, however, are of any moment to
my purpose, which was to jot down--from memory if I can,--the subject I
believe to be invested with dramatic material.

M. Prevost's narrative is very brief; indeed it barely extends beyond
a full allusion to