appears to us likely to have produced a great sensation in a British audience.

We must say, that the rejection of such a piece by the London managers reflects equally upon their taste and delicacy.

The next drama is called "Winter," and is founded upon the story of Elizabeth Woodcock, who was buried in the snow for upwards of a week, and is extremely pretty. "The Force of Conscience," a tragedy, follows, which ends with the execution of Mr. Morris, a blacksmith, on the new drop, during which awful ceremony he is assisted in prayer by the Rev. Mr. Jones; the spectators make comments, and the culprit his last dying speech, when the drop, or rather the curtain, falls, which ends "the strange eventful history."

The next play is called "Mrs. Jordan and the Methodist," and is founded upon a benevolent action (one of many) performed by that incomparable actress. We have too much affection for her memory to make a single comment upon Mr. Plumptree's delicate attempt to commemorate her good qualities.

The next is a comedy, called "The Salutary Reproof, or the Butcher!" from which we intend to make a few extracts, in order to give a fair specimen of Mr. Plumptree's dramatic talent and virtuous intentions; and we certainly do hope that one of the London theatres will afford the town an opportunity of judging for themselves the benefits likely to arise to their morals by such representations, without any curtailment of their amusement.

The play opens with a view of a country village; a public-house—sign the Salutation, on one side; on the other side, a baker's house and shop, and next door a butcher's house and shop; trees and a seat before it.

Enter the Rev. Mr. Shepherd—goes to the inn, and is shut out—he tries the baker, who will not give him a lodging—whereupon he proceeds to the butcher's. As he advances, he hears a hymn sung by the butcher's family, accompanied on the oboe. He is shortly after received by the butcher, and the scene changes to the inside of the butcher's house, where, as it is described, there is "everything remarkably neat, and even elegant in a plain way."

Enter Mrs. Goodman, George, and Ruth—then Goodman and the Rev. Mr. Shepherd.

The following conversation occurs:—

In a long note Mr. Plumptree elaborately describes this machine, and benevolently observes, that no house should be without at least one of them.

This conversation, which is quite refreshing from its naturalness, continues till it takes a turn in this manner:—

It will be observed that Goodman is a butcher.

The vein of morality which runs through the dialogue is exquisitely touching, and in the hands of Terry or Macready we think Goodman might be made highly effective—Young would be excellent in the "Rev." Mr. Shepherd, and in the latter part of the act, where Goodman discovers in the clergyman a friend who "put up at the Wheat Sheaf, at Blessbury, twenty-five years before," would make a decided hit—when pushing away his ease and comfort, the Reverend Gentleman returns thanks for having made the butcher what he finds him.

The conclusion of the first act is happily imagined, and highly theatrical:—

It is impossible not to feel such a scene deeply—its dramatic quality and the powerful effect that such a style of representation could not fail to have upon a thinking audience.

In the second act Goodman dispatches a leg of mutton to Lord Orwell's, and puts up a prayer—Mrs. Goodman inquires if the gentleman's shoes are cleaned, and mentions that she must go and look at the rolls in the camp oven: subsequently to which we are presented with a scene at his Lordship's, who desires the butcher to sit down, and enters into conversation about "Fiorin grass," which Goodman says will produce six ton per acre. His Lordship then recommends a work called "The Experienced Butcher," published by Darton and Harvey, Gracechurch Street, price 6s.—in return for which Goodman mentions the arrival of Mr. Shepherd, and recommends him for the curacy of Gladford, the new rector having refused to countenance him. Whereupon Lord Orwell says to the butcher (taking his hand), "Mr. Goodman, this, like every part of your conduct, raises you in my esteem; depend upon my services wherever they can be useful."

His Lordship then characterises Goodman thus:—

There is so much genuine nature in all this, that we certainly should have no hesitation in foretelling the reception it would meet with on the stage, if acted. The dénoûment may easily be anticipated; Mr. Shepherd, instead of being continued as curate, gets the rectory at Gladford; and Lord Orwell and Sir William Rightly having walked down to the butcher's, there conclude the play thus:

As we have already said, the great charm of these pieces is the perfect representation which they give of real life. The intimate knowledge of human nature, and of society, which shines throughout all of them; and, above all, that consummate skill which, while it affords the richest dramatic treat, conveys the purest moral lesson.

It certainly is not for us to prescribe to Mr. Elliston; but we do think that if the play, whence we have made the above extracts, were acted at Drury Lane, the effect produced would be extraordinary. To Mr. Plumptree we return our thanks for his volume, which having read with admiration, we lay down with infinite satisfaction; and if every author were to pursue his plan and publish the piece, which managers have refused, it would very soon put an end to all doubts as to the cabals and intrigues which agitate, divide, and govern theatrical cabinets.

PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE OF PUBLIC MEN.

With considerable exertion, and at a great expense of capital and research, we have been fortunately enabled to gratify the prevalent taste for diaries and correspondence; a gentleman of the highest literary character, moving in the first circles as well of the political as fashionable world, has been kind enough to furnish us with no less than twenty-four volumes of MS. letters and memoranda, the production of all the leading personages of the last and present century.

It is from the unreserved communication of their thoughts and feelings that the characters of great men are to be justly appreciated; and with the addition of the notes, explanatory and critical, of our highly-gifted friend, we think we shall do the world a service, and our readers a pleasure, by submitting portions of the great collection entrusted to our care.

It must be observed that the whole of the correspondence of which we are possessed is strictly of a private nature, and certainly has never appeared in print before. We give a few specimens:—

I have not been able to ascertain precisely who this Mr. Smith was, and the envelope, which possibly might have shewn the address, has been unfortunately lost—the name of Smith is by no means an uncommon one; it is possible that this note might have been written to a relation of Lord Carrington, who was created a Baron on the 15th of July, 1796. His Lordship married a Miss Bernard, by whom he has had one son and eleven daughters.—Ed.

The authenticity of this short letter is unquestionable; for although the initials of this British Roscius only are affixed to it, the date, and the known intimacy which existed between Garrick and Goldsmith, put all doubt at rest as to the real writer. It is a curious transcript of the times, as it marks the hour of dining in the year 1775, in what may be considered the best authority. Garrick retired from the stage in 1777, and died in 1779; his widow survived him nearly half a century. The house at Hampton was purchased by a Mr. Carr, Solicitor, as I believe, to the Excise, one of whose daughters was married to Dr. Lushington.—Ed.

This interesting remain is without date, but it bears the evidence of truth on its face. Mrs. Barbauld, who was the daughter of Dr. Aikin, was a highly-talented lady; her "Beggar's Petition" itself is enough to immortalize her. The desire to have home a new gown on Saturday night, in order that she might wear it at church the next day, has a naturalness in it which is quite refreshing—a feminine anxiety operating upon a masculine mind.

I have endeavoured by every possible means to ascertain who the Miss Higginbotham was, to whom the letter is addressed, but hitherto in vain. By reference to the files of newspapers kept at the Chapter Coffee House, in St. Paul's Churchyard, I see that in the year 1870, a Mrs. Hickenbotham kept a milliner's shop in Hanway-yard, as it was then called. But I can hardly fancy it the same person, because in the first place Mrs. Barbauld distinctly calls her Miss, whereas the person in question was married; and secondly, because the name of the milliner to whom the newspaper refers, is spelt Hickenbotham, whereas Mrs. Barbauld makes the Hick, Hig, and spells her bottom, botham, after the manner of the landlord of the Windmill Inn, at Salt-hill, near Eton in Buckinghamshire.

The Right Hon. Edmund Burke, one of the most distinguished of our British worthies, was born at Limerick on New Year's Day, 1730; he was educated by a Quaker, got into Parliament in 1765, and died at Beaconsfield, July 8, 1797. Burns I imagine to have been a servant of his, but I have no particular reason for believing it, beyond the evidence of the letter before us. The direction to get dinner ready, comes evidently in the way of a command; and the unadorned style of address quite justifies my suspicions. Simmons is unquestionably a domestic servant, and a female. In the registry of marriages in Beaconsfield church, I find an entry of a marriage between Thomas Hopkins and Mary Anne Simmons, spinster; which Mary Anne I take to be the individual referred to by Burke. The date of that marriage is June 15, 1792. Now, although this letter is without date, it is fair to infer from the reference to "making a fire in his bed-room," that it was written much earlier in the year than the month of June; so that even if we were able to fix the date of the letter in the same year, it is quite within the range of possibility that the marriage did not take place till several months after the servant was spoken of, by her maiden name of Simmons. I took occasion to visit Beaconsfield twice, concerning this little doubt, and I think it but justice to make my acknowledgments to Mr. Thomas Fagg, the deputy-sexton of the parish, for his urbane attention to me, and the readiness with which he afforded me all the information of which he was possessed.—Ed.

This very curious letter is not more valuable on account of the matter it contains, than as conducing to throw additional light upon the mystery of Junius—it would occupy too much space in a note to enter into a disquisition concerning the various conflicting opinions upon this subject, but as far as a comparison of hand-writing with some portions of the MS. of Junius's Letters, which I had an opportunity of seeing, and a strong similarity of style in the writing, go, I have no hesitation in settling the authorship upon Sir Philip—there is such vigorous imagination displayed in the description, in nine words, of the state of the weather and the metropolis, and such a masculine resolution evinced in the declared determination to "fly from all its ills and inconveniences" the very next day, that one cannot but pause to admire the firmness which could plan such a measure, and the taste which could give such a determination in such language. The cautious concealment of the place to which the supposed party of pleasure was to go, is another evidence of the force of habit—I have reason to believe it to have been Twickenham, or as Pope spells it, Twitnam, but I have no particular datum whereon to found this suspicion, except, indeed, that I think it quite as probable to have been Twickenham, or Twitnam, as any other of the agreeable villages round London.—Ed.

There can be little doubt that the note referred to by Sir Joshua was full of those quibbles and quaintnesses for which Whitefoord was so well known. Whitefoord was a man of considerable attainments, and was distinguished by the peculiarity of his dress; a French grey coat with black frogs, a small cocked hat and an umbrella—he was the constant frequenter of auctions, and has the credit of being the inventor of the now hacknied concit called "Cross readings." It is certain, that in his note sent with the venison, he called Sir Joshua his deer friend, hoped it would suit his pallate, recommended him to take some cuts from it and transfer them to plates, spoke of the current sauce being jelly, and perhaps signed himself his Buck friend (for at that period the words Buck and Maccaroni were the distinctive appellations of two classes of persons in London). I surmise this, because he was a confirmed punster, a character somewhat prized in those days. Goldsmith said it was impossible to keep company with him without being infected with the itch of punning. He is celebrated in the postscript to "Retaliation:"—

It is impossible for us to spare more room to-day, but we think we have offered a specimen of a work which will be found at least equal to many others whose pretensions are much more formidable, and which, after all, do not exhibit so faithfully the peculiar characteristics of the private lives of public men.

THE COCKNEY'S LETTER.

The following letter has been transmitted to us, as written by a Cockney gentleman late in the train of Lord Byron,[50] but now discarded—we are not sufficiently acquainted with the style of the writer to vouch for its genuineness, but we give it as we have received it:—

BYRONIANA.[53]

By favour of a friend just arrived from the Mediterranean we have received exclusively some most interesting papers relative to Lord Byron; they consist of anecdotes, which have never been known, and some original letters, which have never been out of the hands of the individual by whom we are favoured. Some of his Lordship's more recent conversations are detailed, which will be found highly amusing and characteristic. We submit a few extracts, which we trust will prove acceptable to our readers.

"Lord Byron," says our correspondent, "had several peculiarities; he reduced himself from corpulency to the contrary extreme, by eating raisins, and occasionally sipping brandy. He used frequently to observe that brandy was a very ardent spirit, and remarked that to persons anxious to conceal the strength of their potations, hollands was better adapted, inasmuch as being of a similar colour with the water, the quantity mixed with that liquid was less easily detectable by the eye.

"Lord Byron was perhaps more sensible of approaching changes in the weather than any other man living. One day, on a voyage to Athens to eat beef-steaks, a dark cloud appeared to windward of the vessel; his Lordship regarded it steadily for some time, until at length, feeling a few drops of rain fall, he called to Fletcher to bring his cloak, so certain he was of an approaching shower. Byron always slept with his eyes closed, and if by any accident he lay on his back, snored remarkably loud; he was very particular in his toothpicks, and generally used those of a peculiar kind of wood, in preference to quills.

"In writing letters of an ordinary cast, his style was plain, clear, and perspicuous; a specimen follows, it is addressed to a friend:—

The next is to a person who had been recommended to his notice, and whom he felt it necessary to invite. We suppress the name of the party, lest Mr. Hobhouse should get an injunction.

"These sort of notes he would secure indiscriminately with wafers or wax, as the case might be.

"One day conversing with him upon the state of Greece, and the great struggle in which we were all engaged, he observed to me, 'that a very small proportion of the population of London had been in the Archipelago.' When I assented, he said—with a sigh which went to my heart, and in a tone which I shall never forget—'It would be very strange if they had.'

"He had a strong antipathy to pork when underdone or stale, and nothing could induce him to partake of fish which had been caught more than ten days—indeed, he had a singular dislike even to the smell of it; some of his observations upon this subject will be given in a new quarto work about to be published by a very eminent bookseller.

"He spoke of Harrow with strong feelings of affection, and of the lovely neighbours of Dr. Bowen—(who they were he carefully concealed from us)—they were tenants of the same house with the late Duke of Dorset, who was Byron's fag. To a lady of the name of Enoch, who lived in a cottage at Roxeth, he had addressed some of his early productions, but had destroyed them. He used to ask me why Mr. Procter called himself Cornwall? 'he might as well call himself Cumberland,' said Byron, with his accustomed acumen.

"It has been remarked that Byron spoke of his own child with affection. Strange and unnatural as this may appear, it is literally the fact. It seems, however, to have excited so much surprise, that it is absolutely necessary to be particular in impressing the truth upon the British nation, who are so deeply interested in everything which relates to the immortal poet departed.

"The poem which he wrote upon the close of his thirty-sixth year has been published and republished so often, that we do not think it worth printing here. But the observation made by its great author to our correspondent is curious and striking:—

"'I have written these verses on closing my thirty-sixth year,' said Byron. 'I was always superstitious—thirty-six is an ominous number—four times nine are thirty-six; three times twelve are thirty-six; the figures thirty-six are three and six—six and three make nine, so do five and four'—he paused and said—'Mrs. Williams, the old lady who told my fortune, is right. The chances are, I shall not live six and thirty years more.' The fact has proved that he was not ungifted with the power of divination.

"Byron died, as I have just said, in his thirty-sixth year. What makes this coincidence the more curious is, that if he had lived till January, 1844, he would have completed his fifty-sixth, a circumstance which, curious as it is, we believe has not been noticed by any of his biographers.

"I once proposed to him to take a companion on a tour he was about to make; he answered me snappishly—'No; Hobhouse once went with me on a tour—I had enough of him. No more travelling companions for me.'

"He used frequently to compare himself to Buonaparte—so did we, to please him. Buonaparte had a head, so had Byron, so has Mr. Hayne of Burderop Park, Wilts, so has a pin; he was tickled with the comparison, and we lived with him, and swallowed toads at discretion.

"Moore, the author of the 'Fudge Family,' was a great favourite of Byron's; he had not discovered that it was Moore who persuaded Hunt—the man who made Rimini—that he was a mighty clever fellow, and that if he set up a periodical work, he (Moore) would contribute to it: Moore constantly abused Hunt to Byron at the same time—called him a stupid Cockney, and swore that Byron was ruining himself by associating with him. This was kind and liberal, and justifies what Douglas Kinnaird and everybody else indeed say of Moore just now—Byron would not have liked Moore the better for this—poor Hunt had a wife and children, and was in needy circumstances, and Byron did them great service—and what harm could Hunt do Byron, or anybody else?

"The Greeks think Byron will come to life again after a while, and one poet in the Chronicle, probably Moore, talks of having seen his manes in George-street, Westminster, and of the possibility of his yet wandering about Greece, in a white dressing-gown, singing 'Liberty Hall;' but I, who know Byron well, and all his expectations, doubt the fact. I was surprised to find, considering how right and fashionable it is to praise my departed friend, that his wife declined seeing his body, and all his family declined attending his funeral.

"He told me one night that —— told —— that if —— would only —— him ——. She would —— without any compunction; for her ——, who though an excellent man, was no ——, and that she never ——, and this she told —— and —— as well as Lady —— herself. Byron told me this in confidence, and I may be blamed for repeating it; but —— can corroborate it if he happens not to be gone to ——."

LORD WENABLES.[54]

To those who are in the habit of recurring with a feeling of devotion to the golden gone-by times of our forefathers, and who "track back" upon antiquity to hunt out subjects for admiration, it must be in some degree consolatory to discover, that even in these degenerate days there still exist amongst us men capable of recording the noble deeds of the "mighty living;" and that one of the most important occurrences of modern date has found an historian worthy of the subject which it has been made his duty to transmit to posterity.

To such of our readers as are generally conversant with the history, political or statistical, of the City of London, it may perhaps be needless to observe, that it affords, by virtue of its charter and constitution, power and authority, might and majesty, for one year at a time, to one illustrious individual (made, indeed, illustrious by his office), and that this illustrious individual is pre-eminently distinguished above all others of God's creatures (within his special jurisdiction) by the title of Lord Mayor. Having been a Liveryman, he proceeds to Sheriff and Alderman, and in time, being an Alderman, he becomes Mayor, and being Mayor of London, becomes a Lord!—that he is not a Peer, arises only from the difficulty of finding any to compare with him.

Thus, then, it being conceded that there is, and always will be, a Lord Mayor of London, so long as London stands—for the constitution of Cornhill and the majesty of the Mansion House remain unshaken by the storms of treason or the efforts of rebellion, and shine in all their native excellence with equal purity and brightness, whether under the gentle sway of an amiable Mary, the gloomy troubles of a martyred Charles, the plain dominion of a protecting Oliver, or the glorious sway of a liberating William—it being then, we say, conceded that the Lord Mayor, officially, never dies, we seek to show the imperative necessity which presses upon every Lord Mayor while in office, personally so to distinguish himself from the long line of his predecessors and those who are to follow him, by some striking deed, either bodily or mental, political or financial, literary or scientific, so that when he shall have returned from the pinnacle of earthly splendour at the corner of Walbrook into the softer retirement of his patrimonial shop in Pudding-lane or Fish-street-hill, children yet unborn may learn to lisp the name of their great ancestor mingled with their prayers, never forgetting to singularise him especially from all the other Figginses, Wigginses, Bumpuses, and Snodgrasses of their respective houses, by prefixing in their minds to the patronymic, the deed, or work, or act, or book, as it may be, by which that particular branch of their family has so flourished into virid immortality.

By observing this system, an association is formed in the mind of men and deeds highly refreshing, at once useful and agreeable. Who ever hears of Walworth without thinking of Wat Tyler?—who ever reads of Whittington without having a Cat in his eye?—who speaks of Wood without thinking of Whittington?—who of Waithman without recollecting Knightsbridge foot-path? Thus it is that these illustrious men are distinguished, not only from all other Lord Mayors, but from all other Whittingtons, Walworths, Woods, and Waithmans, in the world.

With such examples before him, was it unnatural, or not to be expected, that the late Lord Mayor, Venables, should be contented to sink back into the shades of Queenhithe from the Civic throne without leaving something behind him which might entitle him to fill a niche in the Temple of Fame? We think not; and we have no hesitation in saying that his Lordship's well-directed ambition, blending as it has done the eminently-useful with the strikingly-agreeable, has produced results which will hand him down to future ages with as much grace, certainty, and propriety as his Lordship ever exhibited in his late great life-time in handing down an Alderman's lady to dinner.

When we say, "late life-time," we mean official life—Venables the man, is alive and merry—but, alas! Venables the mayor, is dead.

It now becomes our duty to explain what it is that has so decidedly stamped the greatness of Lord Wenables—so he was called by the majority of his subjects—and in doing so, we have to divide (although not in equal parts) the fame and glory of the enterprise between his Lordship and his Lordship's Chaplain, who, upon this special occasion, and at his Lordship's special desire, was the historian of his Lordship's exploits.

It seems, that in the course of last summer, the Lord Wenables having over-eaten himself, brought upon himself a fever and rash, and during his confinement to the house the disorder took an ambitious turn, and his Lordship's organ of locomotiveness having been considerably enlarged and inflamed by his Lordship's having accidentally bumped his noble head against the corner of the bedstead, his Lordship was seized with a desire to glorify and immortalise himself by foreign travel the moment he got better of his green-fat fever—and having sent for his Chaplain to consult upon some sort of expedition which might answer his purpose, his Lordship and the Divine deliberated accordingly.

At one time he suggested going down the shaft of Brunel's tunnel at Rotherhithe, but the work was not far enough advanced to render it even commonly hazardous—that was abandoned. Going up in a balloon was suggested, but there was no utility blended with the risk. The dreadful dangers of Chelsea reach had already been encountered, and a colony established by his Lordship on the east end of Stephenson's Island, beyond Teddington—something even more daring must be tried; and, as it happened that a first cousin of my Lady Wenables had been reading to his Lordship, who was not able to read himself (from illness, not from want of learning), "Travels undertaken in order to discover the Source of the Nile," his Lordship at once resolved to signalise himself by undertaking a journey to discover, if possible, the "Source of the Thames." His Lordship was greatly excited to the undertaking upon being told that Mungo Park had been carried into Africa by a similar desire—and he observed with wonderful readiness, that if it were possible to remove a whole Park into Africa, there could be no insurmountable obstacle to transporting Lady Wenables to the source of the Thames.

When Lord Wenables was first put upon the project, he was rather of opinion that the source of the Thames was at its mouth—"a part which," as his Lordship observed, "is in man the source of all pleasure;" and he suggested going by land to Gravesend, to look out for the desired object. But the Chaplain informed his Lordship that rivers began at the other end—upon which his Lordship, not having gone so far into the study of geography as to ascertain the exact course of the river beyond Stephenson's Island, hinted his intention of going with Lady Wenables by land as far as Dunstable, and then proceeding in the search.

The Chaplain, it seems, although not quite sure enough of his experience to give Lord Wenables a downright negative to his suggestion, deemed it necessary forthwith to consult a map of Europe, in which the relative courses of the River Thames and the Dunstable turnpike-road are laid down in different degrees of latitude, and having ascertained that Dunstable was an inland town, proceeded to examine his charts until he discovered Oxford to be a more likely point to start from with any reasonable hopes of success; this he mentioned to Lord Wenables, and when his Lordship arose convalescent from his calipash fever, he mentioned his design to the Court of Aldermen on Midsummer Day, and the last week of July was ultimately and unanimously fixed upon for the expedition.