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in Fraser's Magazine, on the publisher of which a cruel and unjustifiable assault was made, because he declined to give up the name of the writer. Maginn accepted the responsibility of his too slashing criticism, and he and Mr. Berkeley fought that celebrated duel in which, according to the report here made, Maginn bore himself more creditably than his antagonist. We set aside the ridicule, disparagement, or contempt which Mr. Berkeley heaps upon his adversary, the greatest and most unfortunate scholar of his day; we allude to Mr. Berkeley's account of his own conduct. He was a crack shot, and boasts that with certain pistols he could have hit any one of Maginn's buttons he chose. However this may be, the parties were bound by the regulations made known to them, to fire without taking any aim whatever. Now Mr. Berkeley confesses that he took "a hasty aim at Dr. Maginn's leg; and had that hasty aim proved fatal, it would have been wilful murder, and the heir of a long line might have ended his career ignobly. He tells us that the purpose of duelling should be "the maintenance of a chivalrous sense of honour, not the mean exhibition of blood-thirsty courage.' And yet, we find him exclaiming to the "friend" of a man named Barker, on a later occasion, "I will meet Mr. Barker on this quarrel, and by Heaven, I will, at least, try to shoot him, in defence of the little honour his wife has left." Try to shoot him! when to take aim is forbidden by the rules of this mock chivalry, the code of which, as Mr. Berkeley more correctly explains, "ought to be governed by a spirit of humanity, and not by a desire for murder.” But, to take hasty aim with a loaded pistol at a man, has not much of the spirit of humanity in it; and to try to shoot him has more in it of an implied intention to commit murder than of a desire to confer a favour. Mr. Berkeley states that Dr. Maginn subsequently addressed a note to him, in which the critic offered to give a favourable review of a new work by the former, if Mr. Berkeley "would confer on him a small sum of money." No doubt, Mr. Berkeley possesses a note in which there appears to him to be such offer; but he should have pub

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lished it, in order that the public might see whether Mr. Berkeley had rightly or wrongly construed Dr. Maginn's letter.

From the former gentleman's enemies let us now take a glance at the gentleman's friends, associates, and acquaintances. The most ruthlessly shown up is Lord William Lennox. Mr. Berkeley depicts him as a cavalry oficer, unable to ride; and he more than hints that all Lord William's books about his sporting adventures are fictions; it is even said of my lord that he once received from Lord Segrave, with whom he had been dining, money to pay the bill and settle with the waiters, and that he put a portion of the reward intended for those men into his own pocket-a "trick," says the author, "solely intended for our amusement; but it was a dangerous joke.' Anon, we come upon this merry lord letting, for money, the opera boxes which his noble friend placed at his disposal for the enjoyment of himself and his intimate associates! Finally, "Willox,' as Lord Segrave called him, "offered to bring the celebrated Miss Paton down, if he (Lord Segrave) would do the thing handsome, and stand the money for the post-horses to the carriage." A handsome sum was given for the purpose, and “he brought her down," growled my brother, "by the pair-horse coach, and put the posting money in his pocket." This sort of thing is commented on as Lord William's "reckless determination to have his fun;" but honest vulgar people would certainly call such practice by a more disagreeable name.

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Besides Willox, we have among the fine gentlemen of a past generation, Dalrymple, Earl of Stair. He was lame, and his courteous friend, therefore, called him "Limping Dal!" He had another nickname, which his surviving friend delicately assures us "referred more particularly to his adherence or otherwise to the truth!"' However, he was good enough for Crockford's Hell, which locality Mr. Berkeley describes as a place frequented by "gentlemen," where

nothing that is dishonest could be done," and which he defends on the ground that rich gamblers "will frequent some place or other where they can follow the bent of their ruling inclination." But the “good society

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whisper to the group round the taon: * Have any of you lords and gentlenoon dropped a five gun a counter? There's Loid - Clan “ing one at tæ desk. " Of the black raard,sue with which the late Lord Waterto, i weed, in his early and infamous day, tshock the pater sense, we have all heard more tivin enot. h. On this led and gentiera n, Mr. Brkeley ceivers himself of the followin ̧ Inarvedous judgment: He was ok.ed deemed extravagant, bee tul he did extravagant, apparently sol, ress or sh things; but or an ef he

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conld have gotten anything by it, such as the horse and armour of a battered adversary. We believe that, in the old days, the “honour" was the only master cared for on those occasions of jousting. Proba dy, the modern feeling so called diners from the ancient sentiment, but is stil honour. Nevertheless, here is a car eun tance which perp.exes us: "In Hyde Park I nearly bought, at my own price, rather a nice w 180. had just boted with its owner, who could not ride. He was evidently a mit," &c. The rider was thrown, but he recovered his steed, and Le gain took hold of the rems, I saw that he readied his steed with a look of distret. *That, sir, is a Milons bast " I exela imed, “and n» fit to ride in London; if you'll zel ba, fil give you twenty poure's and run að riks fom 1st pt. *N, sir, I win hot they me offer! So ging ad re.2 mm, a* tl.net te, with

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WHO IS THE HEIR?

CHAPTER VI.

"O Star of the morning! O Telegraph mild!
Dismay with canards every weakminded gaper :
On Bright and his Gladstone good fortune has smiled,
And there's plenty of paper, there's plenty of paper."

THERE was a great gathering at the Mitre Tavern. Toryism had determined to start a new journal of the highest class; and Tory writers of many sorts were convened on the occasion. When Guy Luttrel and Harry Mauleverer reached the Mitre,they found presiding a venerable gentleman, grey-haired but fluent of speech, who received them with such an inimitable mixture of fluency and courtesy as could only emanate from

"The first flower of the earth and first

gem of the sea."

Charles O'Leary was a fluent and courteous Irishman, and one of the best Irishmen I have ever known. At this time he was recognised universally as the Father of the Press. He was almost as old as Lord Palmerston. He did his paternal duty admirably, and was reverenced by wild reporters and wilder penny-a-liners, as a feudal baron was reverenced by his retainers.

When Guy and his companion entered atlairs were becoming serious. The punch-bowl, that delight of the journalist, had appeared. The whole assemblage was engaged in discussing the name of the new periodical.

"I say the.Flay," exclaimed a vociferous Scotchman. "That's the sort of name."

"Wouldn't the Rapier be a good name?" asked Charley Kebbel, the lightest of light writers. "The rapier is a gentleman's weapon, and Tories are gentlemen." "Devilish good," granted the octogenarian president.

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"Call it England," said Frank d'Orville, the most miraculous of foreign correspondents, hand in-glove with all the leading diplomatists of Europe. "That's a good representative name."

Better call it the Rala," said

a

Press, June 8, 1861. yellow-haired patrician poet, smoothing a silky beard, and rolling a cigarette.

By Zeus the Thunderer," groaned an enormously deep-chested man with a voice that would have made Lablache unhappy for life; "you had better call it the Devil !"

After this fashion were suggestions made, none of which caught the sympathy of the audience. At length Guy Luttrel, whom everybody seemed to know, and who had taken a seat near the chairman, said

"Suppose we call it the Londoner?”

This felicitous proposition was at once accepted universally, and Mr. O'Leary, who was in a state of patriarchal inebriety, and looked as the Venerable Bede might have looked after twenty tumblers of whiskypunch, enthusiastically proposed Mr. Luttrel's health.

This being drunk with great unanimity and enthusiasm, there came another great question-Who should be elitort

The vociferous Scotchman immediately quoted Catullus, to prove that he (the Scot, not the Roman) was the right man; he also maintained that an editor cught not to be a " cad.”

Charles Kebbel remarked that the clitor of a first-class journal ought to know something about Bolingbrokeand he was the only man in England who did.

Frank d'Orville wished merely to observe that the editor ought to be an accomplished linguist and practicel diplomatist.

The patrician poet thought it would be a bore; but if he were well paid he wouldn't much mind; but he'd rather some other fellow of inferior calibre and lower connexions would do it.

Whereupon Guy Luttrel got up and made a specel- rather astonish

ing Harry Mauleveter; nor Harry only, but most of the men present, For Gay, who knew well the scitishness and shallowness and jealousy which are perpetual accompaniments of modern political journalsın, gave his audience a thorough objurgation on these points. He showed how the spirit and vigour of any new enterprize sufficed only to maintain it in a satisfactory state for a brief period, because the men engaged upon it were never actually in earnest. He pointed to journal after journal, biilLant once, now utterly encte. "Peers of the realm were their proprietorsgreat statesmen wrote for them: now they are owned by adventurers and cited by old women." In brillant bitter fashion Guy went on to denowice the half hearted Conservatism of the day, comparing it with the resolute, if *metimes prejudied, Torvism of the post. “Nobody care bep.eind cednow, said Guy: "scarce anybody dare have an opinion of 1.'s own. Men are ated of being 1 dicuted for venturing to think differentiv from the 1908. Now, if the London r * to travel in the old miealamized track, er if it is to be bilPent and orimai for a few mortis, and then become as tame and conits predecesso 18, dat let us start it. And as to the cd: rchap who heverybody seems to want ex ept Fitzter ʼn tuen put it in comm's zon, Jket fond Admiralty Cia 1×0 Levy si la Fist Logi, and I be Sonetary.)

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getting bepy in that literary at 8phere of milk punch and honeydew.

"Exactly," said Luttrel, “so superior that nobody will read it. They'll take it for a joke. The fiet is, we are living in quieter times than those of the Anti Jacobin and the John Bull, Society is tamed, per haps improved. Nobody drives fourin-hand up a staircase, or drinks three hotties of port. Scarcely anything would force a man to fight a ducl. Fancy our grave and reverend friend, Lord Stanley, jumping on a club table and harat guing the room, as the Rupert of debate once did. The cari is obliged to let off his surplus steam in a translation of Homer. I can fancy him sympathising with Achuiles, as the Tropins fled before that tre

endous Peilan ash of the old Cen turs cutting, and hearty wish ing he could chase the Wing Radiens n similar style. However, I don't want to throw cold water on the enterprize. But may I ask, who is your capitaus ( Oris it a secret

Whereto the Father of the Pressre

at he was at least his father Fad been amerelent prince, thst on tre oŭd gentle man's death he had get et of the firm w thabout ha'tamilien iii-pocket; ti at the father having been a rigorous Arabaptist and herce utra Rad cal, the son was, of ectise, Church man and Tory; that having been onjiged to live on two hungred a year up to the age of thirty five, he was new natualy anxious to try what pleasure cond be obta ned by Lavish experate; that he had af reany dropped twenty then nd ot so on a minor theatre, and wasther king of the of la; and t; it he was 9↑cular Vatxiens to establoh a tech

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"Ey Jove, I treat ever, that cant be do ped, I suppose You must cer 1.m, od felle W.

ach, in a way urkrown totle Low long wi, he last ?”

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And

"I tink he's god for ten thou

“Well, on the prin îflès you mean to ad pt and paving everybody wol,

that will give us about six months' life. A short life, and a merry one." Soon after this, the party broke

up.

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So you don't think it will answer," said Mauleverer, as they finished the evening with a cigar.

"Certainly not. A journal of that kind has no chance in London now. As I said, society is too heavy and flat for such enterprises."

"Then I wonder you connect yourself with it."

"So do I, at this moment. I am too much given to acting from impulse. But it struck me that several fellows there would be none the worse for a share in poor Tracy's ten thousand pounds-and that by a little occasional guidance I could keep the ship afloat somewhat longer than if they were left to themselves."

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"Well, Tracy's a man who must spend his money somehow, and might spend it in a worse way. I know him well enough to be able to tell him that he is sure to lose every farthing in about a year. If, after that warning, he perseveres, I think you will admit that I have done all that is necessary.'

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"But do you really think," urged Harry, "that high-class.journalism has ceased to be possible?"

"I do. The appreciation of real wit, of close logic, is always confined to a few. The knowledge requisite to judge whether a political article is written by a person who understands his subject is rarer still. The men who possess these qualities see so much dulness and ignorance in the numberless journals issuing from London steam-presses, that they cannot believe in anything new. The most successful of contemporary enterprises is supported chiefly by ladies and the clergy. In fact, the prodigeous expansion of publicity is forcing us back upon manuscript: the best epigrams of the day are never printed; men are returning to the good old habit of writing letters; and those who mix in society find it every day less necessary to read anything except the telegrams posted by Reuter."

"So we may perhaps come to the time when a great poet may imitate Gongora, and allow none but his intimate friends to have copies of his verses."

"I think it likely enough," said Luttrel. "And you must admit that the present system leads to a very wearisome diffuseness. The public demand is for quantity. Whether in novel, or poem, or essay, there must be plenty to read. So the poor author is obliged to spread himself over the paper to an immense extent. Did you ever read a leading article which wasn't twice as long as it ought to have been ?”

"I don't think I ever read one through in my life." "Then don't begin. And now, Harry, before we part, let me ask if you really are very much in love with Helen Fitzmaurice?"

Guy Luttrel had for some time been hesitating to put this question, for he knew well that it would rouse Harry to a state of excitement. He was not wrong. The young man sprang from his easy chair, threw away the regalia he had just lighted, and exclaimed

"Confound it, YES!"

"Well," said Guy, "you and I are old friends, and need not quarrel; but I may tell you that there are two reasons, either of which alone would suffice to render your marrying her impossible."

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"What are they?" said Harry. "Ladies' secrets, my dear boy.' "I suppose the fact is that you and she are privately married."

Luttrel could not help laughing heartily.

"Do I look as if I was married ?" asked he.

"Well, hang it," said Harry Mauleverer, moodily, lighting another cigar in sulky fashion, "I don't think either you or Helen treat me fairly. I believe she likes me; but she says she can't marry me, and won't tell me why; and you're in exactly the same story. It isn't friendly, Guy."

"It is friendly, Harry, I assure you though I can hardly expect you to see it. You would not have me divulge the secrets of a lady?"

The two men sat for some time in silence. At last Guy said:—

"And if there were no secrets, Harry, do you think Mrs. Fitzmaurice just the sort of person to choose for a wife? You don't know her."

66

You do, it seems."

"Well, not very much She i

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