led, to High Mass-Discharge of cannon-merciless shouts of fellows with the lungs of buffaloes in full roar.—Resolved on instant escape, and went to obtain my passport.-Every soul abroad-the office closed.

Induced in an evil hour to take a ticket for the ball, under pompous promises that it was to be the ne plus ultra of taste, novelty, and magnificence, tout a fait Français, &c.

Considered my ways and means for killing the intermediate time.- Had the choice of the French Calendar, or a promenade on the pier-variety of wretchedness-Went to the pier-assailed by harbour-smells of every formidable kind—a compound of tar, smoke, dead dogs, and fish-women-the tide coming in, and duly returning the ejections of the town to the shore.

Lingered on the pier-exacerbated by the infinite vapidity of the gabble called conversation round me- Weather talk— the history of last night's rubber-history of the morning— bathe-mutual and solemn assurances, fortified by an appeal to the bystanders, that the tide was coming in, &c.—Every soul round me English-faces whose familiarity haunted me—yet whom I could not possible have seen anywhere but behind bandboxes and counters-the Eastern sperme of La nation boutiquiere.

To get rid of them and ennui, walked to the waterside, with a faint determination to bathe, for the first time. The wind coming at intervals in hot gusts, the water looking surly, and gathering in short angry waves.- Put down my name as a candidate for a bathing-machine—the fiftieth in succession!

Lingered about the shore-gazing like a philosopher on fragments of seaweed, making matter of contemplation out of an untenanted oyster-shell, and diligently inspecting the washing of a poodle by a chambermaid, &c.

Tired of waiting for the machine,—which had a dozen cargoes of girls, matrons, and elderly gentlemen, drawn up rank and file beside it, waiting for the ablution, or the drowning, of the groups stowed within,-tore off my clothes in a fit of desperation, and rushed in "naked, to every blast of scowling Heaven." -Met by a surge ten feet in advance of the rest, that seemed expressly delegated to carry me out to sea.- My resolution greatly shocked by this unexpected attention;-pondered a

minute or two, half way, immersed like a mermaid-but "returning were as tedious as go on."-Saw the eyes of the whole beach upon me--and rushed" en avant."

A rolling sea-the sky suddenly as black as my hat.Looked to the shore-men, women, children, and machines, in full gallop to shelter-Tide coming in like a mill race-lifted off my feet-swimming for my life-Thoughts of conger-eels a hundred feet long, swordfish, sharks, &c.-A porpoise lifting up his fishy face at my elbow-Roaring surge-My will unmade-Thought of a Coroner's inquest-Clarence's dream, &c. Tost on the shore on the back of a mountain of waterbruised, battered, and half-suffocated-not a soul within hail— A remote view of a few stragglers that looked like pilots speculating on a wreck- The sea following from rock to rock, staunch

as a blood-hound.

Searching for my clothes-my whole wardrobe hopelessly missing-probably stolen-Pondering on the pleasant contingency of making my entry into the town like a negro, or a plucked fowl-Tide rushing on, with a hideously desolate howl of the wind-Rocks slippery, the higher the ascent, scarped and perpendicular as a wall.

A gleam of joy at seeing my coat scooped out of the crevice of the rock where I had left it, as I ignorantly thought, above the reach of ocean, and sailing towards me-Grasped it like an old friend-flung it over my shoulders, and made my escapeMy breeches, shoes, watch, and purse, of course, left to be fished for on the fall of the tide.

Rapid movement towards home-in the midst of the titter of girls, and the execration of matrons, and other "Dii majorum gentium," vehement against what they looked on as my voluntary exposure.

As I passed the principal hotel, betted on by a knot of picktooth puppies, who would have it that I was walking for a wager. The way through the Market-place consequently cleared for me, and I the universal object of ridicule, surprise, and reprobation, till I rushed within the door of my lodging.

Wearied to death-sick-dirty, and disheartened, flung myself into my bed, and rehearsed in my sleep the whole spectacle of the day.

Roused by my landlady, who had found my ticket for the ball on my table.—Informed that it was midnight, and that I had no time to lose-Angry at being disturbed—yet afraid to undergo the work of my sleep again-pondered-cast my eyes on a new suit sent home that evening by the “Tailleur plus magnifique," of the world and Dieppe.-Ought to go to the ball, -it was the first and last opportunity of seeing the true glory of France.-Ought to go to sleep-tired, feverish, and spiritless. -Ought to go to the ball to revive my spirits, and shew the fools and puppies of the place, that I was neither mad nor merry in my morning's promenade.—Sprang out of bed.

At the ball-room door, met half the company coming out— Had to force the breach through a host of insolents, in the shape of footmen, gensdarmes, police-officers, and mendicants.

Breasted my way up-stairs through a descending current of bonnetted, shawled, surtouted, swaddled, nondescript figures, that had once been quadrillers, card-players, pretty women, and prettier men.

My entrance made good at last, the company reduced to a scattering of a couple of dozens, unhappy reliques of the rout, uncouthly toiling down a dance, or loitering along the benches, yawning at each other, in pale despondency; the gentlemen drained to the last civil speech, and the ladies consuming the dregs of the orgeat and lemonade.-Every soul English, brouzed up in turbans that might have frightened the Grand Turk; bedizened in tawdry costumes, imported along with themselves, and made more burlesque by an attempt to ingraft them with French alterations. The young women universally lath, plaster, and chalk; the old ones, London porter, and prize-beef, - absolute Bluebeards.

Tottered home.—My landlady fast asleep ;—and defying all the usual expedients of breaking a pane in her bed-chamber— tearing out her bell by the roots-Hallooing till I was hoarseEvery soul in the street poking their night-caps out of the windows, and reviling the coquin Anglais-Landlady still unshaken.

Taken up by the gensdarmes for disturbing the neighbourhood, amid surrounding cries of "Eh, ah! Bah, hah!" "Sacre!" “Bien fait, bonhomme." Au cachot ! —A sudden population of

thieves and filles de nuit starting, as if out of the ground, to attend me to the door of my new lodging.—Locked into the cachot for the night.

SUNDAY. IN THE CACHOT.-The sous-prefect having gone to his country-seat-Unspeakable vexation-Thinking of liberty, and England.

MONDAY.-The affair explained-Let loose-bounded like a lunatic home-Flung my trunk upon the neck of the first garçon I met, and hurried down to the steam-boat.-Boat to move in a quarter of an hour; felt for my watch-clean gone.

A family-repeater that I would not have lost for the whole bourgeoise of Dieppe.-In my vexation, called the town a nest of thieves and knaves.

Called upon by a Frenchman at my side for an explanation of my words-Tried it-He could not comprehend my French - Gallic ass -A mob gathered-Cards given-to meet in half an hour. The steam-boat under way, I remaining to be stabbed or shot-My baggage on board!

The challenge getting wind.-Bored with inquiries and observations-how it happened?-who it was?-whether with sword or pistols?-whether on the cliffs or in the coffee-room? -a promise that whatever might happen, my remains should be taken care of.—Congratulations on the extinction of the Droit d'Aubaine, &c.

Went to the ground.-No Frenchman forthcoming-Lingered in the neighbourhood till dinner time.

At the tavern, had my cotelette served up by a face that I half recognized-my morning challenger-the head waiter!Saw a sneer on the fellow's countenance, and kicked him into the street-Indignantly left my dinner untouched, and walked down to the pier, to embark immediately.

No vessel going off-Lounged about till dusk-hungry and chill-Hired an open boat at ten times the price of the packet.

All night at sea-Heavy swell-Not knowing where we were the Azores, the Bay of Biscay, or Brighton-In distress - Sick to death-the men mutinous, lazy, and despairing.

Picked up by a steam-boat going to Dieppe, with a promise of being discharged into the first homeward vessel.

Letter from a Washerwoman.*

Puddleditch-Corner, Islington, January 30, 1823.

WORSHIPFUL SUR,

I'm a lone widder woman, left with five fatherless children to purvide for in a wicked world, where simple folks is shure to be putt upon, as ive larnt to my sorrow; but i'm not one to sit down content, if there's la or gustice to be had above ground. My good man used to say, rest his sole, Patience, you've a sperrit, says he, and so i have, thank God, for what shuld a pore lone widder do without in such a world as this where honnor goes afore honesty. Well, sur, how i comes to rite you these few lines, is this. You must know i'm a washer-woman, an' lives at Islington, and takes in loddgers; but I ant come to that yet; only i must say summut about it, by way of beginnin to let you know how i've got a new loddger; for i takes in single gentlemen; an' i was telling of he, what oudacious treetment id met with from they; he, i would say, the other was as bad as he, as hockipied my apartments last, how i was flammed over tho' i mid a known fine words buttered no passenips, to give em trust, an' let em turn evry thing topsy turvy, so long as it sarved their turn to stay, and then they takes French leave, an' walks off, without paying so much as a brass farden, and what's warse, wi' Nance; but i ant come to that yet. Only, sir, the long and the short's this; i was gust telling of these here purceedins to my new loddger, and how they'd a sarved me, an habsconded,

* For the first eight or nine years of Blackwood, Hunt, Hazlitt, and Keats, as the head of what was called "The Cockney School of Poetry and Criticisms" were perpetually assailed in its pages. This Letter from a Washerwoman was one of the few contributions, in that line, from Maginn's pen. There is no wit and little humour, even in the best specimens in bad spelling. Winifred Jenkins may be endured and even langhed at, as one of the earliest in that field of pseudo illiteration. "Yellowplush" and "Jeames" fall far beneath. So did Maginn's Washerwoman. But the article is fairly entitled to a place in this collection, as showing to what follies of composition a clever man could descend, and also on account of the parodies on Leigh Hunt's early mannerisms, and love of "Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, Vivorum," with which it concludes.-M.