always knock gently at the doors of my acquaintances, for fear they should anticipate some lordly stranger; therefore, that you may not imagine that I am going to do what I have not the least idea of, I will tell you what, in my anticipations, I shall not anticipate. I shall not enter into anticipations of the grave-the sensations we feel at the sound of this word, are by no means agreeable to our life-loving nature. Besides, it is no easy matter to talk of circling turfs and wreathed willows, of scattered roses and luxurious worms, of timecrusted monuments and chilly vaults, of--but I am already belying my promise. I shall not describe anticipations of a new poem; an epic from Southey; a tale from Barry Cornwall; a pun from Rogers, or a witticism from Jerdan; a new comedy at either of the "Rival Houses;" a novel from Colburn, or a decided cause in Chancery. Each, and all, of these, are but melancholy visions, either disappointing if realized, or never likely to be so. Still less shall I anticipate that Joseph Hume will make to night less than twenty speeches in the House of Commons; that the Morning Herald will contain a well-written" leader," or the Times a bad one; that the Reviewer in the "Sun" will learn to distinguish between an imitation and an original; or, that the now glorious weather will continue unchanged till I have finished this article. I will touch only on probable events. A LETTER. -Ten thousand blessings on that man's head who invented letters! and twice twenty more on his head who invented writing. Familiar advantages are generally understood: thus it is with writing; it is such an optional and common thing, that we never pay it the respect of pausing to admire the pleasures and gratification which it imparts. What can be imagined (when we revolve the matter) more delightful than our capability to cheat distance of separation and absence of forgetfulness? What more convenient than to fold up our minds in a sheet of paper, and send them for the inspection of those friends, to whom thousands of intervening miles prevent our personally unfolding it? Letters are our ambassadors: they represent ourselves-aye, and in the noblest way too. Through them we hold a correspondence with the Nabobs of India; we may travel the world by their conveyances; hint to distant uncles the propriety of securing a will; blow up a well-bred scoundrel, and supply our families with jokes sufficient to keep them laughing till our return. The rag-man, the goose, the ink-merchant, the postoffice, postman, the mail-coachman, &c., &c., it is true, conspire in our service with these letters themselves, and all deserve a separate meed of praise; but let them wait, I cannot now bestow it. "There is a letter in the candle" for the next week, I anticipate. From whom will it come? from what part of England? what will it contain? good or bad news?-It is impossible for me to answer these questions, and hence my mind will experience a constant jolt between hope and dread. How will the sound of the postman's distant rap thrill all my nerves, and startle up my cogitations! I throw down my book, pull out the small drawer of my writing-desk, unburden my purse of a shilling, approach the window, and strain my sight in vain down the crooked street, to catch a blessed view of the postman's red-coat-pshaw! he has left my street for another. By and bye comes the town postman, half-splitting my street door with the short duplicate of his thundering momento: full of the idea of the general post, I gently open the door of my study, prick up my ears to hear the servant's approach-she is not coming it seems-I give my bell an awakening touch that sets half a dozen more to accompany its chiming ding ding. The domestic drops her spoon in her dripping pan, terrified at the sounds, treads on a kitten's tail as she flies through the door way, gallops up stairs like one of Ducrow's horses, bruises her shins over the coal scuttle on the landing place, and then opening my door with a face writhing like a clown's, moans out,— "Did you ring, sir?"-" Where's my letter?"-" Your letter, sir, "'twas the tax-gatherer!" Oh! oh! Maddened with disappointment, and still more maddened at my unnecessary anger, I turn round on my chair, mutter "d-n the tax-gatherer," ferret the hobs with my shoes, and whistle, by way of mockery, at my own caprice. "Go to bed, Tom." Has the reader ever realized this, or any thing like it? happier he if he has not! 66 Of course, while anticipating a letter, the eagerness to receive it, increases as the disappointment lengthens. Fancies pile on fancies, and suspicions conjure themselves into a shadowy existence. Perhaps the person from whom you expect it, is dead and buried--drowned or suffocated---or, what you think almost as mortifying, he has forgotten you. "It is very strange I don't hear from him," is the usual family speech at meal-time. Your sisters, if they are partial to teasing, will not fail to pat you on the shoulder, and say with soft impertinence---" Poor boy, he SHALL have a letter;" while your father will lay his knife and fork down very ceremoniously, fix his eyes steadily on your face, and then gravely remark, “ I tell you "what, Bob, since you are so anxious to have a letter, why not write one to yourself?" How then will his eyes be half-concealed with the merry motion of their lids at this juvenile sally?---Poor disappointed man, I pity you, for let the would-be stoics prate as they please, 66 "These little things are great to little men." I can easily imagine you continually listening to the sound of the street door knocker, putting eternal meaningless questions to all the servants, and seizing hold of every bit of paper, that at the room's length appears in the corresponding shape of a letter. With what feverish anxiousness do you await the postman's hours, fancy the clink of each heel on the pavement to be his, and open your sittingroom door at the least sound in the passage! Perhaps you will enjoy a brown study" for the first hour after breakfast; the second in measuring your room with Bombastes-like strides-and then the postman's hour is arrived.-Well, you are in your arm-chair, and your watch is this moment making its appearance from your fob"Fifteen minutes past one-surely I have made a mistake-the time "must be past." What a dreadful hubbub your bell has created below I can almost hear it dinging in my ear: but here's the footman-" Pray, Thomas, is the postman gone by yet?"-" The post"man!" replies Thomas, with a stare." Yes, the postman." You growl in a lion-rage.---" Is the postman gone by, I say?" Thomas stares still more widely; then answers with a soft voice, mingling anger at your anger, with triumph at your disappointment--" This "hour ago, sir!" Now, my dear sir, after this excruciating endurance, if I were by you, I should recommend a cold bath, if it were summer, or a walk in your garden at any time of the year.- Woe be to dog or cat that you meet as you descend your stairs! This continuance of "the hope deferred," which maketh the "heart sick," will perhaps last a few days longer. At last, on a certain day, after you have walked the streets in a demi-sulky gloominess of thought, and flung envious glances at every letter you behold in a casual stranger's hand, you will return home little improved in temper-knock impatiently at the door-Thomas is shaving in his garret-knock harder-here he is, quite out of breath, and his eyes anticipating your anticipation:-" There's a letter for you, sir, up "stairs." Yes, I can see you plain enough; the letter is come at last, and now, as you walk with attempted composure up stairs, you feel an approaching shame for betraying such anxiety for a letter. Thus you determine not to evince much perturbating delight in the presence of your family.-That's right-you shut the door with much philosophical composure.-What! even your gloves off, and no demand for the letter! Why, if I were there, I should read it with my hat on.---Oh, now I hear you, with some trepidation, say, "Anne, "where's my letter?"--" Your letter, Bob!---Oh, by-the-bye, there is one for you. The servant took it in: I have it not." Poor sufferer! you will lose your letter, now, if not very scrutinous. After a half-an-hour's search in every corner of your domain, your temper begins to rise, and with somewhat tumid cheeks, you persist in telling your said sister, that you are certain she has your letter: with one sweep you unload the table of all her silks, ruffles, and serpent-winding ribbons; in performing this angry operation, you fortunately upset her work-box, and there, under its pressure, has calmly slumbered your epistle!! "Tush," you will remark---" tush." And there you are, seated on your sofa, with your back shaped into an inclined plane, your eye-brows fitfully knitting and relaxing, and your fidgetty fingers puzzled with the seal. Still methinks you are disappointed with the hand-writing; however, the letter is opened--your mother has laid aside her spectacles, hoping to hear its contents---your playful sister's needle is stuck contentedly in her muslin, and she too hopes to know its contents.---" No good news, I fear : let me see---A bill, as I am a sinful descendant of Adam: 66 "Timothy Wellfit having a bill to make up early next week, will feel obliged to "Mr. Imagination by an immediate settlement." And so this is the letter!!-- What a consummation to all your far-travelled dreams and fancies!! Don't think me hard-hearted. Really, if I were by, I should laugh, or do as Æsop's frog did. Pray do not bite your lips for rage. I see your sister, yonder, is provokingly inclined to join with me. Your bewildered mother has taken her spectacles again; and the best recipe I can propose for you is, to retire to your study, bury yourself in that comfortable morning-gown, lolling on a chair's back, and read Boaden's Life of Mrs. Siddons, or Southey's Tale of Paraguay-and a quiet sleep will infallibly be the result. Need I describe the anticipation of a love-letter? --The lover's restlessness, hope-the window-vigilant eye, the oft repeated question, the everlasting look-out, and more eternal pull at the watch-chain? I have only time to remark, that when a lover is anticipating a letter from his mistress, pens, ink, and paper begin then to be duly estimated; the post-office is a mundane Elysium, and the postman a perfect male-houri! A WIFE. That amiable Washington Irving! I love him for his sentiments towards women: yes, I can concur with him in believing there may be bankruptcies of the heart, as well as any pecuniary bankruptcies. Out on the marble breast that cannot love, the tongue that does not grow more fluent or soft when it is to woman's ear it speaks! and may his eye not be blinded that flashes with lightning or dissolved with tenderness at encountering the smile or tear of woman's eye. I hate flirts, abominate prudes, and dislike blues; but give me the creature of passion, refined by education, hallowed by sentiment, and -- "I will roam o'er earth and sea, Reader for I prefer addressing you, to introducing the frequent "I"-are you of an age to think? Of course you are; or would have nothing to do with the pages of The Inspector. Did you ever think of marriage? if not, immediately set about it: be assured there is no time so exquisitely rapturous, so abundant in assuasive sympathies, so beautifully beset with blissful reflections and congenial hopes, as that employed in courtship and spousal anticipations. You have my best wishes for every fortunate realization--- had I been a Frenchman, I would have said my prayers. May you never be jilted through a six months' absence, like a friend of mine; may no guinea-griping mother, no fox-like father-in-law, no half-hundred third-rate aunts and second-rate cousins, ever intermeddle with your kindling inclinations and sacred delights. May your courtship be placid, your rencontres uninterrupted, your vows never overheard, and your sentiments never misinterpreted. In short, may you soon be the joyous bridegroom at the altar---then a husband-till each anticipated happiness be completed, and every hope die away in enjoyment! This reads very benevolently: I was always considered 3 H VOL. II. a good-hearted fellow: but away with any more kind wishes. I mean to accompany you faithfully through that golden period of anticipation---courtship, or wife-fishing, or partner-hunting, or match-contriving, or any thing you please; of course, I must describe your anticipations ere you met your young fated Pyrrha, and twined her "flavam comam" in the dalliance of your affection. As you entered into the age of fifteen, you began doubtless to be affected with sundry qualms, trepidations, and palpitations. Your bosom was affected with an occasional fervor from your boundless imagination; and all your fancy craved, was an object to settle on. After five or seven years of the above-named endurances---a fair apprenticeship---your friends prided themselves on your speedy choice; your female cousins began to rally you more than ever; and, as I presume you are rich, catering mammas built foundations on your unison with the choicest of their family flocks. In fact, every body was anticipating for you: your man-servant, when brushing your surtout in the morning, used to shake his head very knowingly at Mistress Cook, and winking his left eye, said, "Dash "me if I dont think our young master is on the look out for Miss "Furbish at the end of our street." All your neighbours quickly decided on your love, and every boarding-school miss wrote an account of your discovered affection to some sweet little Louisa that lived in a great country hall. When thus all around you was whispering love, how could you be idle? Indeed, we may say, you were quite bathed in love. Your sisters began to throw out hints over the tea-urn at the breakfast-table; your good father looked graver than ever, and cried, "I hope she is rich!" and once or twice you were detected in thoughtfully tapping your tea-cup with your spoon. Between nineteen and twenty, is a very awkward and momentous age--awkward, because boyishness is somewhat clumsy in assuming the perfect man; and momentous, because illusion is hasty and inexperience hostile to control. I hope you left off every schoolroom habit; that you never introduced Virgil, Horace, and Homer at the tea parties; that you entirely forgot those dreadfully boybetraying phrases" last half;""ah! that's what the old governor "used to say !" " by Jove;" by -;" &c. &c.; that you never upset a waiter full of wine-glasses in a young lady's lap; and that you never forgot to make your bow at the conclusion of a quadrille. Were you not vacillating in choosing "the happy one?" Bashfulness at first never allowed you to advance further than," May I have the "pleasure of your hand for the next dance?" or, "Shall I see you "home?" However, this mauvaise honte soon melted away in the full fire of intrepid gallantry. Your barber was strictly ordered, your whiskers commenced sprouting; and, to conclude your advance to the man, your card-case became visible, and your conversation elegantly larded; with frequent "hahs!" "exactly sos;""'pon "honors;" "allow mes;" excuse mes;" &c. I do not imagine you soiled your nostrils with snuff. I wish, for the sake of common |