THE next picture which attracted my notice in the gallery, was one of a homely, every-day cast, such as John Bull-who has no great taste for the abstract and imaginative in art-loves to look upon. It represented a young man seated on a sofa close by a cheerful fire, in all the easy luxury of dressing-gown and slippers; on a black-leather reading table near him stood a bronze lamp, and right opposite were a set of plain book-shelves, indifferently stored with volumes, which, from their neat, unsullied, white calf-skin backs, I took for granted were law-books, and also that they were seldom or never consulted by their owner, but slumbered uninterrupted on his shelves, like a placeman on his sinecure. The details of this picture were worked up with considerable care, and with a skill worthy of Knight or Leslie. The face and figure of the young man, in particular, were full of character. The artist had drawn him leaning back on the sofa, with one arm carelessly flung over the side, in an attitude of reverie, but not of the calm and philosophical order, as the hectic glow on his cheek, and his sparkling, dilated eye plainly betokened. Who was he? and what was the nature of his reflections? It was no very difficult matter to answer these queries, so clear and distinct was the painter's conception, and so adroit his execution. The gentleman in question was a barrister-most likely a briefless one; the formal, oldfashioned look of his apartments, with their dingy oak-pannels and faded red curtains, showed that he was in chambers; and it was equally evident, from the animated expression of his flushed countenance, that he was an enthusiastic castle-builder, who, in fancy, had just achieved the one grand object of his ambition for the time being.

As I sate looking up at this expressive work of art, a pang of regret came across me, when I reflected how often I too had wasted hour after hour in the seducing but idle occupation of castle-building. How often, in the course of a stroll across a South Devon moor; or when resting among the

crumbling walls of Reading Abbey, after a day's trolling in the Thames; or when lazily paddling in a coracle over the Talley Lakes, with the most suggestive of monastic ruins staring me full in the face; or when taking "mine ease at mine inn" at Llangollen or Baddgalart, I had indulged in the most fantastic day-dreams, instead of devising rational schemes to promote my success in life: at one time conquering Europe at the head of vast armies; at another dimming the lustre of even a Chatham in the senate; now delighting audiences with my powers as a tragedian; and now a nation with the magic of my rhymes!

The

Alas! it is not on easy terms like these that fame is won. She exacts far severer sacrifices from those who court her smiles. She will have no idlers in her train, who abandon themselves to the delusions of fancy, and put off action to the Greek Kalends. She is as inexorable as the overseer of a cotton-mill. All must be up and at work betimes in her factory. There must be no dropping in at the eleventh hour. For this sort of task-work, your genuine castle-builder is seldom or never prepared. His constant habit of dreaming away the golden moments of life, disqualifies him for strenuous action. Continuous labour is a commonplace from which his high-flying intellect turns with disdain. slightest difficulty scares him like a spectre. He is at home in Utopia, but elsewhere he is as much abroad as a stranger in a foreign land, who cannot speak a word of the language. Hence, he has the mortification of seeing those who started with him in the race of ambition, pass him, one after the other, on the road. While he is content to achieve success in idea, as Ixion embraced a cloud for a Juno, the man of stern and practical energy is laying its foundations in reality, by turning each hour as it flies to strict and profitable account. To succeed, is to propose to one's self the accomplishment of one particular object; to stick doggedly to that one; to make fancy, judgment, and feeling alike subservient to it; and, above all, to be

prepared for, though not to anticipate, obstacles. This, as I observed just now, the castle-builder cannot do. His mind is volatile, capricious, erraticconceives a thousand projects, but holds fast by none.

Surely life was given us for other and nobler purposes than to wear away in day-dreams! To encourage a healthy and enlarged system of action; to help on the great cause of social and moral improvement; in a word, to do our best, in the station assigned us, to benefit our fellowcreatures, so that when our sun sets, it may leave awhile a trail of light behind it; it was for this we were sent into the world, and not, day by day, hour by hour, to foster the growth of indolence, self-conceit, and egotism. These are harsh terms; nevertheless, they are strictly applicable to the habit of castle-building, which-however we may strive to disguise the fact is the mask under which vanity and selfishness lurk, inasmuch as we never erect these airy structures for the pleasure or benefit of others, but solely for our own gratification. We paint no groups on the canvass of our imagination, but take especial care that we ourselves shall stand the only visible figure-a flattering full-length-in the foreground. Moreover, while absorbed in this sort of luxurious reverie, we have every thing our own way, and gratify our proudest aspirations without the slightest expenditure of toil or time. We travel, at more than railway speed, along a road smooth as a bowling-green, where there is not so much as a pebble to check our progress. If we win renown as conquerors, we win it without peril; if as scholars, without study; if as statesmen, without incurring the hostility of faction. Is beauty the object of our ambition? Lo, the loveliest girl that ever "witched a world," stands like an Houri before us, waiting but the word to fling herself into our fond arms! Do we desire to become preeminent as poets? We become so without a struggle. No impertinent critic breaks the charm of our reverie, by telling us that our rhymes are "clotted nonsense." Fancy, in her exceeding complaisance, suggests nothing but what ministers to our selflove and indolence. How painful how disheartening-to turn from these seductive day-dreams, to the dull, la

borious duties of real life! To be compelled to achieve success by the sweat of our brow, instead of by a mere act of volition; and to plod wearily, step by step, up that steep hill where "Fame's proud temple shines afar," instead of gaining the summit at one elastic bound-in idea! A man may be mentally, as well as physically, intoxicated, and this is the case with your confirmed castle-builder, who-it is no exaggeration to say sois never sober for a week together. There are, however, some splendid exceptions to this rule. Napoleon, according to Bourrienne, was in early life an inveterate castle-builder, so also was Scott; nevertheless, both these great men had the full and unclouded possession of all their faculties, and were not less remarkable for a salient teeming fancy, than for that undeviating steadiness and energy of purpose which derives fresh stimulus from difficulty, and bears down all opposition. Scott, in particular, never allowed his habits of romantic abstraction to enfeeble his judgment, or interfere with the every-day duties of life. Thought, in him, did not overdo action. He was the master, not the slave, of his imagination-the magician who commanded the tempter, not the witch who served him. This is one of the many reasons why I reverence his memory. When I think of the sustained mental energy he exhibited throughout life; more especially when I call to mind his herculean exertions made in old age, at a season of unaccustomed gloom, to retrieve his fallen fortunes, when the chances were a hundred to one against him; of his stern, gladiatorial wrestling with despair; of the heroic sacrifice of his griefs as a husband to his sense of duty as a man and a citizen; of the prompt, unhesitating abandonment of his all at the call of justice, and this from no feverish impulse, but from steady, deep-rooted principle; of his perseverance, that nothing could divert from its object; of his courage, that nothing could daunt, not even the awful handwriting on the wall which had already come forth to warn him that his hour drew nigh; of the indomitable power of will that, like the setting sun on some majestic ruin, blazed out even amid the stupor of disease, and grappled with destiny to the last moment;

when I think of these things, I re

cognise in Scott's character all the noblest elements of manhood; he uplifts my sense of the dignity of human nature to the highest point of elevation; and I exclaim, with Shakspeare, "Take him for all in all, we ne'er shall look upon his like again!"

But enough on this painful theme.

To return to the picture of the castlebuilder. The tale, which follows, is in illustration of that painting; and the leading idea, I need hardly add, is derived from the well-known anecdote of Alnaschar in the Arabian Nights' Entertainments :—

In that quarter of Clement's Inn, whose dingy chambers look out upon a court-yard where stands the wellknown statue of a blackamoor,* lodged Charles Meredith, a young man, about twenty-three years of age, who had just been called to the bar, and was as much encumbered with briefs as such raw, inexperienced barristers usually are. Possessed of considerable literary attainments, which, both at school and at college, had gained him the reputation of a "promising youth," and endowed with a quick, versatile, and even brilliant fancy, Charles was still more fortunate in being blessed with a sanguine temperament, which always inclined him to look on the sunny side of things. On quitting the university, where study and dissipation engrossed his mind by turns, he had hurried over to Paris, and there contrived, in one short year, to run through the best part of a small fortune, which had been left him by his father; and now, with but a few hundred pounds remaining in his exchequer, he was, for the first time in his life, awakened to the wholesome but unpalatable conviction, that, if he did not abandon pleasure, and apply himself with earnestness to the stern duties of existence, he must erelong sink into abject poverty. Accordingly, after duly reflecting on his position, young Meredith decided on becoming a lawyer, as being a vocation more congenial to his tastes than any other he could think of. But, unluckily, this did not supply him with an immediate competence, but only put him in the way of acquiring

a remote one; so, in order to furnish himself with the means of subsistence until he should have gained sufficient practice as a barrister, he determined, like many a clever young lawyer before him, on turning his literary abilities to account; in other words, on trying his luck as an author.

Having once resolved on a particular line of action, Charles Meredith was not the man to halt or fall asleep. "En avant," was his motto, as it is of all the ambitious and the enterprising. After casting about for a subject calculated to call forth his utmost energies, he at length decided on the composition of a historical romancea species of fiction which the Waverley Novels, then in the zenith of their celebrity, had rendered unusually popular. Being well acquainted with the period which he proposed to illustrate the stirring times of Louis XIV., when the war-minister Louvois was in the height of his powerCharles, whose fancy was kindled by his theme, wrought it out in a spirited and graphic style. Half-a-year's zealous application sufficed to bring his con amore task to a conclusion, when, without a moment's delay, he dispatched the precious manuscript to an eminent publisher at the West End, offering him the copyright for-what the sanguine author, no doubt, thought was a most moderate price - three hundred pounds! As a matter of course, he calculated on a favourable reply within a week, or a fortnight at furthest; but two months had since elapsed, and he had received no communication, though he had called twice at the bibliopole's house of

business, and each time left a card, by way of refresher to his memory.

At last, when he had almost despaired of success, and had come to the determination of peremptorily demanding back his manuscript, his fondest hopes were realized. One afternoon, on his return home from the law courts, just as he had entered his chambers, the postman's brisk rat-tat was heard at his outer door; and presently his clerk made his appearance with a letter, dated Street, in his hand. Eternal powers! what were the young man's transports on perusing the contents of this note! The communication was from the publisher to whom he had transmitted his romance; and, though penned in a dry, terse, and business-like style, yet, in Charles's estimation, it teemed with the eloquence of a Burke; for it was to the effect that his tale had been read and approved; that the writer acceded to his terms; and that, if he would favour him with a visit at his earliest convenience, he would give him a cheque for the three hundred pounds, and, at the same time, venture to suggest a few trifling alterations in the manuscript, which he thought would tend to increase its chances of popularity.

Charles read this touching billet at least twice over, to convince himself that he had not misapprehended its import; and then, hurrying out into the street, threw himself into the first cab he met, and—as might have been anticipated-was thrown out just ten minutes afterwards, though fortunately his fall was attended with no worse consequences than developing on the back of his head that particular bump -namely, conscientiousness-which, as phrenologists have justly observed, is so invariably found wanting in the skulls of politicians.

On getting on his legs again, young Meredith, made cautious by experience, continued his journey on foot, and on reaching the publisher's shop, and sending in his name, was at once ushered into the august presence. The interview, though short, was highly satisfactory. Charles received the bibliopole's compliments with becoming modesty, and his cheque with very visible delight; and, having listened to his suggestions, and promised to give them all due consideration, he took his leave, and posted off to a neighbouring banker's, where he presented his cheque, and received in return a

handsome pile of Bank of England

notes.

Just as he turned again into the street, he unexpectedly encountered an old college chum, to whom he imparted his good fortune in terms of such extravagant rapture, that his friend, a sedate mathematician, looked at him, not without a suspicion that his intellects were impaired. And let no one blame his transports, for an author's first work-especially if it be of an imaginative character, and he who penned it a green enthusiastis always an affair of prodigious moment in his estimation! The lover who hears his mistress falter out "yes," when he feared she was going to say "no;" the father, who sees in his darling first-born the reflection of himself, even to the snub-nose and unquestionable squint; the hungry leader of opposition, who finds himself suddenly transported from the comfortless region on the wrong side of the speaker, to the Canaan of the Treasury Bench, flowing with milk and honey; the turtle-shaped alderman, who, on the glorious day of his metamorphosis into a lord-mayor, hears his health drunk and his virtues lauded at his own table by a real first minister of the crown; these, even in the height of their extasy, feel no more intense gratification than does the young unsophisticated author on the success of his first literary enterprise. But how changed the scene, when, the gloss of novelty worn off, he takes to writing as a task! The instant composition becomes a matter of necessity, it ceases to be a pleasure. Fancy flags, and must be goaded onwards like an unwilling steed; invention, that once answered readily to one's bidding, stands coldly aloof; the fine edge of feeling grows dull; thought refuses longer to soar, but creeps tamely, instead, along the dead flats of commonplace; and the mere act of stringing sentences together comes to be the most thankless and irksome drudgery. Charles, however, had not yet reached this pass. At present he was in the honeymoon of authorship.

After strolling about some time with his Cambridge friend, Charles went back to his chambers, where he occupied himself till the dinner hour in perusing Scott's splendid romance of Old Mortality; and in the evening, which set in wet and stormy, he drew forth from its modest hiding-place his last

remaining bottle of wine, closed his shutters, wheeled his sofa round to the fire, which he coaxed and fed till it blazed like a furnace, and then, in the true spirit of that "luxurious idlesse which Thomson has so well described, allowed his skittish fancy to run riot, and, rapt in delicious reverie, began building castle after castle in the air, whose imposing splendour increased in exact proportions to his potations.

"Lucky fellow that I am," mentally exclaimed this sanguine daydreamer, as his eye fell on the heap of bank-notes which lay close beside him on the table, "here are the fruitful seeds from which I am destined soon to reap a rich harvest of wealth and fame The sum now in my possession will afford me a moderate competence till I have brought my next literary production to a close, when, of course, my means will be extended; for if I get three hundred pounds for my first work, it is as clear as the sun at noon-day that, for my second, which will be twice as good, and therefore twice as popular, I shall get twice, or perhaps thrice, the sum. Then, who so fairly on the road to fame as I? My second flight of fancy being successful, my third will still further increase my renown, when public curiosity will be strongly excited to know who and what I am. Mysterious surmises will be set afloat respecting my identity. The press will teem with authentic particulars' of my birth, parentage, and education; this journal asserting, on authority,' that I am Sir Morgan O'Doherty; another, that I am a young Irishman who withhold my name for the present, in consequence of having killed my uncle in a duel; and a third, that I am no less a personage than the President of the Noctes! At last the whole mighty truth will be revealed, and an agitated world be calmed by the appearance of my name in the title-page of my fourth historical romance. From that eventful period I shall become the leading lion of the day. My best witticisms will be repeated at every table, and, under the head of Meredith's last,' circulated in every journal; my likeness, taken by an eminent artist, will be exhibited in my publisher's shop-window; great booksellers will contend for the honour of my patronage; invitations to dinners, balls, and conversaziones, will pour in hour by hour throughout the

season; when I enter a drawing-room, a whisper will go round, especially among the ladies, of There he is!What a dear creature!-How interesting he looks!'-and at length the general enthusiasm will reach such a height, that, one night, as I am in the act of quitting a crowded conversazione, one of the most ardent of my male admirers, anxious to possess some memorial of me, will walk off with my best hat and cloak, just as a similar literary enthusiast absconded last autumn with Christopher North's celebrated sporting jacket.

"And what will be the result of all this enviable notoriety? Can I doubt?

No. The sunny future lies spread out before me like a map. A beautiful young girl of rank and fortune, fair as a water-lily, with a pale Grecian face, slender figure, remarkable for its symmetry, and foot so exquisitely and aristocratically small, as to be hardly visible, except through a microscope ;-this refined, graceful, and sylph-like creature, attracted by the blaze of my reputation, will seize the favourable opportunity of my being invited to a ball at her father's house, to transfer her affections, from the author to the man! The consequences may be anticipated. I shall reciprocate her feelings; sigh whenever she approaches, throwing a fine distraction into my eloquent dark eye; and, finally, one fine day, when there is no one in the drawing-room but herself, make a direct avowal of my love. Grateful creature! She just clasps her fairy hands-utters tremulously

Oh goodness gracious!'-and then sinks into a consenting swoon on my bosom. But, alas! the course of true love never did run smooth. The lady's stony-hearted parents insist on her marrying a squat viscount of sixty. She refuses: whereupon I press my suit, and, driven to desperation, propose an instantaneous elopement. An elopement! Delicious sound in the ears of romantic youth and beauty! Can Leonora resist its magie? No!

"Accordingly, one morning in the appropriate month of May, when the streets are still and solitary, and the venerable parents of my idolized Leonora are comfortably snoring back to back in bed, I meet her by appointment at the corner of the square where she resides-pop her into a hackney-coach, rattle away to Highgate, and there transfer her to a post-chaise and four,