Volume One--Chapter One.

And what is this new book the whole world makes such a rout about?—Oh! ’tis out of all plumb, my lord,—quite an irregular thing; not one of the angles at the four corners was a right angle. I had my rule and compasses, my lord, in my pocket.—Excellent critic!

Grant me patience, just Heaven! Of all the cants which are canted in this canting world—though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst, the cant of criticism is the most tormenting! Sterne.

What authors in general may feel upon the subject I know not, but I have discovered, since I so rashly took up my pen, that there are three portions of a novel which are extremely difficult to arrange to the satisfaction of a fastidious public.

The first is the beginning, the second the middle, and the third is the end.

The painter who, in times of yore, exposed his canvass to universal criticism, and found to his mortification that there was not a particle of his composition which had not been pronounced defective by one pseudo-critic or another, did not receive severer castigation than I have experienced from the unsolicited remarks of “damned good-natured friends.”

“I like your first and second volume,” said a tall, long-chinned, short-sighted blue, dressed in yellow, peering into my face, as if her eyes were magnifying glasses, and she was obtaining the true focus of vision, “but you fall off in your last, which is all about that nasty line-of-battle ship.”

“I don’t like your plot, sir,” brawls out in a stentorian voice an elderly gentleman; “I don’t like your plot, sir,” repeated he with an air of authority, which he had long assumed, from supposing because people would not be at the trouble of contradicting his opinions, that they were incontrovertible—“there is nothing but death.”

“Death, my dear sir,” replied I, as if I was hailing the look-out man at the mast-head, and hoping to soften him with my intentional bull; “is not death, sir, a true picture of human life?”

“Ay, ay,” growled he, either not hearing or not taking; “it’s all very well, but—there’s too much killing in it.”

“In a novel, sir, killing’s no murder, you surely will admit; and you must also allow something for professional feeling—‘’Tis my occupation;’ and after five-and-twenty years of constant practice, whether I wield the sword or the pen, the force of habit—”

“It won’t do, sir,” interrupted he; “the public don’t like it. Otherwise,” continued this hyper-critic, softening a little, “some of the chapters are amusing, and on the whole, it may be said to be rather—that is—not unpleasantly written.”

“I like your first and third volume, but not your second,” squeaked out something intended to have been a woman, with shoulder-blades and collar-bones, as De Ville would say, most strongly developed.

“Well now, I don’t exactly agree with you, my dear Miss Pegoo; I think the second and third volumes are by far the most readable,” exclaimed another thing, perched upon a chair, with her feet dangling halfway between her seat and the carpet.

“If I might presume upon my long-standing in the service, Captain —,” said a pompous general officer,—whose back appeared to have been fished with the kitchen poker—“If I might venture to offer you advice,” continued he, leading me paternally by the arm a little on one side, “it would be, not again to attempt a defence of smuggling: I consider, sir, that as an officer in his Majesty’s service, you have strangely committed yourself.”

“It is not my defence, sir: they are the arguments of a smuggler.”

“You wrote the book, sir,” replied he, sharply; “I can assure you, that I should not be surprised if the Admiralty took notice of it.”

“Indeed, sir,” replied I, with assumed alarm.

I received no answer, except a most significant nod of the head, as he walked away.

But I have not yet arrived at the climax, which made me inclined to exclaim with the expiring Lion in the fable—

A midshipman—yes, reader, a midshipman—who had formerly belonged to my ship, and had trembled at my frown, ranged up alongside of me, and with a supercilious air, observed—

“I have read your book, and—there are one or two good things in it.”

Hear this, admirals and captains on half-pay! hear this, port-admirals and captains afloat! I have often heard that the service was deteriorating, going to the devil, but I never became a convert to the opinion before.

Gracious Heaven! what a revengeful feeling is there in the exclamation “O that mine adversary had written a book!” To be snarled at, and bow-wowed at, in this manner, by those who find fault, because their intellect is not sufficient to enable them to appreciate! Authors, take my resolution; which is, never to show your face until your work has passed through the ordeal of the Reviews.—Keep your room for the month after your literary labour. Reviews are like Jesuit father confessors—guiding the opinions of the multitude, who blindly follow the suggestions of those to whom they may have entrusted their literary consciences. If your work is denounced and damned, still you will be the gainer; for is it not better to be released at once from your sufferings, by one blow from the paw of a tiger, than to be worried piecemeal by creatures who have all the will, but not the power, to inflict the coup de grace?

The author of “Cloudesley,” enumerating the qualifications necessary to a writer of fiction, observes, “When he introduces his ideal personage to the public, he enters upon his task with a preconception of the qualities that belong to this being, the principle of his actions, and its necessary concomitants, etcetera, etcetera.” That such preparation ought to be made, I will not deny; but were I to attempt an adherence to these rules, the public would never be troubled with any production of mine. It would be too tedious a journey in prospective for my wayward intellect; and if I calculated stages before I ordered my horses, I should abandon the attempt, and remain quietly at home. Mine is not a journey of that methodical description; on the contrary, it is a ramble hand-in-hand with Fancy, with a light heart and a lighter baggage; for my whole wallet, when I set off, contains but one single idea—but ideas are hermaphrodite, and these creatures of the brain are most prolific. To speak more intelligibly, I never have made any arrangement of plot when I commenced a work of fiction, and often finish a chapter without having the slightest idea of what materials the ensuing one is to be constructed. At times I feel so tired that I throw down the pen in despair; but it is soon taken up again, and, like a pigmy Antaeus, it seems to have imbibed fresh vigour from its prostration.

I remember when the “King’s Own” was finished, I was as happy as a pedestrian who had accomplished his thousand miles in a thousand hours. My voluntary slavery was over, and I was emancipated. Where was I then? I recollect; within two days’ sail of the Lizard, returning home, after a six weeks’ cruise to discover a rock in the Atlantic, which never existed except in the terrified or intoxicated noddle of some master of a merchant vessel. It was about half-past five in the evening, and I was alone in my after-cabin, quite alone, as the captain of a man-of-war must be, even when in presence of his ship’s company. If being sent to sea has been pronounced by the officers and men to be transportation, being the captain of the ship may truly be designated as