MY DEAR NORTH, Is the proposal you have of late so earnestly and frequently urged on me, that I should shape and parcel out my military recollections into articles for your Magazine, I really am at a loss to recognize, either that felicity of tact, or soundness of judgment, by which you are usually distinguished. I remember in 1816, when our acquaintance first commenced, (it was at Gibraltar, on your return from the Levant,) that certain moving narrations of the accidents I had encountered by flood and field, did occasionally contribute, along with the Malaga and cigars, to relieve the monotony of the evenings in my barrack-room, when you condescended to become its guest. You were then obligingly tolerant of the poorness of your cheer, both mental and physical, at least politely quiescent when I assumed the dreaded, though acknowledged privilege of an old soldier, and

"Fought all my battles o'er again,

And thrice I slew the slain." You did more than this. You strongly recommended me to compend a regular and consecutive narrative of the more striking portions of my military career, from the confused chaos of maVOL. XIX.

terials I had laid before and asyou, sured me of your conviction, that the strong interest they had excited in you would not be unparticipated by the public.

My own indolence, and other causes not now necessary to notice, prevented my then following your advice. I did not write a book, though the time was certainly favourable for such an undertaking. The excitement produced by the war, and its glorious termination, had not yet passed away; Waterloo still rung in every ear; the allies were yet in Paris; Napoleon was scarcely chained to his rock; the voice of the reading public was for war— war not merely in the pride, pomp, and circumstance with which it is invested by the historian, but in those humbler aspects, and more minute details, which those alone who were themselves actors in the scene can supply. In these circumstances, the booksellers set at work their potent spells to evoke military spirits from the vasty deep. And who answered to the call? Why, James Simpson, and a few other tourists of equal calibre and capacity for the task. The Farce of Simpson & Co., however was played with success, and had a run. And such was then the indiscriminate

A

voracity of the public, that works of this contemptible description were not only generally read, but, what is more important, generally sold, and, in the absence of all military writers of competent power and knowledge, succeeded to an extensive though short-lived popularity. But those times have passed away. This blind and inordinate craving of the public appetite has been followed, as might have been expected, by a surfeit. Simpson's Commentaries "De Bello Gallico" have been subjected to the Casarian operation, and gutted for the trunk-makers. Works of a higher and better character have already been supplied. Lord Burghersh has published his Campaigns; the author of "Recollections of the Peninsula,"* clad in his bright and glittering panoply, has started into the field; and your own Subaltern," approaching his task with the grace and brightness of a scholar and a gentleman, has exceedingly

"Graced his cause

In speaking of himselfWhat is it then you require of me? I appeal to your cooler judgment, if it would be wise and prudent in me to follow in the wake of writers like these, to try a passage at arms with champions who have already shown such skill and address in the management of their weapons. It really does appear to me quite hopeless to expect that scenes which have already been delineated by the hand of a master should acquire any new interest from a few additional sketches from a dauber like myself.

But, in truth, my good North, however well they may be executed, the taste for such subjects is now considerably on the wane. No writer at this time of day can expect in his readers a sensitive participation in the perils of an out-picket, nor induce them, by any cloqueuce, to cherish fervent aspirations for the escape of a foraging party. They will regard with

apathy the most moving narrative of the exploits of all regimental officers, and have even not the smallest wish for a nearer view of the vie privée of a brigade major. In vain may Captain Poker endeavour to stir up the blaze of sympathy for neglected merit; Major Tongs, were his exploits told by tongues far more eloquent than his own, would excite no admiration ; and to bestow a tear on the ashes of Lieutenant Fireshovel will still, I fear, be beneath the great. (This pun deserves a kick. It trickled involuntarily from my pen; but

"Even in our ashes live our wonted fires," and I fear I shall die a punster.) The public are unreasonable, and I will not consent to bear in mind that a cornet is in posse chrysalis of a FieldMarshal. They are indifferent about the progress of a career which ends in a veteran battalion, or like my own, in a half-pay majority. They will not brood over an ensign in the egg, nor follow him with breathless eagerness through all the perils of his chickenhood, even should he end in the wellfledged Governor of a Sugar island, or a member of the Clothing board. All this, I say, the public will not do, and I think you would do well to direct your efforts and attention to the supply of more marketable commodities than any you can expect from me. What I have already said, however, is matter for your consideration, not for mine. If you choose to fob your readers off with dull refacciamentos, and your readers prosper on such spare diet, I really do not see why I should give myself any concern about the matter. By failing in the attempt, I, at least, lose nothing. I have no literary character to be jeoparded in the trial; I am a man who trades without capital, whom no reverse of fortune can make worse than he was originally-a beggar. But even this chance I shall avoid. By you only can I be known as a being of thewes and sinews, a real