a mansion ;"—and, I will venture to say, that the skeleton of the Irish giant, dressed in my habiliments, and its back turned, might be taken for my figure by my nearest acquaintance. You all remember, readers, what Lambert's figure was. I do, alas! at any rate!-The very instant I saw him, the notion struck me that I had become his second-self -his ditto-his palpable echo-his substantial shadowthat the observers laughed at our "double transformation," for he was become me at the same time that I was exhibiting as he then was-and, finally, that I was dying of excessive fat. The idea was like an electric shock, and in one moment I felt that the double identity was completed— that the metamorphosis of Salmacis and her lover was acted over again in the persons of myself and the fat man—that I, in short, was Lambert, and Lambert me I shot out of the exhibition room--rushed into the street-quitted the confines of the city-ran up towards Hampstead-hill-tried back again, and made off in the direction of the river, endeavouring in vain to shake off the horrid phantasm that had seized upon my mind. I darted along with lightning-speed ; my long legs seemed to fling themselves out spontaneously, as if they no more belonged to me than Mazurier's do to him, yet I fancied that I crept with the pace of a tortoise-that my fat totally prevented my quicker motion--that I should be crushed to death between the hedges, the turnpikes, or the carriages that passed me and thus I ran in the middle of the road, vociferating for assistance, fighting against the foul fiend, and followed by a crowd of draggletailed blackguards, till I reached the banks of the river, and saw myself reflected in the stream. Oh, Heavens! what a delightful sight was that! "Then like Narcissus But I must leave the quotation unfinished, and come at last to a full stop; for I fear I am trenching upon the privilegepoaching upon the preserve of some contemporary hypochondriac. If so, if any may have led the way in giving to the world, like me, their real unexaggerated confessions, I can only complain, with the modern poet who accused Shakspeare of forestalling his thoughts, that they, be they who they may, have very unhandsomely and plagiaristically anticipated my own original lucubrations. And now having fairly unbosomed my sins, if they are sins, I trust to receive from a grateful public, in whose interest alone have I compiled these sheets, the absolution which should always follow confession. Then, as is usual in these cases, having disgorged my over-loaded conscience, I may be allowed to return to my old courses-following in this the example of Cæsar, who, according to Cicero, post cœnam vomere volebat, ideoque largius edebat. Should any harsh hearer or rigorous reader be inclined to constrain the bowels of his compassion, and still deny me pardon, to him I beg to propose a question in the words of our immortal bard, which he may answer the first time we meet at dinner, "If little faults Shall not be wink'd at, how shall we stretch our eyes, [Should the authors of any of the Confessions alluded to in the preceding paper, discover it to be a parody upon some of them, I am sure they will good humouredly excuse it; and recollect that no imitation can be a more positive acknowledgment of the merits and popularity of a work, than the (would-be) gayety of a burlesque.] A SABBATH IN LONDON. AN Englishman who has passed seven consecutive years on the continent, might be fairly reckoned an eighth "sleeper." His eyes have been open, 'tis true, but he has been virtually visionless-a wonder-seeking somnambulist-cheated by a dream of splendour and variety, but unblessed by any "sober certainty of waking bliss," or actual reality of comfortable enjoyment. Comfort! how that word will come into the sentence in spite of me! It is hackneyed, worn-out, threadbare; I know it is. But what then? Must I discard it on that account? Must I not speak the truth, because it is a truism? Must I not bask in the sunshine because the sun has shone since the creation? Must I inly adore and idolize this word, but never utter it, like the Hebrew who closes his lips on the sacred syllables of the Cabala, uprising from his heart? It is in vain to think of baulking my fancy. I cannot write this paper without comfort being its staple, for I write it in the central sanctuary of happiness-in the penetralia of enjoyment-at home:-and with comfort and cleanliness for my Dii Penates, I freely grant to cavillers against common-place the right of laughing at me. The steamboat, like a great sea-monster winging its way through the waters, bore me across the Channel in three hours, and disgorged me and a hundred other passengers on the Quay of Dover, one Saturday afternoon in the month of September last. The weather was calm, the sea smooth, the sun clear. Every thing, in short, conspired around the shores of England to give the lie to those prattling impertinences which I had been latterly accustomed to, about eternal fogs, and clouds, and vapours. But on landing I was a electrically struck by observing the compact and diminutive look of every thing. I had been so long surrounded by extravagant and disproportioned combinations, that the thrill of pleasure on touching the solum natale was for a moment checked. I shrunk, like Mimosa, at the touch of morality, or, by a plainer and better illustration, like a snail into its shell. But when I got fairly within the comfortable contraction, I was much more at my ease, and I experienced relief as instantaneous as little Poucet must have enjoyed when he flung off the jack-boots of the Giant. I was at once reduced to my fitting scale and level, and an instant sufficed to make me appreciate the contrast of what I felt with what I had been feeling. I saw at a glance that all I had been so long accustomed to was unnatural and artificial; that the whole surface on which I had for years been floating, was swelled out beyond its due proportions; society puffed up, like the frog in the fable; bloated bubbles waiting only to be pricked to inake them burst; and men, so many political Titans, waging war against Nature, and buried under the elements they are unable to wield. These were rapid associations running down the chain of thought; yet all this, and much more, rushed on my mind, on looking at the short-set, small-windowed, narrow-doored, two-storied residences ranged on the Quay of Dover. Every thing which followed was qualified to strengthen this impression. The snug parlour in which I dined; the light carriage in which I placed myself to start for the metropolis ; the narrow roads, compact enclosures, neat gardens, and natty cottages, as we rattled out of the town, all made me understand that I was no longer in Brobdignag. The very boots of the postilion taught me a lesson of humility. It was evening when I quitted Dover. The sun was sinking behind the Kentish hills, throwing a rich glare on the hop-gardens a million times more lovely than the vineyards of Italy or France; and he was covered as he went down by a huge cloud, its edges fringed with his golden beams, and its broad shades throwing a solemnity on the effulgence of his descent. The full moon soon rose upon us, almost as bright as day; and with the beautiful country thus illuminated for me, and my heart penetrated with "a sacred and home-felt delight," I travelled the whole night without closing my eyes. At five o'clock in the morning, the carriage entered the yard of the Golden Cross. Every thing was still as we drove over Westminster-bridge and up Whitehall-no labourers of any kind to be seen. The repose seemed more than natural, but was not the less impressive on that account. It was quite unlike what I had remembered of a summer morning in London: but I believe it was the first Sunday morning I had been in the; streets so early. By ten o'clock I had got rid of the discomforts consequent on three nights' travelling-had given vent to my admiration of the comparative cleanliness of this inelegant inn with the state of the most magnificent foreign hotel-and had finished my breakfast of tea and French bread, as they call those rolls, which are, by the way, as like French bread, as some other necessaries of life, which the French call à l'Anglaise are like their originals. I then sallied out to pay several visits, where I hoped to make some fine experiments of the effects of a pleasant surprise. I proceeded towards Grosvenor-square, and stepping up to the door of an old chum of mine, I raised the brazen visage that served for a knocker, and struck a blow, strong and heavy, with that ponderous implement. The sound reverberated through the house, answered by the cheerless echoes of emptiness. A woman; however, came out into the area below, and cried shrilly, "What the devil d'ye make that noise for, d'ye hear? couldn't you ring the bell, eh? What d'ye want ?” Rough manners, thought I, but this is English independence, which levels ranks and soars above distinctions of sex. "Why, mistress, I want your master, by your leave." "Do you, indeed! an' you want him, e'en go and look him out near Norwich, d'ye hear?"-and muttering something, God knows what, but certainly nothing civil, she retired into the passage, and I lost her-perhaps for ever. I comprehended perfectly that my friend T. was down at his place in Norfolk, for the partridge-shooting; but I was sadly puzzled to know the meaning of his housekeeper's want of ceremony. I looked at myself right and left, saw that my coat was good, a watch in my fob, and various other indications of gentility, all as they should be; but my English readers will scarcely credit, that it was three hours afterward before sundry such receptions reminded me that a single knock at the door was an official announcement that the hand which struck it was plebeian; and that all ranks are now-a-days dressed so much alike, that the man who has |