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the Waverley man draws THE MAIL "through"-" from London to Edinburgh"-"twice a-week!"-He looks to his "way-bill"-takes care of his passengers, loses no parcels, and never drags" an inch of the road! He has got his four "big ones" "well in hand"-before him. His "five-andthirty hundred weight,"- "live and dead load," behind him. He gets his four "insides" up, and his three "out" -his "bags"-his "time-piece”spare whip, and six great coats. The horn blows-he handles the "ribbands"-lets go the traces: off they go, and he comes in, five hundred miles off, without cracking a splinter bar, sleeps his six hours, has his boots cleaned, and is ready to start again.

Piecemeal, perhaps, we might match the author of Waverley, but we cannot match him as a whole. He awakens an impatience in us as to the fate of his dramatis persona, from the very moment that we are introduced to them. He keeps us straining, and "craning," and tiptoeing, after his catastrophe, and trotting along, with our noses in the air, like the hackney coach-horses of Dublin, who are coaxed forward by a pole with hay upon it, pushed from the window of the carriage before them. We are always villainously inclined, before we have got a hundred pages into his book, to kill the goose at once, and get the eggs out of the last volume; and we are just now (as we observed before) put in excellent condition to admire the dexterity and facile conduct of this author, the adroitness with which he keeps constantly dragging his readers on, neck and heels, (sometimes, too, by the way, when they might be inclined to grumble a little, if he allowed them time to stop,) by the want of that same facility being the chiefest defect of the writer whose work lies before us for dissection.

"Percy Mallory, a novel, by the author of Pen Owen."-It's a pretty practice this, upon "the living subject;" and we are inventing (only it must be a great secret) an improved system of operative" surgery, by which we propose, shortly, to "cut up" authors in an entirely new way! In the meantime, however, we will open Monsieur Pen Owen, "from the systole, to the diastole."-So!-one cut across the abdomen, from right to left; another incision(transverse) about

Mr Percy becomes fidgety.

"Come, come,' he impatiently repeated more than once, of which Dr Drizzlethwaite seemed to take no note whateverhis attention being evidently pre-occupied in unbuttoning the overalls which had been the safeguard and protection of a pair of highly polished boots, now slowly disclosing themselves to view.

"Why-Dr Drizzlethwaite !'

"Sir,' responded the doctor, as he turned up his head sideways from discharging the last button at his heel.

"The patient.'

"True,' answered the imperturbable doctor, as he neatly folded up the leathern appurtenances, and turned them over the back of a chair. 666

Will you-will you go up stairs, sir?' demanded Percy, out of all patience with this son of Esculapius, although well acquainted with his habits, which might as they had often done-afford food for a passing joke but were insufferable in a moment of real agitation and anxiety.

"I will, Mr Percy-but first,' pulling down his shirt sleeves, and adjusting the buckle of his stock, the case ?'

•

"The case-why didst not say so before?' slowly demanded he, as he deliberately raised himself from the chair-when, turning somewhat more abruptly towards the window, as Percy had taken the lead towards the door, he quietly opened the casement, and calling to a boy who held his horse- Walk the mare-walk the mare-gently, chum-there-don't let her stand still.'

"He followed slowly up the narrow staircase, and Percy retreated to the lower apartment."

Dr Drizzle finds it expedient "to bleed." Meanwhile, our hero frets up and down the cottage kitchen; and at last knocks the doctor's overalls into the fire.

At length the landlady descends, and is going towards the house-door.

"Percy caught her arm, and arrested her progress. Where are you going? What, in the name of Heaven, do you want ?'

"The doctor's horse, sweetheart.' "Psha! the doctor can't have his horse yet. How is the young lady? how has she borne?

"Here the doctor's long well-polished boots appeared on the upper part of the staircase, and gradually brought after them the rest of his long gaunt figure, bent nearly double, in order to bear him harmless from its shelving roof and contracted walls."

Percy assists him, and (of course) nearly breaks his neck.

"How now, master Percy ?' cried he, rather more rapidly than was his wont.

"A thousand pardons, my good doctor; but how is the lady? how has she borne the operation? how is she affected? any fracture? any-'

Can't answer ten questions at a

time.'

"Nay, nay then, how is she? is she in danger ?'

"It is impossible to say.'

"Have you then doubts ?' "Never come to hasty conclusionswhere's my horse, good woman?'

"Why, you-you wouldn't leave me in this state?'

་

"Why, what ails thee?' instinctively advancing his hand to feel his pulse.

"Will you not tell me how the suffering angel is ?'

"No acquaintance with angels.' "Your patient above stairs, then?' "I have said

"Will she die ?'

"Perhaps not.'

"Only perhaps? Good God! doctor, do you really think there is a chance ?' "There is always a chance.' "And only a chance!' "What wouldst have?'

"A certainty-a hope at least-nay, do not trifle with me.'

"I-I trifle, Mr Percy!' cried the doctor, with something like an air of sur prise.

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“• Psha! I mean-do you think-do you think she is in immediate danger ?' "Not exactly.'

"Then, why did you not say so before?' asked Percy, peevishly.

"Because you didn't put the question.' "Did I not ask whether she was in danger? Did I not inquire her state?

her

“And why ?'

"Because I wish to be informed.' "Wish-wish to burn my spatter

dashes!'

“I'll give you a dozen new pair.' "Hold the stirrup, man, there.' "Will you, or will you not tell me?" fiercely demanded Percy, seizing the bridle, as the doctor seated himself in the saddle. "If not?' coolly, asked the doctor. Then you are

"

"You have not done, sir; you shall not have done; I will not have my authority disputed in my own house; your mother, there, never disputes.'

"Never, my dear.'

"I'm sure, sir,' said Percy,' I never did."

"Because I couldn't suffer it, by Jove! nor will I suffer it now. Why don't you answer? are you dumb, or sulky, or -- ? Now, I dare swear, in your heart you are setting up your father as an oppressive, tyrannical, old

"Who, I, sir?'

"Yes, you, sir! deny it if you can ?' Percy has a conscience, and is silent.

"Deny it, deny it, sir, in so many words, if you can; I insist

Why, sir, indeed, I am sorry.' "No doubt, no doubt; for having such a cruel, overbearing, hard-hearted father; but, by Jove

"No, sir; but I cannot help thinking it hard that I should incur your anger for nothing but

"For nothing; and so, sir, to disobey your father's solemn injunctions, to leave the house merely because he enjoined you to stay in it; to exasperate a man, and that man your tender parent, whose life you know hangs by a thread, by a hair; with the gout flying about him and only waiting an opportunity to fix on some vital part, with lungs like a honeycomb ! By Jove, sir

"Indeed, sir, I knew no such thing.' "You did'nt; you haven't heard me declare it over and over again-the arthritica vaga-the

"Yes, sir,-but I remember your say. ing so from my cradle.'

"Oh! is it so, Mr Wise Acre ?You don't credit it ?-Your father's an old fool-a hypochondriac, as that blockhead Drizzlethwaite had the effrontery-and he alone to call me—a—.'

By Jove!-to be told by my own childmy own lawfully begotten son-that all my deadly symptoms are mere nervous affections!"

Percy ventures something about "nervous apprehensions." "Nerves! nerves!-out of my sight!

"Ring-ring again; do you wish me to go off in an apoplexy before your eyes— without aid-without- -Ring-twicetwice.' He was obeyed, and a stranger perhaps would have been surprised at seeing Mrs Rycott quietly resume her place, and her knotting-needle, as if nothing had occurred. But she was used to this sort of scene, and knew that the best remedy was near at hand!

•

"The devil's in you all, I believe,' exclaimed her husband, as he held both his hands to his head, in seeming apprehension of its bursting asunder. Why don't you run, sirrah, and bring the fellow here neck and crop? By Jove, you are all in a conspiracy against me.' Off ran Percy, happy in the opportunity of escaping. Will the scoundrel never come? Ring again, woman; ring till the spring break-I'll trounce the negligent puppy.— Ay, ay, its all over-I feel the effect of the bursting of that vessel.'