theatres—­one Inez de Castro, which has been poetized in
        half-a-dozen forms of late, and is even in the Amulet
        before us:  the subject and title of the second tragedy is
        Otho:  both will probably be of a melo-dramatic cast, which
        founded the success of Rienzi.  If it should be so, the fault
        will not rest with the fair authoress, the managers, or admirers
        of the pure drama; we need not add where the blame lies.

“Can any one tell me of a house to be let hereabouts?” asked I, this afternoon, coming into the room, with an open letter in my hand, and an unusual animation of feeling and of manner.  “Our friends, the Camdens, want to live amongst us again, and have commissioned me to make inquiries for a residence.”

This announcement, as I expected, gave general delight; for Mr. Camden is the most excellent and most agreeable person under the sun, except his wife, who is even more amiable than her amiable husband:  to regain such neighbours was felt to be an universal benefit, more especially to us who were so happy as to call them friends.  My own interest in the house question was participated by all around me, and the usual enumeration of vacant mansions, and the several objections to each (for where ever was a vacant mansion without its objection?) began with zeal and rapidity.

“Cranley Hall,” said one.

“Too large!”

“Hinton Park?”

“Too much land.”

“The White House at Hannonby—­the Belvidere, as the late people called it?”

“What! is that flourishing establishment done up?  But Hannonby is too far off—­ten miles at least.”

“Queen’s Bridge Cottage?”

“Ay, that sweet place would have suited exactly, but it’s let.  The Browns took it only yesterday.”

“Sydenham Court?”

“That might have done too, but it’s not in the market.  The Smiths intend to stay.”

“Lanton Abbey?”

“Too low; grievously damp.”

By this time, however, we had arrived at the end of our list; nobody could remember another place to be let, or likely to be let, and confessing ourselves too fastidious, we went again over our catalogue raisonee with expectations much sobered, and objections much modified, and were beginning to find out that Cranley Hall was not so very large, nor Lanton Abbey so exceedingly damp, when one of our party exclaimed suddenly, “We never thought of Hatherden Hill! surely that is small enough and dry enough!” and it being immediately recollected that Hatherden was only a mile off, we lost sight of all faults in this great recommendation, and wrote immediately to the lawyer who had the charge of letting the place, whilst I myself and my most efficient assistant, sallied forth to survey it on the instant.