He proceeds to tell us of his father who was born in Lower Saxony--who went, when only a year old, to England--who, being thrown upon the parish, was initiated into the mysteries of boot cleaning--who, at the age of ten, became a vender of newspapers in the city of London--at twelve sold potatoes in Covent Garden--at fifteen absconded from a soap-boiler in the Strand to whom he had been apprenticed--at eighteen sold old clothes--at twenty became the proprietor of a mock auction in Cheapside--at twenty-five was owner of a house in Regent Street, and had several thousand pounds in the Funds--and before thirty was created a Baronet, with the title of Sir John Augustus Frederick Geoffry Ulric, Bart., for merely picking up and carrying home his Majesty King George the Fourth, whom Mr. U. assures us upon his word and honor, his father found lying beastly drunk, one fine day, in some gutter, in some particular thoroughfare of London. Our hero himself was born, we are told, on the borders of the Thames, not far from Greenwich. When a well grown lad he accompanies his father to the continent. In Florence he falls in love with a Countess in her thirty-fifth year, who curls his hair and gives him sugar-plums. The issue of the adventure with the Countess is thus told. "You have chosen them with much taste," said the Countess; "a beautiful flower is this!" she continued, selecting one from among the number, "its vermillion is in your cheeks, its blue in your eyes, and for this pretty compliment I deserve a ---- you resist eh! My pretty, pretty lad, I _will!_ There! Another, and you may go free. Still perverse? Oh, you stubborn boy! How can you refuse? One--two--three! I shall _devour_ you with kisses!" * * * * * * * * * * We have printed the passage precisely as we find it in the book--notes of admiration--dashes--Italics--and all. Two rows of stars wind up the matter, and stand for the catastrophe--for we hear no more of the Countess. Now if any person over curious should demand why Morris Mattson, Esq. has mistaken notes of admiration for sense--dashes, kisses, stars and Italics for sentiment--the answer is very simple indeed. The author of Vivian Grey made the same mistake before him. Indeed we have made up our minds to forward Ben D'Israeli a copy of Paul Ulric. He will read it, and if he do not expire upon the spot, it will do him more real service than the crutch. Never was there a more laughable burlesque of any man's manner. Had Mr. Mattson only _intended it_ as a burlesque we would have called him a clever fellow. But unfortunately this is not the case. No jackdaw was ever more soberly serious in fancying herself a peacock, than our author in thinking himself D'Israeli the second.