Having lost his sweetheart a second time, our adventurer is in despair. But despair, or indeed any thing else, is of little consequence to a hero. "It is true," says Paul, "I was sometimes melancholy; but melancholy with me is as the radiant sunlight, imparting a hue of gladness to every thing around!!" Being, therefore, in excellent spirits with his melancholy, Mr. Ulric determines upon writing a novel. The novel is written, printed, published, and puffed. Why not?--we have even seen "_Paul Ulric_" puffed. But let us hasten to the _dénouement_ of our tale. The hero receives a letter from his guardian angel, Dingy O'Dirty, who, it appears, is in England. He informs Mr. U. that Miss Florence is in London, for he (Dingy O'Dirty) has seen her. Hereupon our friend takes shipping for that city. Of course he is shipwrecked--and, of course, every soul on board perishes but himself. He, indeed, is a most fortunate young man. Some person pulls him on shore, and this person proves to be the very person he was going all the way to London to look for--it was Richard Florence himself. What is more to the purpose, Mr. F. has repented of promising Miss Emily to the fellow with the big whiskers. Every thing now happens precisely as it should. Miss E. is proved to be an heiress, and no daughter of Florence's after all. Our hero leads her to the altar. Matters come rapidly to a crisis. All the good characters are made excessively happy people, and all the bad characters die sudden deaths, and go, post haste, to the devil. Mr. Mattson is a very generous young man, and is not above patronizing a fellow-writer occasionally. Some person having sent him a MS. poem for perusal and an opinion, our author consigns the new candidate for fame to immortality at once, by heading a chapter in Paul Ulric with four entire lines from the MS., and appending the following note at the bottom of the page. From a MS. poem entitled "_Drusilla_," with which we have been politely favored for perusal. It is a delightful work, and shows the writer to be a man of {179} genius and reflection. We hope it will not be long before the lovers of poetry are favored with this production; it will win deserved celebrity for its author. And as a farther instance of disinterestedness, see this conversation between Mr. Mattson's hero, and a young lady in London who wrote for the annuals. "What do you think of D'Israeli's novels?"--asked she. "Excellent! Excellent!" I replied, "especially Vivian Grey: take for example the scene in the long gallery between Vivian, and Mrs. Felix Lorraine." "Admirable!"--returned the young lady, "but, by the way, how do you like Bulwer?" "Well enough," I answered. "Pray, Mr. Ulric, how many female writers of distinction have you in America? Honest old Blackwood tells us of but two or three." "And who are they?" "Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, and Mrs. Sigourney." "He should have added another--Miss Leslie."