The dear boy is named Alfred. He has been baptised. His board for the first quarter accompanies this. The same sum will be punctually remitted to you every three months. Take the child. We commend him to the tenderness of your daughter Jenny.'

When I had read the letter, Polly leaped with joy, and cried, 'There's the bishop's mitre!' Bountiful Heaven! how rich had we suddenly become ! We read the letter a dozen times. We did not trust our eyes to look at the gold upon the table. What a New-Year's present! From my heaviest cares for the future was I thus suddenly relieved, But in what a strange and mysterious way! In vain did I think over all the people I knew, in order to discover who might be who had been forced by birth or rank to conceal the existence of their child, or who were able to make such a liberal compensation for a simple service of Christian charity. I tasked my recollection, but I could think of no And yet it was evident that these parents were well acquainted with me and mine. Wonderful are the ways of Providence!

one.

Jan. 2.-Fortune is heaping her favours upon me. This morning I again received a packet of money, £12, by the post, with a letter from Mr Fleetman. It is too much. For a shilling he returns me a pound. Things must have gone well with him; he says as much. I cannot, alas! thank him, for he has forgotten to mention his address! God forbid I should be puffed up with my present riches. I hope now in time to pay off honestly my bond to Mr Withell.

When I told my daughters that I had received a letter from Mr Fleetman, there was a new occasion for joy. I do not exactly understand what the girls have to do with Mr Fleetman. Jenny grew very red, and Polly jumped up laughingly, and held up both her hands before Jenny's face, and Jenny behaved as if she was right vexed with the playful girl.

I read out Fleetman's letter; but I could scarcely do it, for the young man is an enthusiast. He writes many flattering things which I do not deserve; he exaggerates everything, even, indeed, when he speaks of the good Jenny. I pitied the poor girl while I read; I did not dare to look at her.

The passage, however, which relates to her is worthy of note. It runs thus:

'When, excellent sir, I went from your door, I felt as if I were quitting a father's roof for the bleak world. Ishall never forget you, never forget how happy I was with you. I see you now before me, in your rich poverty, in your Christian humility, in your patriarchal simplicity. And the lovely, fascinating Polly; and the-ah! for your Jenny I have no words! In what words shall one describe the heavenly loveliness by which everything earthly is transfigured? For ever shall I remember the moment when she gave me the twelve shillings, and the gentle tone of consolation in which she spoke to me. Wonder not that I have the twelve shillings still; I would not part with them for a thousand guineas. I shall soon, perhaps, explain everything to you personally. Never in my life have I been so happy or so miserable as I am now. Commend me to your sweet daughters, if they still bear me in remembrance.'

I conclude from these lines that he intends to come this way again. The prospect gives me plea

sure.

In his unbounded gratitude, the young man has perhaps sent me his all, because I once lent him half of my ready money. That grieves me. He seems to be a thoughtless youth, and yet he has an honest heart.

We have great delight in the little Alfred. The little thing laughed to-day upon Polly, as Jenny was holding him like a young mother in her arins. The girls are more handy with the little citizen of the world than I had anticipated. But it is a beautiful child. We have bought him a handsome cradle, and provided abundantly for all his little wants. The cradle stands at Jenny's bedside. She watches day and night, like a guardian spirit, over her tender charge.

Jan. 3-To-day, Mr Curate Thomson arrived with his young wife, and sent for me. I went to him immediately, at the inn. He is an agreeable man, and very polite. He informed me that he was appointed my successor in office; that he wished, if I had no objections, to enter immediately upon his duties; and that I might occupy the parsonage until Easter: he would in the meanwhile take up his abode in lodgings prepared for him at Alderman Fieldson's.

I replied that, if he pleased, I would resign my office to him immediately, as I should thus be more at liberty to look out for another situation. I desired only permission to preach a farewell sermon in the churches in which I had for so many years declared the Word of the Lord.

He then said that he would come in the afternoon to examine the state of the parsonage.

He has been here, with his wife and Alderman Fieldson. His lady was somewhat haughty, and appears to be of high birth, for there was nothing in the house that pleased her, and she hardly deigned to look at my daughters. When she saw the little Alfred in the cradle, she turned to Jenny, and asked whether she were already married. The good Jenny blushed up to her hair, and shook her little head by way of negative, and stammered out something. I had to come to the poor girl's assistance. My lady listened to my story with great curiosity, and drew up her mouth, and shrugged her shoulders. It was very disagreeable, but I said nothing. I invited them to take a cup of tea; but they declined. Mr Curate appeared to be very obedient to the slightest hint of the lady.

We were very glad when the visit was over.

Jan. 6-Mr Withell is an excellent man, to judge from his letter. He sympathises with me in regard to my unfortunate bond, and comforts me with the assurance, that I must not disquiet myself if I am not able to pay it for ten years, or ever. He appears to be well acquainted with my circumstances, for he alludes to them very cautiously. He considers me an honest man; that gratifies me most; he shall not find his confidence misplaced. I will go to Trowbridge as soon as I can, and pay Mr Withell Fleetman's £12 sterling, as an instalment of my monstrous debt.

Although Jenny insists that she sleeps soundly, that little Alfred is very quiet o' nights, and only wakes once, when she gives him a drink out of his little bottle, yet I feel anxious about the maiden. She is not so lively by far as formerly, although she seems to be much happier than when we were

every day troubled about our daily bread. Sometimes she sits with her needle, lost in a reverie, dreaming with open eyes, or her hands, once so active, lie sunk upon her lap. When she is spoken to, she starts, and has to bethink herself what was said. All this evidently comes from the interruption of her proper rest; but she will not hear a word of it. We cannot even persuade her to take a little nap in the daytime. She declares that she feels perfectly well.

I had no idea that she had so much vanity. Fleetman's praises have not displeased her. She has asked me for his letter, to read once more; and she has not yet returned it to me, but keeps it in her work-basket!

I don't care, for my part; the vain thing!

Jan. 8.-My farewell sermon was accompanied with the tears of most of my hearers. I see now at last that my parishioners love me. They have expressed their obligations on all hands, and loaded me with gifts. I never before had such an abundance of provisions in the house, so many dainties of all kinds, and so much wine. A hundredth part of my present plenty would have made me account myself over-fortunate in past days. We are really swimming in p'enty. But a goodly portion has already been disposed of. I know some poor families in C, and Jenny knows even more than I. The dear people share in our pleasures.

I was moved to the inmost by my sermon. With tears had I written it. It was a sketch of my whole past course, from my call and settlement. I am driven from the vineyard as an unprofitable servant, and yet I have not laboured as a hireling; many noble vines have I planted, many deadly weeds cut away. I am driven from the vineyard where I have watched, and taught, and warned, and comforted, and prayed. I have shrunk from no sickbed. I have strengthened the dying for the last conflict with holy hope. I have gone after sinners. I have not left the poor desolate. I have called back the lost to the way of life. Ah! all these souls that were knit to my soul are torn from me-why should not my heart bleed? But God's will be done!

Gladly would I now offer to take charge of the parish without salary, but my successor has the office. I have been used to poverty from my birth, and care has never forsaken me since I stepped out of my boy's shoes. I have enough for myself and my daughters in little Alfred's board. We shall be able, indeed, to lay up something. I would never again complain of wind and weather beating against my grey hairs, could I only continue to break the bread of life to my flock.

Be it so! I will not murmur. The tear which drops upon this page is no tear of discontent. I ask not for riches and good days, nor have I ever asked. But, Lord! Lord! drive not thy servant for ever from thy service, although his powers are small. Let me again enter thy vineyard, and with thy blessing win souls!

Jan. 13.-My journey to Trowbridge has turned out beyond all expectation. I arrived late, with weary feet, at the pleasant little old city, and could not rouse myself from sleep until late the next morning. After I had put on my clean clothes (I had not been so finely dressed since my wedding

day-the good Jenny shows a daughter's care for her father), I left the inn, and went to Mr Withell's. He lives in a splendid great house.

He received me somewhat coldly at first, but when I mentioned my name, he led me into his little office. Here I thanked him for his great goodness and consideration, told him how I happened to give the bond, and what hard fortunes had hitherto been mine. I then laid my £12 upon the table.

Mr Withell looked at me for awhile in silence, with a smile, and with some emotion. He then extended his hand, and shook mine, and said, 'I know all about you; I have informed myself particularly about your circumstances. You are an honest man; take your £12 back. I cannot find it in my heart to rob you of your New Year's present; rather let me add a pound to it, to remember me by.'

He arose, brought a paper from another room, opened it, and said, 'You know this bond and your signature? I give it to you and your children.' He tore the paper in two, and placed it in my hand.

I could find no words, I was so deeply moved. My eyes filled. He saw that I would thank him, but could not; and he said, 'Hush! hush! not a syllable, I pray you; this is the only thanks I desire of you. I would gladly have forgiven poor Brook the debt, had he only dealt frankly with me.' I don't know a more noble-hearted man than Mr Withell. He was too kind. He would have me relate to him much of my past history; he introduced me to his wife, and to the young gentleman his son'; he had my little bundle, containing my old clothes, brought from the inn, and kept me at his house. The entertainment was princely. The chamber in which I slept, the carpet, the bed, were so splendid and costly, that I hardly dared to make use of them.

The next day, Mr Withell sent me home in his own elegant carriage. I parted with my benefactor with a heart deeply moved, My children wept with me for joy when I showed them the bond. 'See,' said I, 'this light piece of paper was the heaviest burden of my life, and now it is generously cancelled. Pray for the life and prosperity of our deliverer!'

Jan. 16.-Yesterday was the most remarkable day of my life. We were sitting together in the forenoon; I was rocking the cradle, Polly was reading aloud, and Jenny was seated at the window with her needle, when she suddenly jumped up, and then fell back again, deadly pale, into her chair. We were all alarmed, and cried, What is the matter?' She forced a smile, and said, 'He is coming!'

The door opened, and in came Mr Fleetman in a beautiful travelling-cloak. We greeted him right heartily, and were truly glad to see him so unexpectedly, and, it appeared, in so much better circumstances than before. He embraced me, kissed Polly, and bowed to Jenny, who had not yet recovered from her agitation. Her pale looks did not escape him. He inquired anxiously about her health. Polly replied to his questions, and he then kissed Jenny's hand, as though he would beg her pardon for having occasioned her such an alarm. But there was nothing to be said about it, for the poor girl grew red again like a newly-blown rose. I called for cake and wine, to treat my guest and benefactor better than on former occasions; but he

declined, as he could not tarry long, and he had company at the inn. Yet, at Jenny's request, he sat down and took some wine with us,

As he had spoken of the company which had come with him, I supposed that it must be a company of comedians, and inquired whether they intended to stop and play in C, observing that the place was too poor. He laughed ont, and replied, 'Yes, we shall play a comedy, but altogether gratis.' Polly was beside herself with joy, for she had long wanted to see a play. She told Jenny, who had gone for the cake and wine. Polly inquired whether many actors had come with him. 'A gentleman and lady,' said he, but excellent players.'

Jenny appeared unusually serious. She cast a sad look at Fleetman, and asked, 'And you will you also appear?' This was said in that tone peculiarly soft, yet very penetrating, which I have seldom observed in her, and only upon rare occasions, and at most serious moments.

Poor Fleetman himself trembled at her tone, so like the voice of the angel of doom. He looked up to her with an earnest gaze, and appeared to struggle with himself for an answer, and then advancing towards her a step, he said, 'Miss, by my God and yours, you alone can decide that!'

Jenny dropped her eyes. He continued to speak. She answered. I could not comprehend what they were about. They spoke. Polly and I listened with the greatest attention, but we neither of us understood a word, or rather we heard words without any sense. And yet Fleetman and Jenny appeared not only to understand one another perfectly, but what struck me as very strange, Flectman was deeply moved by Jenny's answers, although they expressed the veriest trifles. At last Fleetman clasped his hands passionately to his breast, raised his eyes, streaming with tears, to heaven, and with an impressive appearance of emotion exclaimed, 'Then am I indeed unhappy!'

Polly could hold out no longer. With a comical vivacity, she looked from one to the other, and at last cried out, 'I do believe that you are beginning to play already!'

He pressed Polly's hand warmly, and said, 'Ah! that it were so!'

I put an end to the confusion by pouring out the wine. We drank to the welfare of our friend. Fleetman turned to Jenny and stammered out, 'Miss, in earnest, my welfare?' She laid her hand upon her heart, cast down her eyes, and drank.

Fleetman immediately became more composed. He went to the cradle, looked at the child, and when Polly and I had told him its history, he said to Polly, with a smile, 'Then you have not discovered that I sent you this New Year's present?'

We all exclaimed, in utter amazement, 'Who! you?' He then proceeded to relate what follows:'My name,' said he, 'is not Fleetman, I am Sir Cecil Fairford. My sister and myself have been kept out of our rightful property by my father's brother, who took advantage of certain ambiguous conditions in my father's will, and involved us in a long and embarrassing lawsuit. We have hitherto lived with difficulty upon the little property left us by our mother, who died early. My sister has suffered most from the tyranny of her uncle, who was her guardian, and who had destined her for the son of an intimate and powerful friend of his. But my sister, on the other hand, was secretly contracted to

the young Lord Sandom, whose father, then living, was opposed to their marriage. Without the knowledge either of my uncle or the old lord, they were secretly married. The little Alfred is their son. My sister, under the pretence of benefiting her health, and availing herself of sea-bathing, left the house of her guardian, and put herself under my protection. When the child was born, our great concern was to find a place for it, where it would have the tenderest care. I accidentally heard a touching account of the poverty and humanity of the parish minister of C, and I came hither to satisfy myself. The manner in which I was treated by you decided me. 'I have forgotten to mention that my sister never returned to her guardian; for about six months ago I won the suit against him, and entered into possession of my patrimony. My uncle instituted a new suit against me for withdrawing my sister from his charge; but the old Lord Sandom died suddenly a few days ago of apoplexy, and my brother-in-law has made his mariage public. So that the suit falls to the ground, and all cause for keeping the child's birth secret is removed. Its parents have now come with me to take the child away, and I have come to take away you and your family, if the proposal I make you shall be accepted.

'During the lawsuit in which I have been engaged, the living, which is in the gift of my family, has remained unoccupied. I have at my disposal this situation, which yields over £200 per annum. You, sir, have lost your place. I shall not be happy unless you come and reside near me and accept this living.'

1

God only knows how I was affected at these words. My eyes were blinded with tears of joy. I stretched out my hands to the man who came a messenger from Heaven. I fell upon my breast. Polly threw her arms around him with a cry of delight. Jenny thankfully kissed the baronet's hand. But he snatched it from her with visible agitation, and left us.

My happy children were still holding me in their embraces, and we were still mingling our tears and congratulations, when the baronet returned, bringing his brother-in-law, Lord Sandom, with his wife. The latter was an uncommonly beautiful young lady. Without saluting us, she ran to the cradle of her child. She knelt down over the little Alfred, kissed his cheeks, and wept freely with mingled pain and delight. Her lord raised her up, and had much trouble in composing her.

When she had recovered her composure, and apologised to us all for her behaviour, she thanked first me, and then Polly, in the most touching terms. Polly disowned all obligation, and pointed to Jenny, who had withdrawn to the window, and said, 'My sister there has been its mother!'

Lady Sandom approached Jenny, gazed at her long in silence, and with evidently delighted surprise, and then glanced at her brother with a smile, and folded Jenny in her arms. The dear Jenny, in her modesty, scarcely dared to look up. 'I ain your debtor,' said my lady, but the service you have rendered to a mother's heart it is impossible for me to repay. Become a sister to me, lovely Jenny; sisters can have no obligation between them.' they embraced each other, the baronet approached. 'There stands my poor brother,' said my lady; 'as you are now my sister, he may stand nearer to your heart, dear Jenny, may he not?'

As

Jenny blushed, and said, 'He is my father's benefactor.'

Will you not be,' replied the lady, 'the benefactress of my poor brother? Look kindly on him. If you only knew how he loves you!'

The baronet took Jenny's hand and kissed it, and said, as Jenny struggled to withdraw it, 'Miss, will you be unkind to me? I am unhappy without this hand.' Jenny, much disturbed, let her hand remain in his. The baronet then led my daughter to me, and begged me for my blessing.

'Jenny,' said I, 'it depends upon thee. Do we dream? Canst thou love him? Do thou decide.'

She then turned to the baronet, who stood before her, deeply agitated, and cast upon him a full, penetrating look, and then took his hand in both hers, pressed it to her breast, looked up to heaven, and softly whispered, 'God has decided.'

I blessed my son and my daughter. They embraced. There was a solemn silence. All eyes were wet. Suddenly Polly sprang up, laughing through her tears, and flung herself upon my neck, while she cried, 'There! we have it! The New Year's present! Bishop's mitres upon bishop's mitres!'

Little Alfred awoke.

It is in vain-I cannot describe this day. My happy heart is full, and I am continually interrupted.

Note. This very interesting story is a translation from one of Zschokke's narratives. It appeared originally in an American annual, and again, if we mistake not, in an American magazine. It has also been reprinted at least once on this side of the Atlantic. We give it a place in these columns, both on account of its intrinsic excellence, and some curious circumstances connected with the fragment of which it is an expansion. These circumstances well deserve analysis for British readers. possibly our correction of a false impression which has gained currency in the United States, concerning the origin of one of the greatest works in English literature, may meet with circulation there, to serve as an antidote.

And

Mr W. H. Furness of Philadelphia, the translator of the story, has recently published a collection of tales from the German. To the Journal of a Poor Vicar' he adds the following remarks:

'The author of the foregoing states, by way of preface, that the 'Vicar of Wakefield' appeared in 1772, and that Goldsmith possibly got the first idea of his novel from the British Magazine' of 1766, in which there appeared the diary, or rather a fragment of the 'Diary of a Poor Vicar of Wiltshire.' The British Magazine,' Zschokke says, asserts the genuineness of the fragment, and pronounces it simple fact. It is impossible, he adds, to prove its genuineness from other than internal evidence. The reader must take it upon trust. It is to be regretted that it is only a fragment. Perhaps, however, it gives us the most important events in the life of the good vicar.'

So far the German writer. We have been so fortunate as to fall in with a number of the Boston Chronicle' of 1766, in which the fragment above referred to was reprinted. We subjoin it here as a curiosity, and that our readers may see how happily the original has been re-modelled and enlarged by the German novelist. Is it not possible that Goldsmith himself wrote this fragment, and that we have here the germ of the Vicar of Wakefield?' Goldsmith wrote for the periodicals of his day.

THE JOURNAL OF A WILTSHIRE CURATE. Monday.-Received ten pounds from my rector, being one half-year's salary-obliged to wait a long time before my admittance to the Doctor, and even when admitted, was never once asked to sit down

or refresh myself, though I had walked eleven miles.-Item, the Doctor hinted that he could have the curacy filled for fifteen pounds a-year.

Tuesday.-Paid nine pounds to seven different people; but could not buy the second-hand pair of black breeches offered me as a great bargain by Cabbage the tailor, my wife wanting a petticoat above all things, and neither Betsey nor Polly having a shoe to go to church.

Wednesday.-My wife bought a petticoat for herself, and shoes for her two daughters, but unluckily coming home, dropped half-a-guinea, through a hole, which she had never before perceived in her pocket, and reduced all our cash in the world to a halfcrown.-Item, chid my poor woman for being afflicted at the misfortune, and tenderly advised her to depend upon the goodness of God.

Thursday.-Received a note from the alehouse at the top of the hill, informing me that a gentleman begged to speak to me on pressing business: went and found it was an unfortunate member of a strolling company of players, who was pledged for sevenpence-halfpenny: in a struggle what to do. The baker, though we had paid him but on Tuesday, quarrelled with us, to avoid giving any credit in future; and George Greasy, the butcher, sent us word that he heard it whispered how the rector intended to take a curate who would do the parish duty at an inferior price; and therefore, though he would do anything to serve me, advised me to deal with Peter Paunch, at the upper end of the town. Mortifying reflections these! but a want of humanity is, in my opinion, a want of justice.-The Father of the universe lends his blessings to us with a view that we shou'd relieve, a brother in distress, and we consequently do no more than pay a debt, when we perform an act of benevolence. Paid the stranger's reckoning out of the shilling in my pocket, and gave him the remainder of the money to prosecute his journey.

Friday.-A very scanty dinner, and pretended therefore to be il, that by avoiding to eat, I might leave something like enough for my poor wife and the children. I told my wife what I had done with the shilling; the excellent creature, instead of blaming me for the action, blessed the goodness of my heart, and burst into tears.-Mem., Never to contradict her as long as I live-for the mind that can argue like hers, though it may deviate from the more rigid sentiments of prudence, is even amiable for its indiscretion; and in every lapse from the severity of œconomy, performs an act of virtue, superior to the value of a kingdom.

Saturday.--Wrote a sermon, which on

Sunday I preached at four different parishchurches, and came home excessively wearied and excessively hungry; no more money than twopence halfpenny in the house; but see the goodness of God! the strolling player whom I had relieved, was a man of fortune, who accidentally heard that I was as humane as I was indigent, and from a generous excentricity of temper, wanted to do me an essential piece of service: I had not been an hour at home, when he came in, and declaring himself my friend, put a fifty-pound note into my hand, and the next day presented me with a living of three hundred pounds a-year. British Magazine,' vol. vii., pp. 623-4.

We are somewhat sorry to demolish the structure reared by the author of the 'Poor Vicar' and his translator; but a rigorous attention to facts, although it leaves open the speculation as to the possibility of Goldsmith being the author of the fragment in question, entirely sweeps away their dates, and part of their hypothesis.

In the first place, the 'Vicar of Wakefield' did not originally appear in 1772, but in 1766, and we have good grounds for believing with Mr Forster, that so early as 1762, whilst Goldsmith was engaged with Newbery, he was at work upon it. Mr Forster (Life and Times,' vol. i., p. 438) remarks, 'My opinion on this point is strengthened by a communication of Doctor Farr's to Percy. The doctor,

mentioning some instances of haste or carelessness in the Vicar,' was told by Goldsmith that it was not from want of time they had not been corrected (as Newbery kept it by him in manuscript for two years before he published), but for another reason. "He gave me" (I think he said) "£60 for the copy, and had I made it ever so perfect or correct, I should not have had a shilling more."'-'Percy Memoir,'

Secondly, we find that the Journal of a Wiltshire Curate,' which the Boston Chronicle' of 1766 copied from the 'British Magazine,' was published in that serial (British Magazine,' vol. vii., pp. 623-4, 1766) as a simple article, without note or comment on the part of the editor-no voucher being given for its authenticity. The 'British Magazine,' in short, does not, so far as we have been able to discover, 'assert the genuineness of the fragment,' does not pronounce it 'simple fact,' says not one word about it. Further, at page 177 of the same volume (the April number of the 'Bitish Magazine),' there is a notice of the 'Vicar of Wakefield,' a tale supposed to be written by himself,' commencing, 'In an advertisement prefixed to these volumes, signed by the ingenious Dr Goldsmith, the editor of them,' &c. A digest of the work is given, and a quotation from the history of a 'Philosophic Vagabond.'

The Vicar of Wakefield' (which had been announced in the 'St James' Chronicle' in March) is thus made known to the public by the 'British Magazine' in April, 1766, the 'Wiltshire Curate' in November, 1766.

Zschokke is therefore wrong in supposing that Goldsmith was indebted to the British Magazine' for the idea of his novel; and we are at a loss to understand how the authority of that print has been quoted in assertion of 'the genuineness of the fragment.' But we are disposed to inquire from internal evidence how far the incidents in the 'Journal of a Wiltshire Curate' may be true? whether this is one of those contributions of Goldsmith's which were not collected? and whether it is possible we have here the germ of the Vicar of Wakefield?'

For the sake of these considerations, we have printed the Journal' (see ante) exactly as it appeared in the 'British Magazine;' the Boston reprint, although essentially the same, differed in punctuation, and other minor respects.

Goldsmith wrote many things in the 'British Magazine' which he never acknowledged, and which now can only be guessed at, since Percy and Malone have not enlightened us. The Journal' may or may not be genuine; it may or may not have been from his pen: but that little narrative, with its truthful air, touching simplicity, and Christian lesson, bears, in our opinion, strong marks of the great author. It seems quite as likely (supposing that it is not by an imitator, and that Goldsmith himself published it as an after-thought) to have been suggestive of the 'Vicar,' as the tale entit'ed the 'History of Miss Stanton,' which Mr Prior attributes to Oliver, and regards as the first draught of our English classic.

It may be added, that neither Mr Peter Cunningham nor Mr Pior, in their editions of the 'Miscellaneous Works,' notice the 'Journal,' and no biographer seems to have alluded to this fragment.

As a pleasant pendant to the dry dates, we close our note with a bit of Mr Forster's chapter ('Life and Times,' vol. i.) upon Smollett, Goldsm th, and the associations of that 'British Magazine,' about which we have been discoursing:

'The first of January, 1760, saw the first venture launched. It was published for sixpence, "embellished with curious copperplates," and entitled the British Magazine, or Monthly Repository for Gentlemen and Ladies. By T. Smollett, M.D., and others.' It was dedicated with much fervour to Mr Pitt; and Mr Pitt's interest (greatly to the spleen of Horace Walpole, who thinks the matter worthy of mention in his Memoirs of George the Second') enabled Smollett to put it forth with a royal license, granted in consideration of the fact that Doctor Smollett had "represented to his VOL. XXIII.

Majesty that he has been at great labour and expense in writing original pieces himself, and engaging other gentlemen to write original pieces," The doctor, in truth, had but lately left the," Bench," at the close of that three months' imprisonment for libel into which his spirited avowal of the authorship of a criticism on Admiral Knowles had betrayed him; and the king's patronage had probably been sought as a counterpoise to the king's prison. But the punishment had not been without its uses. In the nature of Smollett, to the last, there were not a few of the heedless impulses of boyhood; and from this three months' steady gaze on the sadder side of things, he seems to have turned with tempered and gentler thoughts. In the first number of the 'British Magazine' was the opening of the tale which contained his most feminine heroine (Aurelia Darnel), and the most amiable and gentlemanly of his heroes (Sir Launcelot Greaves); for, though Sir Launcelot is mad, wise thoughts have made him so; and in the hope to "remedy evils which the law cannot reach, to detect fraud and treason, to abase insolence, to mortify pride, to discourage slander, to disgrace immodesty, and to stigmatise in ratitude," he stumbles through his odd adventur. s. There is a p'easure in connecting this alliance of Smollett and Goldsmith with the first approach of our great humorist to th t milder humanity and more genial wisdom which shed its mellow rays on Matthew Bramble.

'Nor were the services engaged from Oliver unworthy of his friend's Sir Launcelot. Side by side with the kindly enthusiast, appeared some of the most agreeable of the Essays,' which were afterwards re-published with their writer's name; and many which were never connected with it, until halfa-century after the writer's death. Here Mr Rigmarole fell into that Boar's Head reverie in Eastcheap, since so many times dreamt over, and so full of kindly rebuke to undiscriminating praisers of the past. Here the shabby man in St James's Park (Goldsmith, like Justice Woodcock, loved a vagabond) recounted his strolling adventures, with a vivacity undisturbed by poverty; and, with his Merry-Andrew, Bajazet, and Wildair, laughed at Garrick in his glory. Here journey was made to the Fountain in whose waters sense and genius ming'ed, and by whose side the traveller found Johnson and Gray (a pity it did not prove so!) giving and receiving fame. And here, above all, the poor, hearty, wooden-legged beggar, first charmed the world with a philosophy of content and cheerfulness which no misfortune could subdue. This was he who had lost his leg and the use of his hand, and had a wound in his breast which was troublesome, and was obliged to beg, but with these exceptions blessed his stars for knowing no reason to complain: some had lost both legs and an eye, but thank Heaven it was not so bad with him. This was he who remarked, that people might say this and that of being in jail, but when he was found guilty of being poor, and was sent to Newgate, he found it as agreeable a place as ever he was in, in all his life: who fought the French in six pitched battles, and verily believed that, but for some good reason or other, his captain would have given him promotion, and made him a corporal: who was beaten cruelly by a boatswain, but the boatswain did it without considering what he was about who slept on a bed of boards in a French prison, but with a warm blanket ab ut him, because, as he remarked, he always loved to lie well: and to whom, when he came to sum up and balance his life's adventures, it occurred that, had he had the good fortune to have lost his leg and the use of his hand on board a king's ship, and not a privateer, he should have had his sixpence a-week for the rest of his days; but that was not his chance: one man was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another with a wooden lade; "however, blessed be God, I enjoy good health." This was as wise philosophy as Candide's, at which Europe was then laughing heartily; and it is worth mention, that from the countrymen of Voltaire this little essay should first have derived

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