Far other aims his heart had learnt to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise;
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave, ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed, and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

The description of the good man's attendance on the sick, the children waiting in the path to receive his blessing, his genial smiles and kindly ways completes a picture of the Christian minister and his holy service that is not excelled even by Cowper. As his father probably sat for the village pastor, so Thomas Byrne sat for the school-master.

A man severe he was, and stern to view,

I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace,
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew:
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too:
Lands he could measure, times and tides presage,
And even the story went that he could gauge;
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill,
For e en though vanquish'd, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.

Space would fail us to point out all the beauties of this fine poem. There is, however, one other passage we must quote before we leave it a passage expressing a feeling that was strong in his heart from the day he left the shores of old Ireland, and which, in the toil and sorrow of London life, grew only intenser, but which, alas! was never to be gratified

In all my wanderings through this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my share-
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill;
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt and all I saw ;

And as a hare, whom hounds and horn pursue,
Pants to the place from which at first she flew,

I still had hopes, my long vexatious past,
Here to return-and die at home at last.

The 'Deserted Village' was published in 1770. Four years of toil and suffering yet lay before him. The gnawing uneasiness produced by his desperate circumstances wore down the fibre of his constitution, and allowed neither rest nor peace for his heart or brain. His want of economy, thoughtless liberality, and dissipated habits were sinking him deeper and deeper into debt, and rendering any escape but one impossible. Great as the load of his troubles was, yet he carried it all alone, not ever unbosoming himself to Johnson. Working like a slave on paltry compilations, spending a pleasant evening at the club, and stealing for a few days into the country, he produced nothing worthy of notice except 'The Retaliation.' One evening his friends at the club amused themselves by writing epitaphs on him, and in retaliation he began this poem-one of the finest and most characteristic of satires, and one of the truest also, because it does not forget fairness or indulgence in its deep cutting dissections of character'-but his work was done, and death struck the pen from his hand before he finished it. The immediate cause of his death was nervous fever, aggravated, no doubt, by an injudicious treatment he persisted in despite the disapproval of his medical attendants. One of them, perceiving that his pulse was in greater disorder than the fever would produce, asked him, 'Is your mind at peace?' To which he answered, "No, it is not.' These were the last words that he uttered, and on the 4th of April, 1774, the passers by saw the windows of his chambers shut, and knew that the gifted author of the Deserted Village' and the 'Vicar of Wakefield' was no more. He was privately buried in the Temple churchyard, and was followed to the grave, not by the wealthy and great alone, but by the widow, and the orphan, and the outcast, who felt that day that they had lost one of their truest friends. Shortly after a tablet was raised to his memory in Westminster Abbey, and as we stand and gaze upon it the words of Johnson rise to our lips: Goldy was wild, sir, very wild, but he is so no more.' Poor Goldy.

Goldsmith was impulsive, extravagant, and improvident. He never knew the value or use of money, and contracted an evil habit of getting into debt. He was greatly wanting in independence and forethought, but in a great measure his keen social instincts must bear the blame of this. He loved the human face divine, and coveted more its smiles than the wealth of the Indies. He had

that strong social craving which made companionship a necessity. He was perhaps, vain, but the stories told of his vanity by Boswell and others are simply ridiculous. His vanity rose from his conscious superiority to his appearance, often from the endeavour to hide his misery. When we scan his faults we must not forget his early circumstances and training, neither must we forget his fine qualities, his love of every living thing, his unfailing charity, his tenderness, his forgiving disposition, his frankness, his uncorrupted simplicity; and though we may not be able to subscribe fully to Crabbe's estimate, that—

Never nature left this world of sin

More like the infant that he entered in,

nevertheless, our judgment of him cannot but be kind. His genius was not, perhaps, of the highest order. He had more fancy than imagination, and deals more with the real than the ideal world. He had a fine style, a ready command of beautiful and expressive language, a musical ear, and a tender heart: and though rather loose in his own conduct, there is not a line in his works that would bring the blush to the cheek of the purest person. But the great secret of his power is his truthfulness to nature, His histories are now superseded, but in them are scattered some fine moral maxims. His fame rests upon his essays, poems and novels, and with confidence we may trust it to them. There are few books more read and enjoyed by the young and old, the rich and poor, the cultured and the uncultured, and few, if any authors in our tongue will live longer or be dearer to the English speaking people than the eccentric genius, Oliver Goldsmith. RORY.

ATOMICS.

IT may be difficult to conceive of God as a person, the idea of his being infinite rendering the difficulty all but insuperable; but it is not only easy, it is a very necessity of thought to infer that personality. If Metaphysic, with its endless distinctions and its chaotic confusions, affords us no help here, are we therefore to despair? By no means. Let Metaphysic go and never return, if it likes, so long as that greater personage, Common-sense, remains. 'Pure Reason' is a high-born and disdainful dame. Transcendental and impracticable, she is not to be at all approached by common mortals; her eyes waiting only upon the Shahs of the world of thought, splendent with grandeur, and near of kin to sun and moon. Nay, there is absolute danger in her strange witchery and hypocritical embraces. What did she do to Kant, for example, giant though he was? Why, she cut off his locks and sent him to grind at the mill of Universal Scepticism. And

there he would have grinded to the end had not that good Samaritan, 'Practical Reason,' come to his rescue. Now, if we ourselves are to be saved from the seductions of this Amazon of the 'Jack the Giant Killer' species, it must be done by the salutary and invaluable aid of reason-practical, logical, commonsensical. Do we desiderate the finding of a personal God? Then, this logical reason comes to our help and says, 'That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the spirit is spirit.' What does this mean? As a principle, it means that that which is born of a machine can only be mechanical; that that only which is born of a person can be a person. Hence, it is clear that man is not born of a machine, because he has a will. Hence, it is clear, that man is born of a person, because he is a person; that he is not altogether from matter, because he has somewhat of spirit. A plain, but most legitimate and satisfactory way of arriving at, at least, the personality of the inconceivable. Man has mind, he thinks; ergo, he comes from a power, that is, a spirit; that is, a thinking one. In a word, man is a person, therefore, God is a person. Really, what is called 'Pure Reason has so little affinity with man at present as to be more like ‘a jewel in a swine's snout' than anything else, when mixed up with his philosophizings! That which sees through a glass darkly, and knows but in part, cannot, one would suppose, have much of the 'pure' element of reason in it.

It is your half-informed man-whether in science, philosophy, or religion--who is the most dogmatic. The Newtons, and Lockes, and Butlers are always open to conviction.' Our head is too small to carry much of this great universe at present. One-sidedness seems to be bred in the bone of some men; for it is never out of their flesh. There are three things which those men should study; namely, themselves, astronomy, and the history of human opinion. 'Ghosts; a devil; a hell? Impossible! vociferates the philosophist. There may be, for aught I know to the contrary,' modestly affirms the philosopher. And, what can either philosophy or science know to the contrary?

BRIEF NOTICES OF BOOKS.

The Student's Handbook to Scripture Doctrines; Comprising an Analysis of Rev. James Garner's Theological Dissertations; A Summary of Christian Theology; and Illustrative Figures, Facts, and Incidents. London: F. H. Hurd, 4, Wine Office Court, Fleet-street.

THIS bulky volume is the joint production of the Revs. John Harrison and Henry Woodcock. Mr. Harrison writes the 'Analysis' and Mr. Woodcock the other two sections. As Mr. Harrison is a young and promising author, we somewhat regret he should have been persuaded to write the