ment is a union of sorrow with malignity: a combination of a passion which all endeavour to avoid, with a p. ssion which all concur to detest. The man who retires to meditate mischief, and to exasperate his own rage-whose thoughts are employed only on means of distress and contrivances of ruin-whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own sufferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of another-may justly be numbered among the most miserable of human beings, among those who are guilty without reward, who have neither the gladLess of prosperity nor the calm of innocence.

Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others, will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to what degree of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or how much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be extenuated by mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we cannot be certain how much more we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design the effects of accident; we may think the blow violent only be cause we have made ourselves delicate and tender; we are on every side in danger of error and of guilt, which we are certain to avoid only by speedy forgiveness.

From this pacific and harmless temper, thus propitious to others and ourselves, to domestic tranquillity and to social happiness, no man is withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insulted by his adversary, or despised by the world. It may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that all pride is abject and mean.' It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from consciousness of our attainments, but insensibility of

our wants.

Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. To be driven by external motives from the path which our own heart approves, to give way to anything but conviction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our choice or overpower our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own lives.

The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive is a constant and determinate pursuit of virtue without regard to present dangers or ad antages; a continual reference of every action to the divine will; a habitual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance only can obtain. But that pride which many, who presume to boast of generous sentiments, allow to regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in view than the approbation of men; of beings whose superiority we are under no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward; of beings who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or partially determine what they have never examined; and whose sentence is therefore of no weight, till it has received the ratification of our own conscience.

He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at the price of his innocence-he that can suffer the delight of such acclamations to withhold his attention from the commands of the universal sovereign-has little reason to congratulate himself upon the greatness of his mind; whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he must become despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with shame from the remembrance of his cowardice and folly.

Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required that he forgive. It is therefore superfluous to urge any other motive. On this great duty eternity is suspended; and to him that refuses to practice it, the throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the Saviour of the world has been born in vain.

A still finer specimen of Johnson's style is afforded in an essay on

Retirement from the World.

On him that appears to pass through things temporal with no other care than not to lose finally the things eternal, I look with such veneration as inclines me to approve his conduct in the whole, without a minute examination of its parts; yet could never forbear to wish, that while Vice is every day multiplying seducements, and stalking forth with more hardened effrontery, Virtue would not withdraw the in

fluence of her presence, or forbear to assert her natural dignity by open and undaunted perseverance in the right. Piety practised in solitude, like the flower that blooms in the desert, may give its fragrance to the winds of heaven, and delight those unbodied spirits that survey the works of God and the actions of men; but it bestows no assistance upon earthly beings, and, however free from taints of impurity, yet wants the sacred splendour of beneficence.

These sentences shew the stately artificial style of Johnson, which, when supported by elevated sentiment or pointed morality, as in the foregoing extracts, appears to great advantage, but is unsuited to ordinary topics of life and conversation. Hence, he shines more in his colloquial displays, as recorded by Boswell, where much of this extraneous pomp was left off, while all the point and vigour of his understanding, and his powers of wit and imagination, were retained. He is in fact, as Burke first remarked, a greater man in the pages of his biographer than in his own works. The intellectual gladiator of the club evinced a more powerful, ready, and various mind than he could embody in his deliberate writings in the closet. Goldsmith was directly the reverse: he could argue best, as he said, with the pen in his hand.

The Adventurer,' by Dr Hawkesworth, succeeded the 'Rambler,' and was published twice a week from 1752 to 1754. JOHN HAWKESWORTH (1715-1773) rose from being a watchmaker to considerable literary eminence by his talents and learning. He was employed to write the narrative of Captain Cook's discoveries in the Pacific Ocean, by which he realised a large sum of money, and he made an excellent translation of 'Telemachus.' With the aid of Dr. Johnson, Warton, and others, he carried on the 'Adventurer' with considerable success. It was more various than the 'Rambler'-more in the style of light reading. Hawkesworth, however, was an imitator of Johnson, and the conclusion of the Adventurer' has the Johnsonian swell and cast of imagination:

"The hour is hastening in which whatever praise or censure I have acquired by these compositions, if they are remembered at all, will be remembered with equal indifference, and the tenor of them only will afford me comfort. Time, who is impatient to date my last paper, will shortly moulder the hand that is now writing it in the dust, and still this breast that now throbs at the reflection: but let not this be read as something that relates only to another; for a few years only can divide the eye that is now reading from the hand that has written. This awful truth, however obvious, and however reiterated, is yet frequently forgotten; for surely, if we did not lose our remembrance, or at least our sensibility, that view would always predominate in our lives which alone can afford us comfort when we die.'

The 'World' was the next periodical of this class. It was edited by Dr. Moore, author of the tragedy of the Gamester,' and other works, and was distinguished by contributions from Horace Walpole, Lord Lyttleton, Soame Jenyns, and the Earl of Chesterfield. The 'World' has the merit of being very readable: its contents are more

lively than any of its predecessors, and it is a better picture of the times. It was published weekly, from January 1753 to December 1756, and reached a sale of 2500 a week.

Another weekly miscellany of the same kind, the 'Connoisseur,' was commenced by George Colman and Bonnel Thornton-two professed wits, who wrote in unison, so that, as they state, almost every single paper is the joint product of both' Cowper the poet contributed a few essays to the Connoisseur,' short but lively, and in that easy style which marks his correspondence. One of them is on the subject of Conversation,' and he afterwards extended it into an admirable poem. From another we give an extract which seems like a leaf from the note-book of Washington Irving:

The Country Church.

It is a difficult matter to decide which is looked upon as the greatest man in a country church-the parson or his clerk. The latter is most certainly held in higher veneration, when the former happens to be only a poor curate, who rides post every Sabbath from village to village, and mounts and disinounts at the church-door. The clerk's office is not only to tag the prayers with an amen, or usher in the sermon with a stave; but he is also the universal father to give away the brides, and the standing godfather to all the new-born bantlings. But in many places there is a still greater man belonging to the church than either the parson or clerk himself. The person I mean is the squire, who, like the king, may be styled head of the church in his own parish. If the benefice be in his own gift, the vicar is his creature, and of consequence entirely at his devotion; or if the care of the church be left to a curate, the Sunday fees of roast-beef and plum-pudding, and a liberty to shoot in the manor, will bring him as much under the squire's command as his dogs and horses. For this reason, the bell is often kept tolling and the people waiting in the churchyard an hour longer than the usual time; nor must the service begin till the squire has strutted up the aisle, and sealed himself in the great pew in the chancel. The length of the sermon is also measured by the will of the squire, as formerly by the hour-glass; and I know one parish where the preacher has always the complaisance to conclude his discourse, however abruptly, the minute that the squire gives the signal by rising up after his nap.

The Connoisseur' was in existence from January 1754 to September 1756.

In April 1758, Johnson-who thought there was 'no matter' in the 'Connoisseur,' and who had a very poor opinion of the World'— entered again into this arena of light literature, and commenced his Idler.' The example of his more mercurial predecessors had some effect on the moralist, for the Idler' is more gay and spirited than the Rambler.' It lived through 103 numbers, twelve of which were contributed by his friends Thomas Warton, Langton, and Sir Joshua Reynolds. The 'Idler' was the last experiment on the public taste in England of periodical essays published separately. In the 'Bee' (a miscellany which existed only through eight weekly numbers in 1759), the Busy Body,' the 'Lady's Magazine,' the Town and Country Magazine,' and other monthly miscellanies, essays were given along with other contributions.

·

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

The 'Citizen of the World,' by GOLDSMITH, was published in a collected shape in 1762, and his Essays' in 1765. The former were at first, as they appeared in Newbery's Public Ledger,' entitled 'Chinese Letters,' being written in the character of a Chinese philosopher giving his impressions of England and the English. As a light and genial satirist, a sportive yet tender and insinuating moralist, and as an observer of men and manners, we have no hesitation in placing Goldsmith far above Johnson. His chaste humour, poetical fancy, and admirable style, render these essays a mine of lively observation and pleasant satire, happy imagery, and pure English. The story of the Old Soldier, Beau Tibbs, the Reverie at the Boar's Head Tavern, and the Strolling Player, are in the finest vein of story-telling; while the Eastern apologue, Asem, an Eastern Tale, and Alcander and Septimius, are tinged with the light of true poetry and imagination. Where the author speaks of actual life, and the 'fashion of our estate,' we see the workings of experience and a finely meditative mind. The History of Animated Nature,' is imbued with the same graces of composition. Goldsmith was no naturalist, strictly speaking, but his descriptions are often vivid and beautiful, and his history is well calculated to awaken a love of nature and a study of its various phenomena. There is no exaggeration in the statement made by Johuson in his epitaph, that whatever Goldsmith touched he adorned.

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Beau Tibbs.

Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay company, and take every opportunity of thus dismissing the mind from duty. From this motive I am often found in the centre of a crowd; and wherever pleasure is to be sold, am always a purchaser. In these places, without being marked by any, I win in whatever goes forward, work my passious into a similitude of frivolous earnestness, shout as they shout, and condemn as they happen to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for a while below its natural standard, is qualified for stronger flights, as those first retire who would spring forward with greater vigour.

Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my friend and I lately went to gaze upon the company in one of the public walks near the city. Here we sauntered together for some time, either praising the beauty of such as were handsome, or the dresses of such as had nothing else to recommend them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for some time, when stopping on a sudden, my friend caught me by the elbow, and led me out of the public walk: I could perceive by the quickness of his pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that he was attempting to avoid somebody who followed; we now turned to the right, then to the left; as we went forward he still went faster, but in vain; the person whom he attempted to escape, hunted us through every doubling, and gained upon us each moment; so that at last, we fairly stood still, resolving to face what we could not avoid.

Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. My dear Drybone,' cries he, shaking my friend's hand, where have you been hiding this half-century? Positively I had fancied you were gone down to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the country.' During the reply. I had an opportunity of surveying the appearance of our new companion; his hat was pinched up with peculiar smartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp; round his neck he wore a broad black riband, and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass; his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword with a black hilt; and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were g. own yellow by long service. I was

50 much engaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter part of my friend's reply, in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of his clothes, and the bloom on his countenance. Pshaw, pshaw, Will,' cried the figure 'no more of that, if you love me; you know I hate flattery, on my soul I do; and yet to be sure, an intimacy with the great will improve one's appearance, and a course of venison will fatten; and yet, faith, I despise the great as much as you do; but there are a great many honest fellows among them, and we must not quarrel with one half because the other wants weeding. If they were all such as my Lord Muddler, one of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of their admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's; my lord was there. "Ned," says he to me, Ned," says he, "I'll hold gold to silver I can tell where you were poaching last night." "Poaching, my lord," said I. "faith, you have missed already; for I stayed at home and let the girls poach for me." That's my way; I take a fine woman as some animals do their prey; stand still, and swoop, they fall into my mouth'

"Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,' cried my companion, with looks of infinite pity. I hope your fortune is as much improved as your understanding in such company?' Improved!' replied the other, you shall know, but let it go no farther -a great secret-five hundred a year to begin with. My lord's word of honour for it-his lordship took me down in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a tete-a-tete dinner in the country; where we talked of nothing else.' 'I fancy you forget, sir,' cried I,you told us but this moment of your dining yesterday in town!' 'Did I say so?' replied he coony, to be sure, if I said so, it was so-dined in town; egad, now I do remember, I did dine in town, but I dined in the country too; for you must know, my boys, I cat two dinners. By the bye, I am grown nice in my eating. I'll tell you a pleasant affair about that. We were a select party of us to dine at Lady Grogram's, an affected piece, but let it go no further-a secret. Well there happened to be no assafoetida in the sauce to turkey, upon which, says I, "I'll hold a thousand guineas, and say done first, that"- -But dear Drybone, you are an honest creature, lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till-but hark 'e, ask me for it the next time we meet, as it may be twenty to one but I forget to pay you.

When he left us, our conversation naturally turned upo: so extraordinary a character. 'His very dress,' cries my friend, is not less extraordinary than his conduct. If you meet him this day you find him in rags; if the next, in embroidery. With those persons of distinction, of whom he talks so familiarly, he has scarcely a coffeehouse acquaintance. However. both for the interest of society, and perhaps for his own, Heaven has made him poor; and while all the world perceives his wants, he fancies them concealed from every eye. An agreeable companion, because he understands flattery, and all must be pleased with the first part of his conversation, though all are sure of its ending with a demand on their purse. While his youth countenances the levity of his conduct, he may thus earn a precarious subsistence; but when age comes on, the gravity of which is incompatible with buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken by all; condemned in the decline of life to hang upon some rich family whom he once despised, there to undergo all the ingenuity of studied contempt, to be employed only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear to fright the children into obedience. Adieu.

Beau Tibbs continued.

I am apt to fancy I have contracted a new acquaintance whom it will Le no easy matter to shake off. My little beau of yesterday overtook me again in one of the public walks, and slapping me on the shoulder saluted me with an air of the most perfect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, a pair of Temple spectacles, and his hat under his arm.

As I knew him to be a harmless, amusing little thing, I could not return his smiles with any degree of severity; so we walked forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular conversation.

The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began to appear; he bowed to several well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all the company, with much importance and assiduity. In