the brown holland, 'I can see it all; a vagabond soul; a soul wandering here and there, like a pauper without a settlement; a ragamuffin soul.' "Pugwash found confidence and breath. 'Was there ever such a joke?' he cried; 'know a man's soul by the linings of his breeches'pockets!' and Pugwash laughed, albeit uncomfortably. "Father Lotus looked at the man with philosophic compassion. Ha, my good friend!' he said, 'that all comes of your ignorance of moral anatomy.' "Well, but, Father Lotus,' "Peace,' said the wizard, and answer me. You'd have this soul of your's cured?' "If there's anything the matter with it,' answered Pugwash. Though not of any conceit I speak it, yet I think it as sweet and as healthy a soul as the souls of my neighbours. I never did wrong to anybody.' 666 How "God bless 'em, poor souls!' said Pugwash. 'It's a sad scramble some of 'em have, isn't it?' "Well,' said the conjurer, 'for a tradesman, your soul is in a wretched condition. ever, it is not so hopelessly bad that I may not yet make it profitable to you. I must cure it of its vagabond desires, and above all make it respectful of money. You will take this book.' Here Lotus took a little volume from a cupboard, and placed it in the hand of Pugwash. 'Lay it under your pillow every night for a week, and on the eighth morning let me see you.' 'Come, there's nothing easier than that,' said Pugwash, with a smile, and reverently putting the volume in his pocket-(the book was closed by metal clasps, curiously chased)— he descended the garret stairs of the conjurer. 666 "On the morning of the eighth day Pugwash again stood before Lotus. "How do you feel now?' asked the conjurer "I never denied credit to the hungry,' con- with a knowing look. tinued Pugwash. "I haven't opened the book-'tis just as I took "Fiddle-de-dee!' said the wizard very ner- it,' said Pugwash, making no further answer. vously. "I never laid out a penny in law upon a customer; I never refused small-beer to' "Silence!' cried Father Lotus; 'don't offend philosophy by thus bragging of your follies. You are in a perilous condition; still you may be saved. At this very moment, I much fear it, gangrene has touched your soul: nevertheless, I can separate the sound from the mortified parts, and start you new again as though your lips were first wet with mother's milk.' "Pugwash merely said-for the wizard began to awe him-'I'm very much obliged to you.' "Now,' said Lotus, answer a few questions, and then I'll proceed to the cure. What do you think of money?' "A very nice thing,' said Pugwash, 'though I can do with as little of it as most folks.' "Father Lotus shook his head. 'Well, and the world about you?' "A beautiful world,' said Pugwash; only the worst of it is, I can't leave the shop as often as I would to enjoy it. I'm shut in all day long, I may say, a prisoner to brick-dust, herrings, and bacon. Sometimes, when the sun shines, and the cobbler's lark over the way sings as if he'd split his pipe, why then, do you know, I do so long to get into the fields; I do hunger for a bit of grass like any cow.' "The wizard looked almost hopelessly on Pugwash. 'And that's your religion and business? Infidel of the counter! Saracen of the till! However patience,' said Lotus, 'and let us conclude.--And the men and women of the world, what do you think of them? "I know that,' said Lotus; 'the clasps be thanked for your ignorance.' Pugwash slightly coloured; for to say the truth, both he and his wife had vainly pulled and tugged, and fingered and coaxed the clasps, that they might look upon the necromantic page. 'Well, the book has worked,' said the conjurer, 'I have it.' "Have it! what?' asked Pugwash. "Your soul,' answered the sorcerer. In all my practice,' he added, gravely, 'I never had a soul come into my hands in worse condition.' "Impossible!' cried Pugwash. 'If my soul is, as you say, in your own hands, how is it that I'm alive? How is it that I can eat, drink, sleep, walk, talk, do everything, just like any body else?' "Ha!' said Lotus, 'that's a common mistake. Thousands and thousands would swear, ay, as they'd swear to their own noses, that they have their souls in their own possession; bless you,' and the conjurer laughed maliciously, 'it's a popular error. Their souls are altogether 666 "In good time,' said the conjurer; 'I'll bring it to your house, and put it in its proper lodging. In another week I'll bring it to you; 'twill then be strong enough to bear removal.' And what am I to do all the time without it?' asked Pugwash, in a tone of banter. 'Come,' said he, still jesting, if you really have my soul, what's it like-what's its colour; if indeed souls have colours?' "Green-green as a grasshopper, when it first came into my hands,' said the wizard; 'but 'tis changing daily. More; it was a skipping, chirping, giddy soul; 'tis every hour mending. In a week's time, I tell you, it will be fit for the business of the world.' "And pray, good father-for the matter has till now escaped me-what am I to pay you for this pain and trouble; for this precious care of my miserable soul?' "Nothing,' answered Lotus, 'nothing what ever. The work is too nice and precious to be paid for; I have a reward you dream not of for my labour. Think you that men's immortal souls are to be mended like iron pots, at tinker's price? Oh, no! they who meddle with souls go for higher wages.' "After further talk Pugwash departed, the conjurer promising to bring him home his soul at midnight, that night week. It seemed strange to Pugwash, as the time passed on, that he never seemed to miss his soul; that, in very truth, he went through the labours of the day with even better gravity than when his soul possessed him. And more; he began to feel himself more at home in his shop; the cobbler's lark over the way continued to sing, but awoke in Isaac's heart no thought of the fields: and then for flowers and plants, why, Isaac began to think such matters fitter the thoughts of children and foolish girls, than the attention of grown men, with the world before them. Even Mrs. Pugwash saw an alteration in her husband; and though to him she said nothing, she returned thanks to her own sagacity, that made him seek the conjurer. "At length the night arrived when Lotus had promised to bring home the soul of Pugwash. He sent his wife to bed, and sat with his eyes upon the Dutch clock, anxiously awaiting the conjurer. Twelve o'clock struck, and at the same moment Father Lotus smote the door-post of Isaac Pugwash. "Have you brought it?' asked Pugwash. "Or wherefore should I come?' said Lotus. 'Quick: show a light to the till, that your soul may find itself at home.' "How did it get there?' cried Pugwash in amazement. "Through the slit in the counter,' said the conjurer; and ere Pugwash could speak again, the conjurer had quitted the shop. "For some minutes Pugwash felt himself afraid to stir. For the first time in his life he felt himself ill at ease, left as he was with no other company save his own soul. He at length took heart, and went behind the counter that he might see if his soul was really in the till. With trembling hand he drew the coffer, and there, to his amazement, squatted like a tailor, upon a crown-piece, did Pugwash behold his own soul, which cried out to him in notes no louder than a cricket's- 'How are you? I am comfortable.' It was a strange yet pleasing sight to Pugwash, to behold what he felt to be his own soul embodied in a figure no bigger than the top joint of his thumb. There it was, a stark-naked thing with the precise features of Pugwash; albeit the complexion was of a yellower hue. The conjurer said it was green,' cried Pugwash; as I live, if that be my soul-and I begin to feel a strange, odd love for it-it is yellow as a guinea. Ha! ha! Pretty, precious, darling soul!' cried Pugwash, as the creature took up every piece of coin in the till, and rang it with such a look of rascally cunning, that sure I am Pugwash would in past times have hated the creature for the trick. But every day Pugwash became fonder and fonder of the creature in the till: it was to him such a counsellor, and such a blessing. Whenever the old flower-man came to the door, the soul of Pugwash from the till would bid him pack with his rubbish: if a poor woman-an old customer it might be begged for the credit of a loaf, the Spirit of the Till, calling through the slit in the counter, would command Pugwash to deny her. More: Pugwash never again took a bad shilling. No sooner did he throw the pocket-piece down upon the counter, than the voice from the till would denounce its worthlessness. And the soul of Pugwash never quitted the till. There it lived, feeding upon the colour of money, and capering, and rubbing "The till!' cried Pugwash; 'what the devil its small scoundrel hands in glee as the coin should my soul do in the till?' dropped-dropped in. In time, the soul of Pug "Speak not irreverently,' said the conjurer, wash grew too big for so small a habitation, and 'but show a light.' then Pugwash moved his soul into an iron "May I live for ever in darkness if I do!' box; and some time after, he sent his soul to cried Pugwash. "It is no matter,' said the conjurer: and then he cried, 'Soul, to your earthly dwellingplace! Seek it-you know it.' Then turning to Pugwash, Lotus said, 'It is all right. Your soul's in the till.' his banker's-the thing had waxed so big and strong on gold and silver." "And so," said we, "the man flourished, and the conjurer took no wages for all he did to the soul of Pugwash?" "Hear the end," said the Hermit. "For some time it was a growing pleasure to Pugwash to look at his soul, busy as it always was with the world-buying metals. At length he grew old, very old; and every day his soul grew uglier. Then he hated to look upon it; and then his soul would come to him, and grin its deformity at him. Pugwash died, almost rich as an Indian king; but he died, shrieking in his madness, to be saved from the terrors of his own soul." "And such the end," we said; "such the Tragedy of the Till? A strange romance." "Romance," said the Sage of Bellyfulle; "sir, 'tis a story true as life. For at this very moment how many thousands, blind and deaf to the sweet looks and voice of nature, live and die with their souls in a Till?" THE TRAVELLER; OR A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. [Oliver Goldsmith, born at Pallas, Leinster, Ireland, 10th November, 1728; died in London, 4th April, 1774. The pathetic and yet amusing narrative of his early years is well known; his wanderings at home and on the Continent, his misfortunes and final settlement in London, are familiar to most readers. Of his works there is only one opinion: his histories are full of errors in the statement of facts; but are models of English composition; his imaginative works-poems, comedies, and novels-are classics. Lately, The Traveller, like other important productions of his genius, we fear, has been more talked about than read, and therefore we reproduce it here. "The Traveller," wrote Sir S. Egerton Brydges, "is indeed a very finished and a very noble poem. The sentiments are always interesting, generally just, and often new; the imagery is elegant, picturesque, and occasionally sublime; the language is nervous, highly finished, and full of harmony."] Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Or press the bashful stranger to his food, But me, not destined such delights to share, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus Creation's charms aroun 1 combine, Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? Let school taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, But, where to find that happiest spot below, Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call; And though the rocky-crested summits frown, Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails; And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; us But let us try these truths with closer eyes, Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave: Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway, My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteor's glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Sees no contiguous palace rear its head Thus every good his native wilds impart, Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow: Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way, To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn; and France displays her bright domain. Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, And all are taught an avarice of praise; And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, |