of witticism from the newspapers for his want of judgment, and for the lugubrious opinions he had uttered respecting Goldsmith's production, that flight for a time into the country became necessary, in order to draw off the attention of the town. Goldsmith met with nothing but congratulations from his friends and from the majority of the critics. Dr. Johnson said, "I know of no comedy for many years that has so much exhilarated an audience; that has answered so much the great ends of comedy, making an audience merry;" and "She Stoops to Conquer" still deserves equally favourable commendation. The reason is obvious: Goldsmith's wit is healthy and genuine. It is drawn from pure sources; it commands our mirth without invading any other feeling of our hearts; we do not gain one emotion at the sacrifice of another; we laugh heartily and feel no pang; for we know that our laughter has caused no pang to others. "Whether it be enjoyment or mischief going on in one of Goldsmith's comedies," says Mr. Forster, "the predominant impression is hearty, jovial, and sincere and nobody feels the worse, when Tony, after fearful joltings down Feather-bed Lane, over Upand-down Hill, and across Heavy-tree Heath, lodges his mother in the horsepond:- the laugh clears the atmosphere all round it."

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Jealous of the wide-spread popularity of the author of the new comedy, Kenrick, the malignant writer, who had formerly shown his hostility in the "Monthly Review," now wrote fresh attack upon Goldsmith in the "London Packet." Abusive as the literary viper had been before, he now became even more insulting. Some of his scurrilities too were levelled against Miss Horneck: and, unable to bear this outrage upon his feelings, Goldsmith called upon the publisher for the purpose of ascertaining the author of the offensive remarks, and of demanding an apology from him. A struggle arose blows were struck - - an action at law was threatened, but eventually the matter was compromised by Goldsmith paying to the publisher £50, to be appropriated to charitable purposes. Though willing to admit and atone for the want of judgment he had displayed in this occurrence, Goldsmith was not slow to deny in a spirited letter to the

papers that he had attempted to invade the liberty of the press; for that charge had been advanced against him by many of the sterner critics; while the more merrily disposed contented themselves by laughing at the whole

occurrence.

"She Stoops to Conquer" brought to its author about £500; but this sum was too small to avert those difficulties which drew closer around him day by day. His spirits now lost their elasticity. His mirth was forced and hollow; and though, by mixing more in society, and by attending more frequently at the club, he strove to forget his misery, the attempt only added to the evil which it sought to remove. Dr. Beattie, for a very inferior production, an "Essay on Truth," directed against Voltaire and Hume, had been rewarded by an unsolicited pension of £200 per annum: and, it was anticipated that upon representation being made in the proper quarter, a similar favour might be bestowed upon Goldsmith. But no! Immediately after the production of the "Deserted Village," its author had been solicited to wield his pen in defence of the Ministry-to become, in fact, the mere hireling advocate of party politics. Liberal remuneration was promised, but Goldsmith shrunk from the self-debasement which the acceptance of such an offer would have caused. He had his reward. pension was refused! Finishing one volume of the "Grecian History," and giving the last touches to his Animated Nature," he next completed a revised edition of his "Enquiry," and was still occupied with a third and compressed edition of his "History of England for school purposes," a "Šurvey of Experimental Philosophy," and with a translation of " Scarron's Comic Romance." He had projected a "Dictionary of Arts and Sciences," and his friends had promised to support him as contributors, but the scheme was not favourably received by the booksellers, and was abandoned. And now his health, injured by close application and study, his buoyant nature completely laid low, no stray gleam of happy sunshine came across his path. He who had been formerly so full of ardent hopefulness, now saw nothing but desolation around him; he heard the chill breeze mournfully sighing;

The

the summer had passed away, and he knew that the leaf was soon to fall. A little of the old spirit was yet to be shown. Strangely had his manners altered; strangely did he seem to those who had so often joined with him in social pleasures and in hearty mirth. Not fully conscious of the cause of this change in his demeanour, for even his most intimate friends were unacquainted with the extent of his difficulties, jokes were freely made upon the unhappy poet; and on one occasion, a series of mock epitaphs were written to his memory. A little poem, called "Retaliation," consisting of a number of sketches of those with whose characters he was most familiar, was Goldsmith's response to his merry assailants. This poem, as Washington Irving remarks, "for its graphic truth, its nice discrimination, its terse good sense, and its shrewd knowledge of the world must have electrified the club almost as much as the first appearance of the "Traveller." "Retaliation" was the last work written by Goldsmith, and it was never completed. Even while the heart was recording its judgment upon a dearly loved friend-Sir Joshua Reynolds-the hand refused its office. A nervous affection, to which Goldsmith had been occasionally subject through life, now attacked him with considerable violence; and the injudicious use of some medicine, in the efficacy of which he was a firm believer, augmented the dangers of his complaint, and for a time precluded the hope of recovery. Skilful treatment, however, restored him in some degree; but he was still very weak and low. He could not sleep. The nights passed wearily, but still no sleep came to soothe his troubled brain. There, in that dark night, when all was still-save his own faint breathing, he looked back across the stormy ocean he had passed over, and the surging echoes of the olden time fell upon his ear. There, amid the scenes of his boyhood, he was still wandering, happy, light-hearted, with the gayest flowers strewn around him. Suddenly the storm-clouds came across the sky, and then all was dark and desolate. And now he cannot see through that dismal gloom; he tries in vain to look forward, but the cloud presses upon his soul, and a voice, gibing and jeering, tortures him with

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its ghastly sounds. He starts in horror, and utters a cry of pain.

"Is your mind at ease?" says the kind physician, bending over him.

"No, no; it is not:" and the dying man seeks again for that repose which is denied him. It comes at last-as gently, as sweetly as if it were a foretaste of that tranquillity he is afterwards to enjoy. It is only once disturbed. There is a moment of re-awakening agony-a struggle with the bonds by which he is still imprisoned; and, just as the dawn was breaking, on the morning of the 4th of April, 1774, the spirit of Oliver Goldsmith passed from earth. The event cast a shadow over the heart of all the poet's friends. Johnson felt it acutely; Reynolds was too much affected to continue his duties during the day; and Burke burst into tears. Goldsmith had for some years resided in the Temple, and in the Temple Church his body found its last resting place. A public funeral was at first suggested; this was afterwards abandoned; but his friends testified their respect for his memory by erecting, two years afterwards, a monument in Westminster Abbey-Dr. Johnson writing the epitaph.

Goldsmith has long held a high position in English literature; and his reputation will continue to increase while the heart yields to those truthful impulses which he knew so well how to awaken. There is a charm in his graceful words and in his kindly thoughts, which delights while it subdues us. Even from his own weakness he gained strength. It was the strength of truth, which is all-enduring. He had passed through strange vicissitudes-had been cast amongst strange company-had mingled with the desolate and the wandering, but the native purity of his mind remained unchanged. His thoughts had still the same soft light beaming around them. "The wreath of Goldsmith," says Sir Walter Scott, "is unsullied. He wrote to exalt virtue, and expose vice; and he accomplished his task in a manner which raises him to the highest rank among British authors." This is noble praise; and before this the few slight specks which rest upon his life, must fade for ever. "He was a man of such variety of powers, and of such felicity of performance," says Johnson,

"that he always seemed to do best that which he was doing. Let not his frailties be remembered; he was a very great man." But we rather say with Washington Irving, "Let them be remembered, since their tendency is to endear; and we question whether he himself would not feel gratified in hearing his reader, after dwelling with admiration on the proofs of his greatness, close the volume with the kindhearted phrase, so fondly and familiarly ejaculated, of-POOR GOLDSMITH.'

CHARLES REECE PEMBERTON. CHARLES REECE PEMBERTON was a man of remarkable abilities and character. His "Remains," edited by Mr. John Fowler, of Sheffield, is one of the most beautiful of modern books. It is written in a clear and brilliant style, and the subject matter is of singular and thrilling interest. I scarcely know any book which reads less like a book, and none in which the rosy glow of impassioned speech is better preserved. What Emerson says of Montaign's Essays may also be said of these "Remains," "Cut the words and they would bleed: they are vascular and alive." To this high praise will add another commendation, viz.,

that " 'poor Charles, as Ebenezer

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Elliott sorrowfully called him, has written his heart in these pages, which literally burn with the fiery life of the man, and reveal the depth and fulness of his affectionate nature, and the lofty chivalry of his spirit. The greater part of the book consists of a series of compositions styled "The Pelverjuice Papers," which appeared originally in the 'Monthly Repository," then edited by W. J. Fox, and constituted the main attraction of that periodical even in its palmiest days. There is a strange and nameless fascination about them, and a real healthy blood running through the sentences, which we rarely find in literary performances. And it is this fact which constitutes their charm. For Pemberton was not an educated man, in the scholastic sense, nor did he ever receive instruction in rhetoric, or the "art of composition," as it is called; he was self-taught, and his style was his own. He was endowed with keen perceptions, impres

sionability, and emotiveness, and had the faculty of representing what he saw and felt with startling vividness. His intellect was of a very high order, but it was discursive rather than logical, although he could reason well enough sometimes, as his "Sixpennyworth of Truth" sufficiently proves. It could not be expected, however, that a man whose whole life was consumed in wanderings-whose foot had trodden upon all the soils of the earthshould have a regularly-developed and well-balanced mind. The only wonder is that, amidst the various vicissitudes of his fortune, he should have done so much for his own culture, and have left so much behind him worthy of preservation.

Along with his other gifts, however, he had genius, which is a thing that cannot be hidden, but permeates through all the doings of its possessor, and crowns him lord, as with a coronet of sunbeams. Hence the mind of Pemberton was always active, open, receptive, reproductive. His sensitiveness was intense; he was alive in the universe; and enjoyed and suffered far more keenly than ordinary men. His love of nature amounted absolutely to passion; it was often a fiery whirl of delight, and carried him out of himself. În calmer moments, in the presence of beautiful scenery, his soul seemed to melt away and mingle with the landscape. And then how grateful he was for such pure and deep enjoyment, and how fervently he thanked God that he was capable of it, in the midst of his poverty and distress. It gave zest to life, and sinews to endurance. He used to say, even when he had scarcely shoes to his feet, or bread to eat, that he was a rich man! And rich he certainly was, in all that constitutes the wealth of the soul; in virtue, intelligence, and love. He had a noble and generous heart, and was full of fine impulses. Distress, even when he was distressed, softened him to tears, and always drew relief from his purse, when there was anything in his purse. He could not bear to see any human being suffer, although he could suffer himself, and say nothing. "I had rather bear pain than see it endured," was one of his notable sayings. Hence there are innumerable anecdotes on record of his generous aid to distressed persons, all of which

show the humanity and real kindness of his disposition.

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But as nature had given him a decided bias to humane and beneficent deeds, so she had likewise given him a determined hatred, abhorrence, and scorn of whatever was mean, low, and unjust in human transactions. There was no medium in him; his love and hatred were alike intense: he exalted to heaven, or crushed mercilessly to hell. Beautiful it was to be the object of his affection,-to repose in the sunshine of his spirit, and feel the warmth and the glow of his love; and equally terrible to endure his hate, and the withering and passionate storm-bursts of his scorn. To act rightly, nobly, generously! this was Pemberton's test of a man; and whoso acted thus was his friend and brother. To act contrary to this was the one thing on earth which he could not endure. Away with liars and false-dealing men," he used to say, we have had enough of them, and the stench of their trail pollutes the earth." Neither could he endure purse-pride, or the contumely which purse-proud men heap upon those who are less fortunate in purse-wealth than themselves. Many a time when it was his best policy and worldy interest to conciliate certain people into whose company he was thrown during his wanderings,people who could have helped him in getting audiences to attend his lectures -he has stood up, and with dilated nostrils and quivering lips, denounced them with the pride of an archangel. He would be patronized by no one; for this was humiliation : but if a sympathizing person came generously to help him, the grip of his warm hand, and the speechless, yet eloquent, expression of his large dark eyes, attested to his thankfulness and gratitude. People loved him very much, or not at all, for he attracted or repelled with irresistible force all who came within the sphere of his orbit. It has been my fortune to mix largely with his friends, and sometimes with his enemies; and although the latter have spoken of him as an incomprehensible, fierce, strange, and impracticable man, the former have uniformly extolled him as one of the best, noblest, and most gifted of his race.

And it must be borne in mind that those who thus eulogized him were

themselves the flower of the land; men and women of large gifts and attainments, and often of real genius. Amongst them were Justice (then Sergeant) Talfourd, Charles Kemble, Macready, W. J. Fox, Dr. Southwood Smith, R. H. Horne, Ebenezer Elliott, Mr. Adams (Junius Redivivus), and others of less note.

Pemberton was the most open and honest of men. There was no reserve in his nature; what he felt he spoke without regard to conventionality, or prudence. He did not know, indeed, what prudence was, and conventionality was one of the demons which he believed himself commissioned to destroy. It was terrible to listen to the denunciations which he hurled against it. According to his view, it had defaced the holy image of God in the soul; stifled the natural feelings and affections of the heart, and put a mask which was not human upon humanity. He used to complain bitterly in his private hours that there were so few men or women in the world who dared to act the truth. What they felt and believed was not represented by their words and deeds, but was kept back for fear of Mrs. Grundy and conventionality. He longed to get near to men; to be admitted to the asylum of their hearts,-when he thought them worthy at least,-and behold! he found himself a poor stranger at the outer portals. To a man like Pemberton, who longed for sympathy and friendship,-whose whole soul was as transparent as crystal,-who knew no cloaks or disguises, this cold mannerism and reserve were sure to be distressing and painful. But there was no help for it. He could not shape the world to his mind, and his mind would not shape to the world. He had been schooled in adversity, suffering, and wrong, hopeless of redress,utterly hopeless! and now that he was free, he abhorred and denounced oppression, and with it all the forms which tyrannize over men in society. "Oh! that men would deal sincerely with each other," he used to say, "that they would not sneak, fawn, or lie; there would then be hope for the world." Poor Pemberton! if he could have humoured the world a little more, his lot would have been happier. If he had possessed the smallest portion of prudence, his own fortunes would

never have been reduced so low as they were. He, was an individual, and could not amalgamate with elements foreign to his nature, and only sought those that were homogeneous to it.

He certainly lacked balance; there was not enough lumber in his hold; he was, save his main-sheets' rectitude and sincerity, all studding-sails and sky-scrapers. Very few such craft, however, have been launched upon the sea of time. A right royal craft, with starry pennons, sailing gallantly through storms and tempests, but never finding a haven, until he at last found a grave.

From his youth upwards he had manifested the same peculiarities of character which marked his subsequent career. Confiding and generous, he always gave full play to his impulses, and left his actions to explain themselves. His nervous sensibility was excessive, amounting almost to disease, and it occasioned him many a pang which coarser natures would have been spared, and likewise many a rupture which such natures were incapable of feeling. He was proud, too, and insolence met with no mercy at his hands. But there were deep fountains of love in his heart, and he was always ready to forgive injuries. And yet his wild, nomadic life, which had been nurtured and developed in the rudest and fiercest society, amongst storms and battles, was not favourable to the growth of such feelings. His natural temper and disposition were, however, too strong for the crust of his environments, and burst genially and healthily through it. He was fiery and passionate enough, it is true, at times, and his words were bolts which struck remorselessly home; but he was at the bottom as gentle as a woman. He was always fond of children, and they were instinctively drawn to him and loved him. Once, whilst walking with a friend, he saw a mother beating her little girl. He immediately sprang forward, caught the little thing in his arms, and remonstrated with the astonished parent after such a fashion that she presently confessed herself wrong and wept. The child still clung to him, and he had some difficulty in leav- | ing it. He had, amongst other things, asked the woman, "whether there were no love in a mother's heart stronger

than blows whereby to govern a refractory child ;" and this afterwards led to a long discourse from him on the power of kindness. Through the whole of his writings it is easy to discern the same spirit, even when his wrath is fiercest. And in ordinary conversation, except when he was roused by indignant and irresistible feelings, his words were soft and musical as a lute, and his whole manner was chaste, gentle, and refined. It was these qualities which made him welcome to so many homes in England during his life-time, and which have flung around his memory -now that he is no more-a calm halo and a sweet incense. Personal qualifi- . cations, however, were not the only charm which belonged to him, nor were his writings the best efforts of his genius. It was in the capacity of lecturer, or as he used to call it "Illustrator of the Human Passions," that he chiefly excelled, and that exhibited him indeed in a new light upon a higher platform. Shakespeare was the great master whose character he studied; and perhaps no man ever entered more profoundly into the poet's meaning, or developed it more successfully in his impersonations. Mr. Fowler, in his brief sketch of the life of Pemberton, which is attached to his "Remains," says, "It was on Shakspeare's tragic characters that Pemberton most delighted to discourse. On them he lavished all the resources of art, and all his powers of thought; they were the study of the best part of his life. They afforded him full opportunity for the exercise of his faculties of acute perception and searching analysis. The substance of his lectures on Shakspeare, would, if printed and published, be the most useful, eloquent, and philosophical exposition of the genius of the poet that the world has yet had. But had a book been written by himself-in which should have appeared every material word he uttered on the subject-it would not have given more than an outline of his design. His own language in print, graphic as it is, does not convey his full meaning; it wants the vitality which he could infuse by his look, voice, and action. His lectures on Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth, and King John, were more satisfying to the mind than most theatrical performances