very poor opinion of The World') entered again into this arena of light literature, and commenced his Idler. The example of his more mercurial decessors 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 Town and above were the joists, not plastered, and hung and Country Magazine,' and other monthly miscel- with cobwebs. On a flock-bed, at one end, lay the lanies, essays were given along with other contribu-old man he came to visit; at the foot of it sat his tions, and it was thus that Goldsmith published his compositions of this sort, as well as his Chinese Letters. Henceforward, politics engaged the public attention in a strong degree, and monopolised the weekly press of London.

with himself. Philosophy could not have done so much with a thousand words.

ties overtake me and I have had my share-it confers a dignity on my affliction, so lifts me above the world. Man, I know, is but a worm, yet methinks I am then allied to God! It would have been inhuman in our philosopher to have clouded, even with a doubt, the sunshine of this belief.

His discourse, indeed, was very remote from metaphysical disquisition, or religious controversy. Of all men I ever knew, his ordinary conversation was the least tinctured with pedantry, or liable to dissertation. With La Roche and his daughter it was perfectly familiar. The country around them, the manners of the village, the comparison of both with those of England, remarks on the works of favourite authors, on the sentiments they conveyed, and the passions they excited, with many other topics in which there was an equality or alternate advantage among the speakers, were the subjects they talked on. Their hours too of riding and walking were many, in which Mr -, as a stranger, was shown the remarkable scenes and curiosities of the country. They would sometimes make little expeditions to contemplate, in different attitudes, those astonishing mountains, the cliffs of which, covered with eternal snows, and sometimes shooting into fantastic shapes, form the termnination of most of the Swiss prospects. Our philosopher asked many questions as to their natural history and productions. La Roche observed the sublimity of the ideas which the view of their stupendous summits, inaccessible to mortal foot, was calculated to inspire, which naturally, said he, leads the mind to that Being by whom their foundations were laid. They are not seen in Flanders,' said Mademoiselle with a sigh. That's an odd remark,' said Mr, smiling. She blushed, and he inquired no farther.

'Twas with regret he left a society in which he found himself so happy; but he settled with La Roche and his daughter a plan of correspondence; and they took his promise, that if ever he came within fifty leagues of their dwelling, he should travel those fifty leagues to visit them.

It was now evening, and the good peasants were about to depart, when a clock was heard to strike seven, and the hour was followed by a particular chime. The country folks who had come to welcome their pastor, turned their looks towards him at the sound; he explained their meaning to his guest. 'That is the signal,' said he, for our evening exercise; this is one of the nights of the week in which some of my parishioners are wont to join in it; a little rustic saloon serves for the chapel of our family, and such of the good people as are with us. If you choose rather to walk out, I will furnish you with an attendant; or here are a few old books that may afford you some entertainment within.' 'By no means,' answered the philosopher, I will attend Mademoiselle at her devotions." 'She is our organist,' said La Roche; our neighbourhood is the country of musical mechanism, and I have a small organ fitted up for the purpose of assisting our singing.' "Tis an additional inducement,' replied the other, and they walked into the room together. At the end stood the organ mentioned by La Roche; before it was a curtain, which his daughter drew aside, and placing herself on a seat within, and drawing the curtain close, so as to save her the awkwardness of an exhibition, began a voluntary, solemn and beautiful in the highest degree. Mr was no musician, but he was not altogether insensible to music; this fastened on his mind more strongly, from its beauty being unexpected. The solemn prelude introduced a hymn, in which such of the audience as could sing immediately joined; the words were mostly taken from holy writ; it spoke the praises of God, and his care of good men. Something was said of the death of the just, of such as die in the Lord. The organ was touched with a hand less firm; it paused, it ceased, and the sobbing of Mademoiselle La Roche was heard in its stead. Her father gave a sign for stopping the psalmody, and rose to pray. He was discomposed at first, and his voice faltered as he spoke; but his heart was in his words, and his warmth About three years after, our philosopher was on a overcame his embarrassment. He addressed a Being visit at Geneva; the promise he made to La Roche whom he loved, and he spoke for those he loved. His and his daughter on his former visit was recalled to parishioners catched the ardour of the good old man; his mind by a view of that range of mountains, on a even the philosopher felt himself moved, and forgot part of which they had often looked together. There for a moment to think why he should not. La Roche's was a reproach, too, conveyed along with the recollecreligion was that of sentiment, not theory, and his tion, for his having failed to write to either for several guest was averse from disputation; their discourse, months past. The truth was, that indolence was the therefore, did not lead to questions concerning the habit most natural to him, from which he was not belief of either; yet would the old man sometimes easily roused by the claims of correspondence either speak of his, from the fulness of a heart impressed of his friends or of his enemies; when the latter drew with its force, and wishing to spread the pleasure he their pens in controversy, they were often unanswered enjoyed in it. The ideas of his God and his Saviour as well as the former. While he was hesitating about were so congenial to his mind that every emotion of a visit to La Roche, which he wished to make, but it naturally awaked them. A philosopher might found the effort rather too much for him, he received have called him an enthusiast; but if he possessed a letter from the old man, which had been forwarded the fervour of enthusiasts, he was guiltless of their to him from Paris, where he had then his fixed resibigotry. Our father which art in heaven!' might dence. It contained a gentle complaint of Mr's the good man say, for he felt it, and all mankind want of punctuality, but an assurance of continued were his brethren. gratitude for his former good offices; and as a friend whom the writer considered interested in his family. it informed him of the approaching nuptials of Mademoiselle La Roche with a young man, a relation of her own, and formerly a pupil of her father's, of the most amiable dispositions, and respectable character. Attached from their earliest years, they had been separated by his joining one of the subsidiary regiments of the canton, then in the service of a foreign power. In this situation he had distinguished himself as much for courage and military skill as for the other endowments which he had cultivated at home. The term of his service was now expired, and they expected him to return in a few weeks, when the old man hoped, as he expressed it in his letter, to join their hands, and see them happy before he died.

You regret, my friend,' said he to Mr, when my daughter and I talk of the exquisite pleasure derived from music, you regret your want of musical powers and musical feelings; it is a department of soul, you say, which nature has almost denied you, which from the effects you see it have on others you are sure must be highly delightful. Why should not the same thing be said of religion? Trust me, feel it in the same way-an energy, an inspiration, which I would not lose for all the blessings of sense, or enjoyments of the world; yet, so far from lessening my relish of the pleasures of life, methinks I feel it heighten them all. The thought of receiving it from God adds the blessing of sentiment to that of sensa tion in every good thing I possess; and when calami

Our philosopher felt himself interested in this event; but he was not, perhaps, altogether so happy in the tidings of Mademoiselle La Roche's marriage as her father supposed him. Not that he was ever a lover of the lady's; but he thought her one of the most amiable women he had seen, and there was something in the idea of her being another's for ever, that struck him, he knew not why, like a disappointment. After some little speculation on the matter, however, he could look on it as a thing fitting, if not quite agreeable, and determined on this visit to see his old friend and his daughter happy.

On the last day of his journey, different accidents had retarded his progress: he was benighted before he reached the quarter in which La Roche resided. His guide, however, was well acquainted with the road, and he found himself at last in view of the lake, which I have before described, in the neighbourhood of La Roche's dwelling. A light gleamed on the water, that seemed to proceed from the house; it moved slowly along as he proceeded up the side of the lake, and at last he saw it glimmer through the trees, and stop at some distance from the place where he then was. He supposed it some piece of bridal merriment, and pushed on his horse that he might be a spectator of the scene; but he was a good deal shocked, on approaching the spot, to find it proceed from the torch of a person clothed in the dress of an attendant on a funeral, and accompanied by several others, who, like him, seemed to have been employed in the rites of sepulture.

6

flow from the throne of God. "Tis only from the belief of the goodness and wisdom of a Supreme Being that our calamities can be borne in that manner which becomes a man. Human wisdom is here of little use; for, in proportion as it bestows comfort, it represses feeling, without which we may cease to be hurt by calamity, but we shall also cease to enjoy happiness. I will not bid you be insensible, my friends--I cannot, I cannot, if I would (his tears flowed afresh)-I feel too much myself, and I am not ashamed of my feelings; but therefore may I the more willingly be heard; therefore have I prayed God to give me strength to speak to you, to direct you to him, not with empty words, but with these tears; not from speculation, but from experience; that while you see me suffer, you may know also my consolation.

You behold the mourner of his only child, the last earthly stay and blessing of his declining years! Such a child too! It becomes not me to speak of her virtues; yet it is but gratitude to mention them, because they were exerted towards myself. Not many days ago you saw her young, beautiful, virtuous, and happy: ye who are parents will judge of my felicity then-ye will judge of my affliction now. But I look towards him who struck me; I see the hand of a father amidst the chastenings of my God. Oh! could I make you feel what it is to pour out the heart when it is pressed down with many sorrows, to pour it out with confidence to him, in whose hands are life and death, on whose power awaits all that the first enjoys, and in contemplation of whom disappears all that the last can inflict. For we are not as those who die without hope; we know that our Redeemer liveththat we shall live with him, with our friends his servants, in that blessed land where sorrow is unknown, and happiness is endless as it is perfect. Go, then, mourn not for me; I have not lost my child: but a little while and we shall meet again, never to be separated. But ye are also my children: would ye that I should not grieve without comfort? So live as she lived; that when your death cometh, it may be the death of the righteous, and your latter end like his.'

On Mr's making inquiry who was the person they had been burying, one of them, with an accent more mournful than is common to their profession, answered, then you knew not Mademoiselle, sir? you never beheld a lovelier.' 'La Roche!' exclaimed he, in reply. Alas! it was she indeed! The appearance of surprise and grief which his countenance assumed attracted the notice of the peasant with whom he talked. He came up closer to Mr- -; 'I perceive, sir, you were acquainted with Mademoiselle La Roche.' Acquainted with her! Good God! when how-where did she die? Where is her father?' She died, sir, of heart-break, I believe; the young Such was the exhortation of La Roche; his audience gentleman to whom she was soon to have been mar- answered it with their tears. The good old man had ried, was killed in a duel by a French officer, his in-dried up his at the altar of the Lord; his countenance timate companion, and to whom, before their quarrel, had lost its sadness, and assumed the glow of faith he had often done the greatest favours. Her worthy and of hope. Mr followed him into his house. father bears her death as he has often told us a Chris- The inspiration of the pulpit was past; at sight of tian should; he is even so composed as to be now in him the scene they had last met in rushed again on his pulpit, ready to deliver a few exhortations to his his mind; La Roche threw his arms round his neck, parishioners, as is the custom with us on such occa- and watered it with his tears. The other was equally sions: follow me, sir, and you shall hear him.' He affected; they went together in silence into the parfollowed the man without answering. lour where the evening service was wont to be performed. The curtains of the organ were open; La Roche started back at the sight. Oh! my friend,' said he, and his tears burst forth again. Mr- had now recollected himself; he stept forward and drew the curtains close; the old man wiped off his tears, and taking his friend's hand, 'You see my weakness,' said he; 'tis the weakness of humanity; but my comfort is not therefore lost.' 'I heard you,' said the other, in the pulpit; I rejoice that such consolation is yours.' 'It is, my friend,' said he, and I trust I shall ever hold it fast. If there are any who doubt our faith, let them think of what importance religion is to calamity, and forbear to weaken its force; if they cannot restore our happiness, let them not take away the solace of our affliction.'

The church was dimly lighted, except near the pulpit, where the venerable La Roche was seated. His people were now lifting up their voices in a psalin to that Being whom their pastor had taught them ever to bless and to revere. La Roche sat, his figure bending gently forward, his eyes half-closed, lifted up in silent devotion. A lamp placed near him threw its light strong on his head, and marked the shadowy lines of age across the paleness of his brow, thinly covered with gray hairs. The music ceased: La Roche sat for a moment, and nature wrung a few tears from him. His people were loud in their grief. Mr was not less affected than they. La Roche arose: Father of mercies,' said he, forgive these tears; assist thy servant to lift up his soul to thee; to lift to thee the souls of thy people. My friends, it is good so to do, at all seasons it is good; but in the days of our distress, what a privilege it is! Well saith the sacred book, "Trust in the Lord; at all times trust in the Lord." When every other support fails us, when the fountains of worldly comfort are dried up, let us then seek those living waters which

Mr -'s heart was smitten; and I have heard him long after confess that there were moments when the remembrance overcame him even to weakness; when, amidst all the pleasures of philosophical discovery, and the pride of literary fame, he recalled to his mind the venerable figure of the good La Roche, and wished that he had never doubted.

NOVELISTS.

lapse of more than a century, have had no superiors, and only one equal.

SAMUEL RICHARDSON.

The decline of the tragic drama was accompanied by a similar decline of the heroic romances, both being in some measure the creation of an imaginaSAMUEL RICHARDSON was born in Derbyshire in tive and chivalrous spirit. As France had been the 1689, and was the son of a joiner, who could not country in which the early romance, metrical or afford to give his son more than the ordinary eleprosaic, flourished in greatest perfection, it was from ments of education. When fifteen years of age, he the same nation that the second class of prose fic- was put apprentice to a printer in London; and by tions, the heroic romances, also took its rise. The good conduct rose to be master of an extensive busiheroes were no longer Arthur or Charlemagne, but ness of his own, and printer of the Journals of the a sort of pastoral lovers, like the characters of Sir House of Commons. In 1754 he was chosen master Philip Sidney's Arcadia,' who blended modern with of the Stationers' Company, and in 1760 he purchivalrous manners, and talked in a style of conven- chased a moiety of the patent of printer to the king, tional propriety and decorum. This spurious off-which greatly increased his emoluments. He was spring of romance was begun in the seventeenth a prosperous and liberal man-mild in his manners century by an author named Honore d'Urfe, who and dispositions-and seems to have had only one was followed by Gomberville, Calprenede, and Ma-marked foible-excessive vanity. From a very early dame Scudery. D'Urfe had, episodically, and under period of his life, Richardson was a fluent letterborrowed names, given an account of the gallantries writer: at thirteen he was the confidant of three of Henry IV.'s court, which rendered his style more young women, whose love correspondence he carried piquant and attractive; but generally, this species of on without any one knowing that he was secretary composition was harmless and insipid, and its pro-to the others. Two London publishers having urged ductions of intolerable length. The Grand Cyrus' filled ten volumes! Admired as they were in their own day, the heroic romances could not long escape being burlesqued. The poet Scarron, about the time of our commonwealth, attempted this in a work which he entitled the Comique Roman,' or 'Comic Romance,' which detailed a long series of adventures, as low as those of Cyrus were elevated, and in a style of wit and drollery of which there is hardly any other example. This work, though designed only as a ludicrous imitation of another class of fictions, became the first of a class of its own, and found followers in England long before we had any writers of the pure novel. Mrs Aphra Behn amused the public during the reign of Charles II. by writing tales of personal adventure similar to those of Scarron, which are almost the earliest specimens of prose fiction that we possess. She was followed by Mrs Manley, whose works are equally humorous, and equally licentious. The fictions of Daniel Defoe, which have been adverted to in the preceding section, are an improvement upon these tales, being much more pure, while they, at the same time, contain more interesting pictures of character and situation. Other models were presented in the early part of the century by the French novelist Le Sage, whose Gil Blas,' and Devil on Two Sticks,' imitating in their turn the fictions of certain Spanish writers, consist of humorous and satirical pictures of modern manners, connected by a thread of adventure. In England, the first pictures of real life in prose fiction were given by Defoe, who, in his graphic details, and personal adventures, all impressed with the strongest appearances of truth or probability, has never, in his own walk, been excelled. That walk, however, was limited: of genuine humour or variety of character he had no conception; and he paid little attention to the arrangement of his plot. The gradual improvement in the tone and manners of society, the complicated relations of life, the growing contrast between town and country manners, and all the artificial distinctions that crowd in with commerce, wealth, and luxury, banished the heroic romance, and gave rise to the novel, in which the passion of love still maintained its place, but was surrounded by events and characters, such as are witnessed in ordinary life, under various aspects and modifications. The three great founders of this improved species of composition-this new theatre of living and breathing characters-were Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett, who even yet, after the

him, when he was above the age of fifty, to write them a book of familiar letters on the useful concerns of life, he set about the composition of his Pamela, as a warning to young people, and with a hope that it would turn them into a course of reading different from the pomp and parade of romance writing.' It was written in about three months, and published in the year 1741, with such success, that five editions were exhausted in the course of one year. It requires a reader,' says Sir Walter Scott, to be in some degree acquainted with the huge folios of inanity, over which our ancestors yawned themselves to sleep, ere he can estimate the delight they must have experienced from this unexpected return to truth and nature.' 'Pamela' became the rage of the town: ladies carried the volumes with them to Ranelagh gardens, and held them up to one another in triumph. Pope praised the novel as likely to do more good than twenty volumes of sermons; and Dr Sherlock recommended it from the pulpit! In 1749 appeared Richardson's second and greatest work, The History of Clarissa Harlowe; and in 1753 his novel, designed to repre