England, the latter was more happily and effectually provided for than he ever could have been by the vainly hoped-for curiosity of his countrymen. He died the very night they landed, bequeathing the expenses of his funeral, and the profits of the MS. to his benevolent amanuensis. Such is the miraculous manner in which Peter Wilkins is introduced to the acquaintance of the reader; and under such circumstances are his Life and Adventures represented to have been written. That he himself, in hoping the world would be glad to know and feel an interest in them, was deceived by his own wishes, is sufficiently clear; since, otherwise, it would not have fallen to us at this late day to present, as something new, to the majority of our readers, the following imperfect outline of his story.

Peter Wilkins, a Cornish man, as the title page bears, was the son of one of those unfortunate persons, who had been judged by Jefferys, in the West, for taking the air one day, as far as Sedgemoor, with the Protestant Duke. He coming to that unhappy end, Peter naturally succeeded to all his mother's affection, and meeting "with so much indulgence from her, for that reason, found very little or no contradiction from any body else." At the ripe age of sixteen, he conceived himself too big for confinement at the apron string, and began to take all opportunities of enjoying the company of his neighbours. In pursuance of this dutiful design he had the happiness to make a kind and loving father of a person, whom he had only courted for a friend. This was a gentleman of a small paternal estate, "which had never been the better for being in his hands," and having at that time" some uneasy demands upon it," its owner was of opinion, that the widow's effects might be usefully applied towards freeing it from incumbrances. The method which this worthy takes to worm himself into the good graces of Peter's mother, is described with great truth and naiveté, and may be safely recommended as infallible in all cases similar to the present. The mother is courted through the son; and many wonderful things, clearly foreshown by his discourse and actions, are presaged of him, if his genius be but properly cultivated. Proud of such a hopeful youth, the mother is straight inflamed with a desire of adding what lustre she can to abilities so applauded; and who so proper to advise with on the subject, as the person whose discrimination had first remarked their existence? My gentleman then had his desire, for he feared not the widow, could he but properly dispose of her charge." Having beaten her quite out of her inclination to a grammar school in the neighbourhood, he proposes an academy not more than thirty or more miles distant, kept by a very worthy and judicious person, where, if Peter could but be admitted, he did not in the least doubt he would fully answer the expectations

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formed of him, and outshine most of his contemporaries. Well; the whole family is now employed in fitting Peter out on his expedition, and as his friend had been so instrumental in bringing it about, it was only natural he should be frequent in his inquiries how affairs went on; and during the process, by humouring the son, ingratiate himself with the mother, though without appearing in the least to aim at it.

"Thus I, (the coach waiting for us at the door) having been preached into a good-liking of the scheme by my friend, who now insisted upon making one of our company to introduce us, mounted the carriage with more alacrity than could be expected for one who had never before been beyond the smoke of his mother's chimney; but the thoughts I had conceived, from my friend's discourse, of liberty in the academic way, and the weight of so much money in my pocket, as I then imagined would scarce ever be exhausted, were prevailing cordials to keep my spirits on the wing."

Finding himself thus rich, he confesses he heartily wished they were all fairly at home again, that he might have leisure "to count his cash, and dispose of such part of it as he had already appropriated to several uses then in embryo." But when this was over, and the money all spent, he found his friend's academic liberty but a poor substitute for the complete vacation from all sorts of employment which he had enjoyed in his mother's house. Alas! after sixteen years of idleness at home, he had but little heart to his nouns and pronouns, which now began to be crammed upon him, and “ was ashamed to stand like a great lubber, declining of hæc mulier, a woman," whilst his juniors, by five years or more, were engaged in scanning Horace, or turning Ovid into nonsense. After passing some time in the melancholy contemplation of his own dullness, a certain accident befell him, when "inclination," as he expresses it, "framed by opportunity, produced the date of a world of concern;" for, in about six months after his arrival at the academy, instead of proving his parts by his scholarship, he had proved his manhood, by taking unto him a wife, with the distant promise of an heir to boot. This increased establishment necessarily demanded a recruited purse: he wrote to his mother for a fresh supply; and was answered by his former friend, in a letter, short indeed, but sufficiently significant, beginning with "Your mother and I are much surprised you should write for money," &c.-addressed, "Son Peter," and subscribed, "your loving father." Peter's consternation on the receipt of this letter, he leaves the reader to imagine, and after "a thousand thoughts altogether jostling out each other," he takes refuge in the counsels and sympathy of his wife. But not to tire his hearer any further with amours between self and Patty," he

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proceeds to inform him, that having somebody to disburthen his mind to, and to participate in his concerns, he "had been much easier, and kept true tally" with his book, with more than usual delight, so as to win the acknowledgment of his master, "for the best capacity he ever had under his tuition." By the advice of the latter, and under his dictation, he writes his new father a dutiful letter, praying that he would be pleased to order him home, the next recess, he being now near nineteen years of age; and receives in answer, from that very honest gentleman, the following laconic epistle:

"Son Peter,-Your mother has been dead a good while; and as to your request, it will be only expensive, and of little use; for a person who must live by his studies cannot apply to them too closely."

"A person who must live by his studies!"—is the natural exclamation of the master:-" "Why, have you not a pretty estate to live upon, when it comes to your hands? Peter," says he, "I would advise you to go to your father, and inquire how your affairs are left." The consequence of this advice is an interview with Peter's "loving father," which is extremely well described, and reminds us of those more sober parts of Smollett, where he ceases to play the buffoon, and instead of burlesquing nature, is content to copy her with fidelity.

It seems that old Peter Wilkins, previous to his fatal execution, had conveyed to his wife both the estate, money, and every thing else he had in the world; and that she, in the common course of such things, had transferred them, with herself, to her liege lord and spouse.

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Dolorous and mal-content, master and pupil make the best of their way home again; where, during the remainder of Peter's stay, which was but a week or so, the former frequently moralized with such effect, that his pupil was almost convinced he ought to submit, and be content." The passage, indeed, may serve as a specimen of that practical good sense, and unaffected piety, which pervades the whole work, and vie with the beauty of the fiction in recommending it to the good will of the reader.

"You are not now to learn, Peter, that the crimes of the father are often punished in the children, often in the father himself, sometimes in both, and not seldom in neither, in this life; and though, at first one should think the future punishment, annexed to bad actions, was sufficient, still it is necessary some should suffer here also for an example to others; we being much more affected with what the eye sees, than what the heart only meditates upon.

"Now, to bring it to our own case; your father, Peter, rose against the lawful magistrate, to deprive him (it matters not that he was a bad

one) of his lawful power. Your father's policy was such, and his design so well laid, as he thought, that upon any ill success to himself, he had secured his estate to go in the way of all others he could wish to have it, and sits down very well contented, that, happen what would, he should bite the government, in preventing the forfeiture. But, lo! his policy is as a wall of sand blown down with a puff! for it is to you it ought, even himself being umpire, to have come, as no one would think he could prize any before you, his own child. Now, could he look from the grave, and know what passes here, and see Mr. G. in possession of all he fancied he had secured for you, what a weak and short-sighted creature would he find himself! If it be said, he did not know he should have a child, then herein appears God's policy beyond man's; for he knew it, and has so ordered, that that child should be disinherited; for, by the way, Peter, take this for a maxim, wherever the first principle of an action is ill, no good consequence can possibly ever be an attendant on it. Could he, as I said before, but look up and see you, his only child, undone by the very instrument he designed for your security, how pungent would be his anxiety."

"Heaven seems

To claim her stern prerogative, and visit
Upon my boy, his father's faults and follies."

Whilst his master continued to talk after this way, Peter thought he spoke like an angel; but when left to solitude and his own reflections, his former uneasiness returned upon him. "In short, without more consideration, I rose in the morning early, and marched off, having first wrote to my wife, assuring her, if ever I was a gainer in life, she should not fail to be a partaker." His thoughts by the way were uncomfortable enough

at night he slept tolerably; but the morning once more "brought its face of horror with it." However, after walking about three miles and calling to mind his master's last discourse, his spirit by degrees grew calmer; and he found another set of thoughts were preparing a passage into his mind, "which did not carry half the dread and terror with them that their predecessors had." It was now that he became sensible of the benefit of a virtuous education; for, though his religious duties had hitherto been performed from force, custom, or habit, rather than any proper regard to their object, yet having "been always used to say his prayers, as they called it, morning and night," he began with a sort of superstitious reflection, to accuse himself for having omitted that duty the night before, and also at the setting out in the morning, and very much to blame himself for it, and at the same instant even to wonder at himself for that blame. This leads him into a train of natural reflections, as to the real use of prayer, and the object of it.Does the Being, to whom it is addressed, concern himself with one, who can do him no service? Have the prayers, he has

been in the habit of rehearsing from day to day, been heard and regarded? No-for if they had, he should scarce have sustained this hard turn in his fortune. But then,-how had he prayed? -earnestly, as he used to petition his mother for any thing, when he wanted it against her inclination? No-he cannot say he had. But her he had actually present before him; now the object of his prayers is far remote from his view; yet he had often heard his master say, (who, he could not help thinking, must know) that God was a spirit, not confined by the incumbrance of flesh as themselves were; and if so, why may he not be virtually present, although they are unable to perceive him. If then he is a purely spiritual being, whose space is diffused through all nature, and truly he believed it must be so, why may he not be ever present with him, and able to hear him; and why should not he himself have a full idea of the being, though not of any corporeal parts or form of God, and so have actually somewhat to be intent upon in his prayers?—and not do as he had hitherto done, say so many words only upon his knees, which he could not help thinking " might be as well without either sense or meaning in themselves, as without a proper object in the mind to direct them unto." By these and similar reflections, he is wrought up to a strain of pious fervour, extremely simple and touching.

"These thoughts agitated me at least two miles, working stronger and stronger in me; till at length, bursting into tears, Have I been doing nothing, says I, in the sight of God, under the name of prayers, for so many years? Yes, it is certainly so. Well, by the grace of God, it shall be so no longer; I will try somewhat more. So looking round about me, to see if I was quite alone, I stepped into an adjoining copse, and could scarce refrain falling on my knees, till I came to a proper place for kneeling in. I then poured forth my whole soul and spirit to God; and all my strength, and every member, every faculty, was to the utmost employed, for a considerable time, in the most agreeable as well as useful duty. I would, indeed, have began with my accustomed prayers, and had repeated some words of them; when, as though against and contrary to my design, I was carried away by such rapturous effusions, that to this hour, when I reflect thereon, I cannot believe but I was moved to them by a much more than human impulse. However, this ecstasy did not last above a quarter of an hour; but it was considerably longer before my spirits subsided to their usual frame. When I had a little composed myself, how was I altered; how did I condemn myself for all my past disquiet! what calm thanks did I return for the ease and satisfaction of mind I then enjoyed! and coming to a small rivulet, I drank a hearty draught of water, and contentedly proceeded on my journey."

Such was the pure and simple devotion of elder and better days, ere men had learnt what it was to feel pride or shame in the worship of the Deity. Alas! that since those times, the