wearying and sordid toil, to which even his six years' term of established fame had brought him. The cycle of his life was complete; and in the same miserable labour wherein it had begun it was to close." We must now draw our quotations to a close, and take our leave of the subject with the opinion of one of the most discriminating as well as indulgent critics of our days, on Goldsmith's poetry. His language will be found a little more moderate and measured in its amount of praise than that to which we have been lately accustomed, and we think perhaps hardly does justice to the native graces of Goldsmith's genius, and particularly to the charming simplicity and unaffected elegance of his style. And this was the more deserving of approbation, as he had some models of a very different kind before him, which the public had learned to suffer if not to admire, and when the music of Addison's periods, that once charmed the ear and satisfied the taste, had died away and were forgotten. Another style had succeeded, claiming admiration for its foreign idioms, its ornate phrases, and its laboured language. When a publisher of that day was objecting to an author that his expressions were very violent and uncouth, with a dignified air he looked at him and said, "George, that is what we call writing." "Goldsmith and Gray," says Sir James Mackintosh, "the most celebrated poets of the same period, were writers unequal in genius, but still more dissimilar in their taste. They were as distinct from each other as two writers can be who are both within the sphere of classical writing. Goldsmith was the most natural of cultivated poets. Though he retained the cadence, he softened and varied the style of his master, Pope. His ideas are often common-place, and his language slovenly; but his simplicity and tenderness will always continue to render him one of the most delightful of our poets. Whatever excellence he possesses is genuine, neither the result of affectation, nor even of effort. Few writers have so much poetry with so little grace. His prose is of a pure school, but not of sufficient elegance to atone for the substantial defects of his writings, except, indeed, in one charming novel, in which, if he had more abstained from common-place declamation, less indulged his propensity to broad farce, and not at last hurried his personages out of their difficulties with improbable confusion, he would have reached nearly the highest rank in that species of composition." Goldsmith died on 4th April, 1774, lamented even to tears by those who had most intimately known him. At the suggestion of Sir Joshua Reynolds, a monument was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey. The epitaph was written by Johnson, at the request of the subscribers, who objected to the use of the Latin language to perpetuate the memory of an eminent English writer; but it does not appear that any observation was made on the purity or correctness of the writing itself. The expression "Tetigit" has been objected to, as unauthorised in the sense in which it is used, and another word or words have been proposed. With a practical knowledge of the Latin language such as enabled him to compose in it with facility, Johnson had never paid much attention to the minute points of elegance or correctness, or entered into the province of verbal criticism in the dead languages. Doctor Parr once told us in conversation that Johnson was a good judge of Latin style, though he did not himself compose with the desired accuracy; and he said one day with a laugh, alluding to this epitaph, "there is a little mistake in the Latin of that." In respect, however, to GENT. MAG. VOL. XXX. 2 Z the word in question, we are inclined to think it may not unsuccessfully be defended. Cicero has, "Neque omnia dicam, at leviter unumquodque tangam" (Pro Roscio), and Terence "Ubi Aristoteles ista tetigit (Phormio); but whether the second "tetigit" is right in its mood, may be questioned; and certainly the "Monumentum" in good structure of language is too far removed from the commencing words, which depend on it. In the Greek lines the quantity given to oßapoto is quite arbitrary, and there seems an impropriety in the use of puois without the article. In English it may run thus, Stranger, the tomb inscribed with Goldsmith's name Forbids with careless feet his dust to tread ; But let us escape from these gloomy shades and monuments of death, and rise up into a purer and brighter atmosphere, Largior hic campos æther et lumine vestit where genius lives in the immortality it has formed for itself; and let us once more, before the latest page is closed, enjoy some tender recollections of that transitory life which has just passed in brief review before us. Perhaps there are few which are more full of instruction and interest, for we watch this child of nature in his strange erratic path with curious sympathy. Amidst all his errors we see his memory fully redeemed, and little that the severest moralist could blame, except those blemishes that lay on the very surface of the mind, and when they are removed we find in the depth of his nature feelings generous and good, a temper open and unsuspicious, and a humane, tender, and affectionate heart, engaging amidst all his eccentricities, and easily pardoned amidst his acknowledged errors. That rarest of the divine gifts, the poetical faculty, sometimes steps singly into her human habitation, and sometimes comes attended with her sister train of congenial graces; but Goldsmith is one of those many children of genius to whom the gift of wisdom was denied, and who in their excitable temperament, frank, joyous, and unreserved by nature, did not possess "a learned spirit of human dealings." Of his poetry, it is sufficient praise to say, that it is among the most popular in our language, an estimation justly acquired by its qualities of simplicity of thought and clearness of expression thus its impressions are firmly fixed in our memory, and its images faithfully reflected in our breast. Goldsmith had more love of nature than Pope, more imagination than Crabbe, more select and finished language than Cowper, and a more pure, natural, and easier expression than Gray. His subjects were happily chosen and judiciously treated. We know no poet, except among the greatest, the loss of whose writings would be more severely or more generally felt. In the balance of excellence, the graceful and the tender were united to a loftier and more contemplative vein. The subject and style are suited to each other; and a sweet, tender air of melancholy and pensive reflection softens and harmonizes the whole, producing its many pleasing impressions on the heart. His characters are not ungracefully exaggerated, nor his descriptions unnecessarily prolonged. With a happy reserve, the pencil is withdrawn as soon as the intended effect is produced and the moral design completed. We feel too that the poetical stream has issued from a pure and native source, and owes little to any foreign influence. It requires no learning to understand its allusions, or to feel its beauties; it proceeds from no particular system, it issues out of no prevailing school. Unlike some later styles of poetry, it is never fantastic in its images, harsh in its structure, or quaint and obscure in its expression; but it is founded on nature and refined by taste, and there is in the plainness and simplicity of its descriptions, and in the tenderness of its feelings, that which shows a real and genuine sympathy with the scenes of humble life that are the favourite subject of delineation, a hearty delight in its enjoyments, and an affectionate compassion for its sufferings and wrongs. Poetry like this no change of taste and no progression of time will impair. Hæc placuit semel, hæc decies repetita placebit. Extracts from the Portfolio of a Man of the World. had seen 1823. * *has just been here, and I was talking over Rogers with him, and the Prometheus of Shelley, and of his death. * him not many months before, and he spoke much of his unfortunate circumstances, his folly, his genius, his evil use of it, his charm of mind and manner, his pleasing gaiety, his inexhaustible activity of mind and body, his mechanical ingenuity, his workshop study, and all the inventions upon which he was always employed. Of his sudden and awful endsnatched away at once from life by those elements he had delighted to deify-of the finding of his body. To look upon the lifeless clay is álways appalling; but what is it when one looks at what is left by such a spirit, the all that remains, inanimate matter, and when one thinks of what was and what is now the mind, the thought, the life that was so alive, so triumphant in its vitality, so individual and yet so bent upon denying that individuality, that soul which was so singular, so completely him, and him. alone? He made his own fate, and he suffered for it; but he did much worse, he made the fate of what survives him, and profaned his genius with a taint that poisons all he has produced, and strangely contradicts his so boasted benevolence of purpose! * shewed me "The Age of Bronze," and asked if I thought it was Byron's? I think not: an imitation, I should say, not alarming to the imitated; no danger of a successful rival. However, * thinks it is Lord Byron's, and I read the last published cantos, 6, 7, and 8, of Don Juan to compare. The study of these witty, worthless pages, only confirmed my opinion. Voltaire's Taureau Blanc, or his Les Oreilles de Milord Chesterfield, are not as witty, but about as-there is but one word to apply to Don Juan-blackguard. And I took up to sweeten my imagination Rogers's Italy, and I could not have chosen better. It is so elegant and gentlemanlike. Some one told me it was like a pearl necklace, of which the string was broke; but the pearls are very beautiful individually; not comparable, however, to our old favourite The Pleasures of Memory, of which the versification is so harmonious, and the idea so touching, so true. Of course, in such a poem as Italy there can be nothing that comes so home to the heart as the pleasing melancholy of domestic memories, but the author has quitted his finished and rhythmical lines for the broken and unmusical measure adopted by some of the modern school; unlike Shelley, whose versification, though so inferior to the polished finish of Rogers's early style, is still perfect rhythm. "Italy " is in a halting measure, which stops its own flow; and the old story of the lady locked up in the trunk, which I hear every one praise, appears to me very flat and prosaic : but this is not the taste of the day; and the whole of the poem is graceful and classical, and altogether, in spite of his fashion-fearing measure, worthy of the author. Went to hear Irving. I had heard Chalmers, and his coarse accent and strong powers produced the most powerful effect; it might not be finished eloquence, but it was truth; it was sincere, and went to the heart. Mr. Irving's is finer eloquence-very fine were some passages of his to-day. There was one on the "worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched," in which he described the gradual and increasing remorse of a criminal-" When the first troubled sleep after the dreadful crime shall break, with a start at the first light of day, and feel that another day can never rise as yesterday arose upon him, innocent. The worm that never dieth has begun its torture. He rises, he goes about as another; he is like others in the business of life, and the day is done; he lays him down to rest-To rest? to rest? there is no rest for him! It is the darkness of night. Is he alone? it is dark, it is silent, no voice heard, no sound, no sight. Is he alone? No, there is with him his conscience! what voice does it utter? what sound does it whisper? what sight does it present to his mind's eye? His crime! The fire that is never quenched has begun to burn within. That night, and another day, and another night may pass, and in excess, or in excitement, or in labour, he may still the gnawing pang, or stifle the devouring pain, but it is there. It has begun, it goes on, it increases; day brings no respite; through all that he can do, or all that he can think, and with all that numbers, and noise, and the cheerful light of day can do, he feels the worm for ever busy at his heart,—the inward flame that never can be quenched.' Night brings no relief— that long, long sleepless agony of hours-the burthen of them is intolerable. Death, death,' he says, 'death only can release me !' "Death! Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee,' and you shall know what is that death on which you call. You shall know, indeed, what is this worm that gnaweth at your heart; what is this flame that devours you. Alive, you could for a space assuage, or still, or lull, or drown the agony; sleep might, hardly won, annihilate for some brief hours the torture of your suffering. But now you know that there is no change, no rest, no respite; now death has come, this finite world is finished, and that which is eternal has begun; and now you feel what that eternal is! No change, no rest, no respite; for there their worm dieth not, and their fire is not quenched.' Aye! there it works, and gnaws, and ceases not; then come in ceaseless round the 'Why did I do it?' the What was the temptation?' the 'Oh, if I had but '-the Oh, had I stopped there.' And then begins again, Ah! why did I do it? What was the temptation?' And the worm ceaseth not; ceaseth not, ceaseth not! never, never! The never-ceasing conscience, memory brings ever on and on, and round and round, ever, ever on and on, and round and round,—his merry childhood, fond parents, happy playmates,― Innocence! And then comes Guilt, and then Remorse; and burning, brand ing, cauterizing, on it goes, their flame is never quenched.' What was that hope of happiness, what was that calm, that rest, that innocence? Heaven! What is this end of guilt, what is this agony, this torture, this worm that gnaws, this fire that is always devouring and never consuming, which is for ever and ever? This is Hell! This is where in your agony you behold the innocent, the happy, the blessed; those that you might have been with, those where there is no sorrow, no pain; where the weary are at rest-at rest, at rest, for ever! And in your agony you look at these, and at that gulf between, that never can be passed, and feel yourself in Hell, where their worm dieth not, and their fire is not quenched.'' The women were all in tears, and the men grew pale; but there was a theatrical air in the performer; it was all so got up. There was something, too, in the man's countenance very revolting. I was glad to have heard and seen him, but I never wish to hear or see him again. July 23. Read Reginald Dalton, by the author of Valerius; delighted. Felt quite at home at Oxford, though the town and gown riots are rather overdone; but the generous spirit of the young men, the manly, dashing, reckless feelings of the place, are nobly drawn, and the whole book is interesting, and entertaining; rather lengthy perhaps, but a capital novel. Looking over old family papers with Edward, found another of's old note-books. The date had disappeared with the cover, and several of the pages, but it seemed older than what I found some time ago, which was in Perceval's time. The first I found was of a case in which he heard Erskine plead. It was a will case, in which the testator had left his property to found a school in his native place. The nearest of kin, who, however, appears to have been a distant relation, endeavoured to break the will. Erskine was for the defence. The fine figure, studied attitude, graceful action, and brilliant eye marked the man of genius. He replied to the arguments of the counsel against the will, who had endeavoured to prove undue influence, and to shew that, though the claimant was a distant relation, he was not unknown to the testator. "The evidence," he said, "goes to prove that this third cousin was known to and had been seen by the testator; be it so. Is affection a necessary consequence of the knowledge of the existence of a third cousin? The testator, gentlemen, you will observe was not a Scotchman, his was not necessarily that boundless force of kindred tie which can in Scotland 'Take every clansman in of every kind ;' This was an Englishman: he had not been brought up on the principle that every yellow-haired Sandie or high-cheeked Jamie that bore his name, or his mother's name, or who was fifth cousin once removed to his greatgrandfather's nephew by the mother's side, had an undoubted claim to his kindness and his cash, if he had any. The maker of this will was an English country gentleman: his family was good and his possessions not large; but he appears to have lived in an easy and comfortable manner. He died at the age of sixty-four, in sound mind; for, though his illness. appears to have been long and painful, it does not seem to be of a nature to weaken his intellects. Nor was this will made on his deathbed. It is dated a year previous to his decease. Various evidence had however been brought forward to shew the eccentric turn of his mind. Who is the |