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sure! Who 's fool, then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such foolhardiness! Whatever happens, it is good enough for you. Follow you! I'd follow the devil as roon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil-for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases. Oh! here he is again. No further! No, you have gone far enough already; further than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions' Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried: Hush, hush. dear sir; don't you hear him? And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost, and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding likewise in him.

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When the scene was over, Jones said: Why, Partridge. you exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible.' Nay, sir,' answered Partridge, if you are not afraid of the devil, I can't help it; but, to be sure, it is natural to be surprised at such things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it was the ghost that surprised me neither: for I should have kuown that to have been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me.' And cost thon imagine then, Partridge,' cries Jones, that he was really frightened?'Nay, sir,' said Partridge, did not you yourself observe afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have been had it been my own case. But hush! O la! what noise is that? There he is again. Well, to be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it. I am glad I am not down yonder where those men are.' Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet: Ay, you may draw your sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil?'

During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly admired the finness of the dresses; nor could he help observing upon the king's countenance. 'Well,' said he, how people may be deceived by faces? Nulla fides fronti is. I find, a trucaying. Who would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed a murder?' He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction than, 'that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire.'

Partridge sat in fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out: There, sir, now; what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears, I would not be in so bad a condition as-what's his name? Squire Hamlet is there, for all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spi.it? As I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth.' 'Indeed you saw right,' answered Jones. 'Well, well,' cries Partridge, I know it is only a play; and besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller would not laugh so; for, as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person. There, there; ay, no wonder you are in such a passion; shake the vile wicked wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I should serve her so. To be sure all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings. Ay, go about your business; I hate the sight of you.'

Our critic was now pretty silent till the play which Hamlet introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand, till Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he had never committed murder. Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her: If she did not imagine the king looked as if he was touched; though he is,' said he, a good actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he ran away; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again.'

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The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who expressed much surprise at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered That it was one of the most famous burial-places about town.' wonder, then,' cries Partridge, 'that the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger. I had a sexton when I was clerk that should have dug three graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing. You had rather sing than work, I believe.' Upon Hamlet's taking up the skull. he cried out : Well! it is strange to see how fearless some men are: I never could bring myself

to touch anything belonging to a dead man on any account. He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit'

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play at the end of which Jones asked him which of the players he had liked best. To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question: The king, without doubt.' 'Indeed, Mr. Partridge,' says Mrs. Miller, you are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are all agreed that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage.' 'He the best player!' cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer; why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me! any man-that is, any good man-that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me; but, indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting before in the country: and the king for my money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the other. Anybody may see he is an actor.'

Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse, where Partridge had afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs. Miller, but to all who sat within hearing, who were more a tentive to what he said than to anything that passed on the stage. He durst not go to bed all that night for fear of the ghost; and for many nights after, sweated two or three hours before he went to sleep with the same apprehensions, and waked several times in great horrors, crying out: 'Lord have mercy upon us! there it is.'

Philosophy and Christianity.

Being now provided with all the necessaries of life, I betook myself once again to study, and that with a more ordinate application than I had ever done formerly. The books which now employed my time solely were those, as well ancient as modern, which treat of true philosophy, a word which is by many thought to be the subject only of farce and ridicule. I now read over the works of Aristotle and Plato, with the rest of those inestimable treasures which ancient Greece hath bequeathed to the world.

To this I added another study, compared to which all the philosophy taught by the wisest heathens is little better than a dream, and is indeed as full of vanity as the siliest jester ever pleased to represent it. This is that divine wisdom which is alone to be found in the Hoy Scriptures: for those impart to us the knowledge and assurance of things much more morthy our attention, than all which this world can offer to our acceptance; of things which heaven itself hath condescended to reveal to us, and to the smallest knowledge of which the highest human wit unassisted could never ascend. I began now to think all the time I had spent with the best heathen writers was little more than labour lost; for however pleasant and delightful their lessons may be, or however adequate to the right regulation of our conduct with respect to this world only, yet, when compared with the glory revealed in Scripture, their highest documents will appear as trifling, and of as little consequence as the rules by which children regulate their childish little games and pastime. True it is, that philosophy makes us wiser, but Christianity makes us better men. Philosophy elevates and steels the mind, Christianity softens and sweetens it. The former makes us the objects of human admiration, the latter of divine love. That insures us a temporal, but this an eternal happiness.

I had spent about four years in the most delightful manner to myself, totally given up to contemplation, and entirely unembarrassed with the affairs of the world, when I lost the best of fathers, and one whom I so entirely loved, that my grief at his loss exceeds all description. I now abandoned my books, and gave myself up for a whole month to the efforts of melancholy and despair. Time, however, the best physician of the mind, at length brought me relief. I then betook myself again to my former studies, which I may say perfected my cure: for philosophy and religion may be called the exercises of the mind, and when this is disordered, they are as wholesome as exercise can be to a distempered body. They do indeed produce similar effects with exercise: for they strengthen and confirm the mind; till man becomes, in the noble strain of Horace,

Fortis, et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus,
Externi ne quid valeat per læve morari:

In quem manca ruit semper Fortune.

[Firm in himself who on himself relies:
Polished and round who runs his proper course,
And breaks misfortune with superior force.

FRANCIS.]

A sister of the eminent novelist, SARAH FIELDING (1714–1768), was also distinguished in literature. She was the author of the novel of David Simple,' a work not unworthy the sister of Henry Fielding; also another tale, The Cry;' and she translated from the Greek the 'Memorabilia' of Xenophon. Some other works of less importance proceeded from the pen of this accomplished woman.

TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT.

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Six years after the publication of Joseph Andrews,' and before Tom Jones' had been produced, a third novelist had taken the field, different in many respects from either Richardson or Fielding, but, like them, devoted to that class of fictitious composition founded on truth and nature. We have previously noticed the circumstances of Smollett's life. A young unfriended Scotsman, he went to London eager for distinction as a dramatic writer. In this his failure was more signal than the want of success which had attended Fielding's theatrical productions. Smollett, however, was of a dauntless, intrepid spirit, and when he again resumed his pen, his efforts were crowned with the most gratifying success. He had adopted Le Sage as his model, but his characters, his scenes, his opinions, and prejudices, were all decidedly British. The novels of Smollett were produced in the following order: 1748, Roderick Random;' 1751, Peregrine Pickle;' 1754, Ferdinand Count Fathom;' 1762, ⚫ Sir Launcelot Greaves;' 1771, The Expedition of Humphrey Clinker.' From the date of his first to that of his latest production, Smollett had improved in taste and judgment; but his powers of invention, his native humour, and his knowledge of life and character, are as conspicuous in Roderick Random' as in any of his works. His Tom Bowling' is his most perfect sea character, though in Peregrine Pickle he has preserved the same general features, with additional colouring, and a greater variety of ludicrous incidents. The adventures of Roderick are such as might naturally have occurred to any young Scotsman of the day in quest of fortune. Scene follows scene with astonishing rapidity at one time his hero basks in prosperity, in another he is plunged in utter destitution. He is led into different countries, whose national peculiarities are described, and into society of various descriptions, with wits, sharpers, courtiers, courtesans, and men of all grades.

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In this tour of the world and of human life, the reader is amazed at the careless profusion, the inexhaustible humour, of an author who pours out his materials with such prodigality and facility. The patient skill and taste of Fielding are nowhere found in Smollett; there is no claboration of character; no careful preparation of incidents; no unity of design. Roderick Random is hurried on without any fixed or definite purpose; he is the child of impulse; and though there is a dash

of generosity and good-humour in his character, he is equally conspicuous for reckless libertinism and mischief-more prone to selfishness and revenge than to friendship or gratitude. There is an inherent and radical meanness in his conduct toward his humble friend Strap, with whom he begins life, and to whom he is so much indebted both in purse and person. Tom Jones is always kind and liberal to his attendant Partridge, but Strap is bullied and fleeced by Roderick Random; disowned or despised as suits the interest or passion of the moment; and at last, contrary to all notions of Scotch spirit and morality, his faithful services and unswerving attachment are rewarded by his receiving and accepting the hand of a prostitute, and an eleemosynary provision less than the sacrifices he had made, or what a careful Scot might attain to by honest independent exertion. The imperfect moral sense thus manifested by Smollett is also evinced by the coarse and licentious passages which disfigure the novel. Making all allowance for the manners of the times, this grossness is indefensible; and we must regret that our author had not a higher and more chivalrous estimate of the female character. In this he was inferior to Richardson, who studied and reverenced the purity of the female heart, and to Fielding, whose tastes and early position in society preserved him from some of the grosser faults of his rival novelist. The charm of 'Roderick Random,' then. consists not in plot or well-sustained characters-admirable as is the sketch of Tom Bowling-but in its broad humour and comic incidents, which, even when most farcical seldom appear improbable, and are never tiresome.

Peregrine Pickle' is formed of the same materials, cast in a larger mould. The hero is equally unscrupulous with Roderick Randomperhaps more deliberately profligate-as in the attempted seduction of Amanda, and in his treatment of Emilia-but the comic powers of the author are more widely and variously displayed. They seem like clouds.

For ever flushing round a summer sky.

All is change, brilliancy, heaped-up plenty, and unlimited power— the rich coin and mintage of genius. The want of decent drapery is unfortunately too apparent. Smollett never had much regard for the proprieties of life-those minor morals,' as Goldsmith has happily termed them-but where shall we find a more attractive gallery of portraits, or a series of more laughable incidents? Prominent in the group is the one-eyed naval veteran, Commodore Trunnion, a humorist in Smollett's happiest manner. His keeping garrison in his house as on board ship, making his servants sleep in hammocks and turn out to watch, is a characteristic though overcharged trait of the old naval commander. The circumstances of his marriage, when he proceeded to church on a hunter, which he steered according to the compass, instead of keeping the road, and his detention while he tacked about rather than go right in the wind's eye,' are equally ludicrous. Lieutenant Hatchway, and Pipes the boat

swain, are foils to the eccentric commodore; but the taciturnity of Pipes, and his ingenuity in the affair of the love-letter, are good distinctive features of his own. The humours of the poet, painter, and physician, when Pickle pursues his mischievous frolics and gallantries in France, are also admirable specimens of laughable caricature. In London the adventures are not so amusing. Peregrine richly mer ited his confinement in the Fleet by his brutal conduct; while Cadwallader, the misanthrope, is more tedious than Fielding's Man of the Hill. The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality '-though a true tale, for inserting which Smollett was bribed by a sum of money-are disgraceful without being interesting. On the whole, the vices and virtues of Smollett's style are equally seen in ‘Peregrine Pickle,' and seen in full perspective.

"Ferdinand Count Fathom' is more of a romance with little of national character or manners. The portraiture of a complete villain, proceeding step by step to rob his benefactors and pillage mankind, cannot be considered instructive or entertaining. The first atrocities of Ferdinand, and his intrigue with his female associate Teresa, are coarse and disgusting. When he extends his operations, and flies at higher game, the chase becomes more animated. His adventures at gambling-tables and hotels, and his exploits as a physician, afford scope for the author's satirical genius. But the most powerful passages in the novel are those which recount Ferdinand's seduction of Celinda, the story of Monimia, and the description of the tempest in the forest, from which he took shelter in a robber's hut. In this lonely dwelling, the gang being absent, Fathom was relieved by a withered beldame, who conveyed him to a rude apart-ment to sleep in. Here he found the dead body of a man still warm, who had been lately stabbed and concealed beneath some straw, and the account of his sensations during the night, the horrid device by which he saved his life (lifting up the dead body, and putting it in his own place in the bed), and his escape, guided by the old hag, whom he compelled to accompany him through the forest, are related with the intensity and power of a tragic poet. There is a vein of poetical imagination, also, in the means by which Fathom accomplishes the ruin of Celinda, working on her superstitious fears and timidity by placing an Æolian harp, then almost an unknown instrument, in the casement of a window adjoining her bedroom. The strings,' says Smollett, with poetical inflation, no sooner felt the impression of the balmy zephyr, than they began to pour forth a stream of melody, more ravishingly delightful than the song of Philomel, the warbling brook, and all the concert of the wood." The remorse of Celinda is depicted with equal tenderness.

The seed of virtue,' remarks the novelist, are seldom destroyed at once. Even amidst the rank productions of vice, they re-germinate to a sort of imperfect vegetation, like some scattered hyacinths shooting up among the weeds of a ruined garden, that testify the former

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