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Spenser;' 'The Universal Almanack, by Noureddin Ali;' The Forced Marriage,' a tragedy, rejected by Garrick in 1754, and a second part of his Sketches and Reveries.' The whole was published in two volumes, with the title of Miscellanies,' to which he prefixed a splenetic advertisement, apparently written for the sole purpose of making an opportunity to express his lofty contempt of the opinion of the mobility, from the highest to the lowest.' He did not, he declares, write for the public, he wished for the praise of only the best judges: he had consequently no ground for expecting that his book would be rapidly spread. Yet, with a strange inconsistency, in less than a month after his Miscellanies came out, we find him murmuring at the slowness of the sale. In a letter to Dr. Smollett, he says, though I admitted my operator to an equal share of profit and loss, the publication has been managed in such a manner, as if there had been a combination to suppress it; notwithstanding which, I am told, it makes its way tolerably at least. But I have heard to-day that somebody is to give me a good trimming very soon,'

That of which he professes to have been forewarned, did actually come to pass. For the vulgar and brutal language of some of his sketches he was severely chastised by the critics. It is in truth such as must excite disgust in every delicate and candid mind. The periodical critics did not stand alone in their censure of it. In a letter to Sir William Forbes, Beattie mentions it with reprobation, and, at the same time, gives a just character of The Forced Marriage,' and 'The Universal Almanack.' 'I know not (says he) what is the matter with Armstrong, but he seems to have conceived a rooted aversion against the whole human race, except a few friends, who it seems are dead. He sets the public opinion at defiance: a piece of boldness which neither Vir

gil nor Horace were ever so shameless as to acknowledge. I do not think that Dr. Armstrong has any cause to complain of the public: his "Art of Health" is not indeed a popular poem, but it is very much liked, and has often been printed. It will make him known and esteemed by posterity: and I presume he will be more esteemed if all his other works perish with him. In his "Sketches," indeed, are many sensible and some striking remarks: but they breathe such a rancorous and contemptuous spirit, and abound so much in odious vulgarisms and colloquial execrations, that in reading we are as often disgusted as pleased. I know not what to say of his Universal Almanack; it seems to me an attempt at hu→ mour, but such humour is either too high or too low for my comprehension. The plan of his tragedy, called "The Forced Marriage," is both obscure and improbable; yet there are good strokes in it, particularly in the last scene.'

With what regard to decorum some of the Sketches of Armstrong are penned, it is fit that the reader, who has not seen them, should be enabled to judge. One specimen will suffice. 'There is nothing more true (says he) than that the inhabitants of a certain metropolis are, in general, not only the most brutal, indecent, and immoral, but the most stupid and ignorant of the whole people throughout the kingdom. Oh!-to any who feels for the honour and dignity of England, what a subject of shame and mortification it must be, that the bad manners of those who inhabit the capital expose the whole nation to the contempt of all foreigners! Oh! good God! to the contempt of all Europe; who must naturally form an unjust opinion of the more civilized and more sensible people in all the most distant corners of the kingdom from what passes here. Where the master of the house is a clown, the whole partake in his disgrace; and is even apt to be in

fected by him. Pray don't call the people of this town Englishmen.-For the honour of England, call them Londoners for ever.-The yesty dregs of Great Britain and Ireland, the frothy scum of every nation of Europe, of every province of America, fermenting with the gowk spittle of Jamaica, is their composition. Such Englishmen as these Londoners-good heaven!-are the only real enemies of England; which never can be ruined, but by their stupidity, their absurdity, their madness, and villany.'

Such was the filth with which Armstrong wantonly strove to bespatter more than half a million of his fellow citizens. Is it to be wondered at, that he, whose hand was against every man, should find every man's hand against him?

Among his friends was Mr. Fuseli, the painter, whose future eminence he predicted in one of the Sketches. With this gentleman, in the summer of 1770, he visited the continent, and spent a short time in the society of Dr. Smollett, who then resided near Leghorn, to whom he was warmly attached. Next year, under his fictitious name of Temple, he published his hasty tour, with the title of A short Ramble through some Parts of France and Italy.' It has dropped into oblivion ; and, as the style of it was poor, the remarks were trite, and the sentiments were misanthropic, there is no reason to regret its fate.

The last work that came from his pen was his 'Medical Essays,' a 4to pamphlet, published in 1773, which contains many judicious observations. In his concluding essay, he introduces the subject of himself; and, as complaining was probably become habitual, be complains of being roughly treated by persons of his own profession, by the herd of critics, and by reviewers. He complains of severity, he who had lavished abuse on whole communities. To a ticklish state of spirits, and a distempered excess of sensibility,' which prevented him from pushing himself

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into notice, he attributes the smallness of his practice, and it is probable that these were among the causes, though they were not the sole causes, that he never attained to popularity as a physician.

His death took place on the seventh of September, 1779, at his house in Russel Street, Covent Garden; and it is supposed to have been occasioned by a contusion, which he accidentally received on his thigh, while getting out of a carriage. His continual discontent had induced his acquaintance to believe that he was suffering under the evils of poverty; and, therefore, when he died, they were not a little astonished to learn that he had saved more than three thousand pounds from an income which they had imagined to be inadequate to provide him with the comforts of existence. Possessed, as he was, of poetical reputation, of friends, a competency, and health, it does not appear that he was deprived of any thing which is really necessary to the happiness of a rational being.

Yet, while the failings of Armstrong are recorded, let not injustice be done to him. His splenetic feelings seem to have evaporated in words, and never to have influenced his actions. He was wrong-headed, not malignant-hearted. Mr. Fuseli is said to speak highly in favour of the general benevolence of his character,' and his testimony is supported by that of the late Dr. Cumming, of Dorchester. I was early acquainted with Dr. Armstrong (says Dr. Cumming), have visited him at his lodgings, knew many of his intimates, have met him in company; but, from my having visited the metropolis so seldom since my residence in Dorsetshire, I was not so well acquainted with him as I should otherwise have been, or wished to be. He always appeared to me (and I was confirmed in this opinion by that of his most intimate friends) a man of learning and genius, of considerable abilities in his profession, of great benevolence

and goodness of heart, fond of associating with men of parts and genius, but indolent and inactive, and therefore totally unqualified to employ the means that usually lead to medical employment, or to elbow his way through a crowd of competitors. An intimate friendship always subsisted between the Doctor and the author of the Seasons, as well as with other gentlemen of learning and genius; he was intimate with, and respected by, Sir John Pringle, to the time of his death.'

Had Armstrong written only his few miscellaneous poems, he could scarcely have been considered as more than a man of observation and wit, who amused himself by clothing his thoughts in verse, often of careless construction, though, in general, easy and spirited. The Imitations of Shakspeare' fail as imitations; for they are not truly Shakspearian in their style. The language likewise is inflated, and at times verges on bombast. Yet in Winter' and Progne's Dream,' genuine poetry is to be found. The 'Epistle to Eumenes' is far from being a finished piece, but it may, nevertheless, be perused with pleasure, for the uniform benevolence of its sentiments, and the very striking manner in which some of those sentiments are expressed. 'Taste' is a production of a superior kind, full of point and animation and acute remark. The Epistle to Wilkes' is of the same species; and, though it is a hasty composition, which now and then sets rhyme and metre at defiance, its faults are atoned for by its strokes of pleasantry and of harmless satire.

The fame of Armstrong rests, however, on his 'Art of preserving Health,' which is, perhaps, the best didactic poem in any modern language. The skill, as well as the genius, of the poet is eminently displayed in it. There is nothing forced or disproportionate or out of place. Each part contrasts with, and relieves the other, like the light and shade of a