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which Goldsmith was not inclined to accept in its literal sense. Garrick, still maintaining his mock-seriousness, pretended to compliment Goldsmith's person at the expense of his dress, adding, "Nay, you will always look like a gentleman; but I was talking of being well or ill dressed." "Well, let me tell you," answered Goldsmith, with the utmost simplicity, "when my tailor brought home my bloom-colored coat, he said, Sir, I have a favor to beg of you; when anybody asks you who made your clothes, be pleased to mention John Filby, at the Harrow, in Water-lane." " This aroused Johnson, who had been a silent spectator of the whole affair, and he now thundered out, "Why, sir, that was because he knew the strange color would attract crowds to gaze at it, and thus they might hear of him, and see how well he could make a coat, even of so absurd a color." Though Mr. Filby received no other payment for his services and wares, he certainly in this case purchased immortality at a cheaper rate than most are willing to pay for it. For the next period of ten years, the name of Dr. Goldsmith will frequently occur in the history of his illustrious cotemporary and associate.

The only production of any permanent interest from the pen of Johnson, bearing date in 1763, is a sketch of the poet Collins, furnished by him to the "Poetical Calendar," and afterward inserted, slightly enlarged, among the "Lives of the English Poets." That brief production bears strong indications of the author's peculiar style and method of writing, being liberally loaded with reflections and sententious maxims of life. But it is chiefly remarkable for its tender sympathy toward the late suffering object of his memoirs. The writer, no doubt, saw much in Collins's case to remind him of his own mental history; and probably while setting forth the influence of bodily languor in enervating, and at length dethroning, a noble intellect, he felt more than a speculative interest in the subject.

Johnson had known Collins personally for a few years previous to his last and irrecoverable mental prostration; and when that sad event occurred, he deeply sympathized with his suffering friend. Writing to Dr. Warton soon after, he remarked "How little can we venture to exult in any intellectual powers or literary attain

ments, when we consider the condition of poor Collins! I knew him a few years ago, full of hopes and full of projects, versed in many languages, high in fancy, and strong in retention. This busy and forcible mind is now under the government of those who lately would not have been able to comprehend the least and most narrow of its designs." Again, the next year, Johnson wrote: "Poor, dear Collins! Let me know whether you think it would give him pleasure if I should write to him. I have often been near his state, and therefore have it in great commiseration." Of the nature of that condition to which Johnson supposed himself to "have often been near," he informs us in this sketch of his friend: "He languished under that depression of mind which enchains the faculties without destroying them, and leaves reason the knowledge of right without the power of pursuing it." And as to the origin of these morbid tendencies he adds: "His disorder was not alienation of mind, but general laxity and feebleness-a deficiency of vital rather than of intellectual powers." Such remarks, which are found frequently occurring in his writings, indicate both his interest in the general subject of mental disorders, and his extensive and accurate knowledge of their nature.

A kindly feeling toward the mad poet, as a fellow author for bread, clearly manifests itself in this brief sketch; and the author is constantly prepared to explain away, or extenuate any of his seeming faults or foibles by references to the peculiarities of his circumstances. Truth required that it should be written, that Collins "designed many works, but accomplished very little;" but this declaration is modified by the consideration immediately subjoined: "A man doubtful of his dinner, or trembling at his creditor, is not much disposed to abstract meditation or remote inquiries." In sketching his moral character, its imperfection is conceded; but this suggestive reflection is annexed: "In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation, it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uniform; there is a degree of want by which the freedom of agency is almost destroyed; and long associations with fortuitous companions will at last relax the strictness of truth, and abate the fervor of sincerity." It can hardly be

supposed that this was written without a lively recollection of the scenes of former times, when these things, in their most painful forms, were the circumstances in which Johnson was living, suffering, and faintly hoping for changes that now had occurred. Nor let our reader think that the time has passed when literature is so poorly rewarded. The history of some of our own cotemporaries will unfold a chapter as full of anxiety and privation as any of the times of Johnson. When will a better day dawn? When true merit will be appreciated and its labors rewarded, although fame may not have heralded its approach.

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eyes

Do follow from afar. In sackcloth robed,
In ashes bow'd, a nation mourns the day;
And men of war, six hundred thousand there,
Are weak as women.
Aged men, and maids

Of laughing eyes, weep now; and e'en young babes

Join in the wailing. Still that form erect,
With undiminish'd vigor, passes on
Alone, and none may follow where he treads.
Their wail is wafted on the breeze. But he,-
Can aught of human love or human woe
Bedim his prospect now? retard his step?
Slowly he turns to where a beetling cliff'
Commands the tented plain.

And there he stands,

That meek and holy man. A hundred years
And more have laid their winters on his brow,
Their summers in his heart. Wisdom and love

Kept pace in that great soul. Communing oft
With God, he bore to Israel's waiting host
The bread of Heaven, and in his own heart
brought

An ever-deeper fount of love for them;
And now within his aged breast that heart,
A human heart, is yearning o'er its kind,
With deep, undying, human love. The wail

Of Israel is echoed there. "O God!
If but this cup might pass!" His head is
bow'd

Upon his heaving breast, where love and grief
Hold fearful strife with Faith and dreaded Fate.

The past, with all its weary years, comes back;
Its years of wandering, and toil, and strife,
Of sinning and repentance, rise before him-
Years that have bound him close and closer still
Unto this wayward race, until his love
Is such as tender parents feel :-a love
That found it ever easy to forgive;

A love that oft has stood between their God, Their angry God, and them. Who now can lead?

Who now can love and bear with them as he?
O that this cup might pass! O that e'en now
He might return, and be their leader still!
The strife is done, and faith has conquer'd grief.
Again his upturn'd eye is clear and bright,
Again his step is firm as erst. For Faith

Is holding high converse, where late the strife Wax'd high. She tells him now that God shall love

His people, and shall lead them into rest ;

That though they wander from the way and long Are straying, they shall be brought back at last. "Though they should fall, they'll rise again : His hand

Supports them still." Though other human hands

Shall lead, yet God shall still direct and guard.
Upward he mounts, and not with lagging step
Or drooping form, but with elastic tread
And still increasing vigor, till at length
He passes on the mountain's brow. The mists
That veil the vision of mortality

Are dissipated now. The clear, pure air
Laving his care-worn brow, so soothes his sense,
As 'twere the very breath of Heaven. The past
Seems now but as a "vision of the night,"
A weary dream, before this dawning day.

ear, "Behold!"
The voice of God breaks on his
And like a map outspread, beneath him lay
The Promised Land, the fair and fertile fields
So long awaiting Israel's wand'ring host.
From north to south, and to the utmost sea,
From Gilead's borders even unto Zoar,
His eyes behold its wealth and loveliness,
And he is satisfied. Not one regret
O'ershadows now its beauty. Not one pang
Tells now of selfish thought. His soul outflows
In liquid love, and o'er that smiling land
Sheds a last blessing for his nation child.
Slow fades the vision. Brighter grows the day,
More pure the air, and fairer scenes appear!
At length he rests-in Heaven.

M. H. L. JERVIS.

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What shall I liken thee to, Susie?

What shall I liken thee to?

What rings out so free, as thy laugh full of glee?
What shall I liken thee to?

Shall I call thee a bird, whose warble is heard,

From the bough of the blossoming tree, Susie? No; the bird's song is still, when November blows chill, Never wind shall blow coldly on thee, Susie!

What shall I liken thee to, Susie?
What shall I liken thee to?

What so precious and bright as thy face of delight?
What shall I liken thee to?

To brilliants that shine, like stars from the mine,
Or pearls from the depths of the sea, Susie?
No; the gem has been sold for silver and gold,

But what price could ever buy thee, Susie?

There's naught I can liken thee to, Susie; There's naught I can liken thee to: Bird, flow'ret, and gem, alike I condemn;

There's naught I can liken thee to. Thou'rt a gift from above, of the Father of love, Sent to call our hearts upward to him, Susie : His smile we see now in the light of thy brow; God grant it may never grow dim, Susie!

W

THE HISTORY OF SERMONS.

HEN shall the world be favored with a history of the pulpit, and who will write it? Such a work is a great desideratum, and, well executed, might prove of incalculable value. The world is full of material, which only needs to be collected, sifted, and arranged. Let some one of our men of might gird himself for the task.

One chapter in such a work, or perhaps more, should be given to the origin and history of sermons, and curious indeed would be its developments; especially if all their secret history could be made known. Let us give two or three facts, which may go to show somewhat of what

we mean.

One of the most beautiful and popular of the sermons of Robert Hall is the one occasioned by the death of the amiable Princess Charlotte, who died in 1817-a sermon which he had not even thought of delivering an hour before its commencement.

Devoted to his duty, this eminent man seldom looked at a newspaper, and was supremely ignorant of passing events, so that he was not aware of the time when the princess was to be buried. The funeral ceremony took place on a Wednesday evening, just at the time of Mr. Hall's weekly lecture. Royal bereavements generally have attention paid them from the pulpit, especially at the hour of interment, but the thought never occurred to Mr. Hall that anything more than an ordinary service would take place at Harvey Lane.

On his arrival there, as usual, behold the whole house was lighted up and crowded. "How is this, sir?" asked Mr. Hall of one of his deacons. "What does this crowd mean?" Why, sir, the Princess Charlotte, you know, is buried this evening, and the people are come to hear

"Well,

your funeral sermon for her." sir, I am very sorry, but I had entirely forgotten it; ask Mr. to introduce the service, and I will sit down in the vestry, and endeavor to think of something to say." The substance of the sermon on the topic, which appears in the first volume of his works, was the result of half an hour's reflections; the sermon was afterward written, published, and produced great effects. prince described it as the best of all the sermons sent him on the occasion; and another eminent man thought that the production of such a sermon went far to account for the mysterious removal of the princess.

The widowed

Much smaller events than the removal of the great have suggested good sermons. The admirable discourse on "Walking on Faith," the first sermon printed by Andrew Fuller, owed its origin to a small matter. It was delivered at an annual meeting of the Northamptonshire Association, at whose request it was printed. Like the sermon of his friend Hall, not a word of it was written till after its delivery. On his way to the Association the roads in several places were flooded, arising from recent rains, which had made the rivers overflow. Mr. Fuller came to one place where the water was very deep, and he, being a stranger to its exact depth, was unwilling to go on. A plain countryman residing in the neighborhood, better acquainted with the water than the preacher, cried out, "Go on, sir, you are quite safe."

Fuller urged on his horse, but the water soon touched his saddle, and he stopped to think. "Go on, sir, all is right," shouted the man. man at his word, Fuller the text was suggested, faith, not by sight."

Taking the proceeded, and "We walk by

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EBE

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BENEZER ELLIOTT was born at Masborough, near Sheffield, England, on the 17th of March, 1781. His father was a clerk in the Iron Works of that place, with a salary of £70 a year. On this small pittance he supported a family of eight children. In his youth, Ebenezer was remarkable for good nature-a fault got bravely over in The Corn-Law Rhymes-and for a certain dullness of mind that long prevented him from mastering the easiest rudiments of a common English education. And his original stupidity is said to have been confirmed by the help which he received from a clever

RHYMER.

school-fellow, who used to do for him his sums in arithmetic. Without understanding addition, he somehow got into the Rule of Three, and without understanding the Rule of Three, (but that of course,) he got into Decimals, where he stuck fast. At this period of his studies he was examined by his father, and "found wanting." He scarcely knew that two and two made four. Clearly, he will never make the clerk that his father is-never have that fortune of £70 a year!

He was set to work in the foundry to see whether sifting sand would not improve his arithmetic, and make him as

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