because she thought he would perhaps heed them more in her handwriting, and she now gave them to him, folded up in a neat little silk case, which he could keep without observation. How she put her arm round him and pressed him towards her as she gave them into his hand, and felt that she was doing what her mother would have done, so earnestly, so tearfully, so much more impressively. O was she watching them now?

The brother and sister were interrupted at last, and called down to tea. The evening passed away heavily, spent as it was for the most part in the drawing-room; and the last thing before the boys went to bed, Lionel pushing Gerald roughly off, held Marian fast by the hand, and whispered in her ear, “I say -you've written out something for Gerald.”

"Yes," she answered, horrified that he should have found it out.

"Would you mind doing it for me? Don't tell anyone."

Was not this a pleasure? Marian sat up in her dressinggown that night to write the prayers in her very clearest writing, for she knew Lionel never liked to read what was not large and clear, and she guessed that late in the evening after all his lessons, he would have too many green and blue monsters," as he used to call them, before his eyes, to be willing to give them more work than he could possibly help. She thought her mamma would have been very uneasy if she had heard of those green and blue monsters, and she wondered whether Mrs. Lyddell knew or cared about them, but Lionel was one of the least regarded of the family, and nobody but Johnny ever thought it worth while to make a trifling complaint to her. It was far worse that Lionel should be left to obtain a form of private prayer by such a chance as this. Alas! alas for them all! She was too unhappy to think more of Lionel, and in the midst of earnest prayers for Gerald, she cried herself asleep.

Poor child, she was too miserable all the next day to give us any pleasure in contemplating her.

LEWISHAM BELLS.

I.

IN other days we sought the spot when balmy western breezes sigh,
To list the sound of distant chimes which then are softly wafted nigh,
Like fairy music sweet and slow, swelling on the summer gale,
And floating at the vesper hour through many a pastoral vale.
In infancy I sported o'er the mossy knolls and brakes, and dells,
-Yet list'ning to thy cadence sad, with childish awe, old Lewisham Bells.

II.

Clasping a tender guiding hand, upon the pleasant breezy hill

I whisper'd-"Does the west wind blow-and will the sweet church bells be still ?"

For ever as the peal arose, unbidden tears would ceaseless flow;

It seemed a Miserere chant for a soul about to go.

And fancy dwelt on images, of death, and sorrowful farewells-
Mysterious and prophetic truth-ye softly chiming Lewisham Bells.

III.

Death and sorrow since that time have life's dull picture amply shaded-
Bright colourings of youth and joy have gradually waned and faded;
And when I seek that green hill side-such time the west wind gently sighs
The music oft appears to come from happy mansions in the skies:
One sleeps beneath that grey church tower, within the quiet charnel cells,
Whose solemn dirge alone I hear in slowly chiming Lewisham Bells.

IV.

The plaintive sound to childish ears seem'd then entreating me to pray-
I rarely could resist the wish amid the gayest frolic play;

And as the clouds were sailing past, methought when they should clear away,
The shining gates of Paradise, might be discerned on some bright day!
May dreams of infancy return, spring blossom fruit mature foretels-
O! grant me harmony of soul, responding to sweet Lewisham Bells.

C. A. M. W.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

CHAPTER VI.

THE medical profession proved anything but lucrative to Goldsmith, and therefore he gladly availed himself of an offer to exchange the pestle for the ferule, and undertake the superintendence of a school at Peckham, belonging to one Dr. Milner. Whilst here Goldsmith could not command his benevolent feelings, but was made a prey of by beggars of every class, so that Mrs. M. suggested the propriety of her taking care of his salary, as she did of the money of the boys. "In truth, madam, there is equal need," was the good natured reply.

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Whilst here he met with Griffiths, the publisher of the "Monthly Magazine," who was recruiting for writers, and, being struck with Goldsmith, engaged him at a small fixed salary, with board and lodging. This is alluded to in the "Vicar of Wakefield," in the case of George Primrose. "Come," says George's adviser, sure you are a lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think of commencing author like me? You have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade; at present I'll show you forty very dull fellows about town, that live by it in opulence. All honest, jog-trot men, who go on smoothly, and dully, and write history and politics, and are praised: men, sir, who had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives only have mended shoes, but never made them." Finding," says George, "that

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there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal; and having the highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub Street with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and Ottway trod before me."

Goldsmith did not find his first acquaintance with literary life such as he had expected. He had met with a publisher belonging to a class, of which there are few in the present day. The vassalage was irksome to him, and at the end of five months, the engagement was broken off by mutual agreement.

After this he was casually employed in various quarters, especially by Newbery, of S. Paul's Churchyard, well known for his nursery books, a kind, intelligent man, whom Goldsmith calls the philanthropic bookseller, who has written so many little books for children; he called himself their friend; but he was the friend of all mankind. He endeavoured to eke out his scanty resources by medical practice, but notwithstanding he had but few comforts, and many troubles, of which he has given a somewhat graphic account in his "Inquiry into the state of Polite Literature." His friends

in Ireland had, it seemed, heard exaggerated accounts of his success, and he was one day surprised by a visit from his poor brother, requesting his aid, who was equally surprised at finding Oliver scarcely able to live, much less to assist others. His feelings, thoughts, &c., are thus detailed in a letter to Mr. Hodson.

"I suppose you desire to know my present situation. As there is nothing in it at which I should blush or which mankind could censure, I see no reason for making it a secret. In short, by a very little practice as a physician, and a very little reputation as a poet, I make a shift to live. Nothing is more apt to introduce us to the gates of the muses than poverty; but it were well if they only left us at the door. The mischief is, they sometimes choose to give us their company to the entertainment; and Want, instead of being gentleman usher, often turns master of the ceremonies.

"Thus, upon learning I write, no doubt you imagine I starve; and the name of an author naturally reminds you of a garret. In this particular I do not think proper to undeceive my friends. But, whether I eat or starve, live in a first floor or four pairs of stairs high, I still remember them with ardour; nay, my very country comes in for a share of my affection. Unaccountable fondness for country, this maladie du pais, as the French call it! Unaccountable that he should still have an affection for a place, who never, when in it, received above common civility; who never brought anything out of it except his brogue and his blunders. Surely my affection is equally ridiculous with the Scotchman's,

who refused to be cured of the itch, because it made him unco' thoughtful of his wife and bonny Inverary.

"But now, to be serious: let me ask myself what gives me a wish to see Ireland again? The country is a fine one, perhaps? No. There is good company in Ireland? No. The conversation there is generally made up of a lewd toast or song; the vivacity supported by some humble cousin who had just folly enough to earn his dinner. Then, perhaps, there's more wit and learning among the Irish? Not at all! There has been more money spent in the encouragement of the Padareen mare there one season, than given in rewards to learned men since the time of Usher. All their productions in learning amount to perhaps a translation, or a few tracts in divinity; and all their productions in wit to just nothing at all. Why then, so fond of Ireland? Then, all at once, because you, my dear friend, and a few more who are exceptions to the general picture, have a residence there. This it is that gives me all the pangs I feel in separation. I confess I carry this spirit sometimes to the souring of the pleasures I at present possess. If I go to the opera, where Signora Columba pours out all the mazes of melody, I sit and sigh for Lissoy fireside, and Johnny Armstrong's 'Last Good-night' from Peggy Golden. If I climb Hampstead Hill, than where nature never exhibited a more magnificent prospect, I confess it fine; but then I had rather be placed on the little mount before Lissoy gate, and there take in, to me, the most pleasing horizon in nature.

"Before Charles came hither, my thoughts sometimes found refuge from severer studies among my friends in Ireland. I fancied strange revolutions at home; but I find it was the rapidity of my own motion that gave an imaginary one to objects really at rest. No alterations there. Some friends, he tells me, are still lean, but very rich; others very fat, but still very poor. Nay, all the news I hear of you is, that you sally out in visits among the neighbours, and sometimes make a migration from the blue bed to the brown. I could from my heart wish that you and she (Mrs. Hodson), and Lissoy and Ballymahon, and all of you, would fairly make a migration into Middlesex; though, upon second thoughts, this might be attended with a few inconveniences. Therefore, as the mountain will not come to Mohammed, why Mohammed shall go to the mountain; or, to speak plain English, as you cannot conveniently pay me a visit, if next summer I can contrive to be absent six weeks from London, I shall spend three of them among my friends in Ireland. But first, believe me, my design is purely to visit, and neither to cut a figure nor levy contributions; neither to excite envy nor solicit favour; in fact, my circumstances are adapted to neither. I am too poor to be gazed at, and too rich to need assistance."

MY AUNT NELLY'S PORTFOLIO.

(Continued from page 297.)

JUST after despatching my last quota of MS.—and a happy moment it is when the perturbations of authorship, the perplexities of choice, the entanglement of clashing engagements are all (as Shakespeare says of "the ravelled sleeve of ease ") "knit up;" that is to say made up in an envelope, signed, sealed, and deposited in the post-bag, thence to go forth on its destined mission of speeding thoughts to kindred minds, offering the hand of fellowship to those who profess "common cause;" claiming affectionate communion with some whose faces we may never hope to behold on earth, but with whom we humbly trust to hold converse in heaven; bearing faithful testimony-But, whither indeed am I rambling? when I only meant to say that, on setting to rights the portfolio preparatory to its fortnight's repose, my attention was caught by a letter which, for size, complexion, and superscription, seemed the very twin sister of that which I had just before transcribed. So, in fact, it proved: it was from Aunt Nelly's lazy friend “in continuation," and this is its purport.

"MY DEAR FRIEND,-Your kind and ready reply of the 4th instant has duly come to hand, and I feel more gratified than I can tell you by the cordial interest you seem to take in my little history. I don't know whether you are aware of it, but what first drew me towards you was the likeness you bear to my blessed grandmother. I don't mean to say that it is one of your eyes-nose-and-mouth likenesses,—not at all; but you are so like her in your—————never mind, I should only wound your modesty if I proceeded to particulars; suffice it that I feel the resemblance, and for both your sakes will do so much violence to my nature, as to volunteer another long story connected with my unfortunate journey to London.

"It seemed but justice that my Aunt Clary, having carried the main point, should take upon herself the whole burthen of putting it into effect. This she was quite willing to do. She packed the travelling trunks, mine and her own; took inventories of their respective contents; wrote the directions and (I shouldn't wonder if she had) nailed them on. She furthermore numbered the packages, superintended their bringing down stairs, followed them to the stable-yard, where grandma's old John was busy (though not half busy enough to please her) harnessing our one horse to the square, roomy car, destined to convey us, bag and baggage, to the neighbouring town, where, as the bill of notice expressed it, the London coach' took in its passengers. While Aunt Clary, in a