6

Salvador, but we must obey orders,' said one. 'Have you any money about you?' asked the other. For the first time in his life the robber turned pale. A few crusadoes,' he answered; take them, and let me escape; you shall have fifty if I get free.' The troopers searched his pockets, and appropriated all his valuables. Now, Salvador, say a Padre Nosso, for we must obey orders.' The robber endeavoured to utter a prayer, but ere he had concluded it, two bullets had entered his brain. The soldiers unfastened his legs, and the corpse fell to the ground. There they left it, and galloped on to join their companions. 'It is done, your excellency!' said one of them. Very well!' answered the judge, and the soldiers rode back to Villa Real. The treacherous lavrador lost his reward, and the wise judge saved his crusadoes, for the robber was never put into prison. The day afterwards was found in the high road, where he had fallen, the corpse of the dreaded Salvador.” I could scarcely have believed the story, had I not received it from an undoubted source.

6

After dinner everybody retired to take his siesta, a pleasant custom in excessively hot weather, but very enervating when indulged in all the year round. My friend and I preferred taking a ride to some neighbouring vineyards, for which same act of folly I believe we were heartily pitied by the rest.

Soon after we got back all the party assembled in the Sala, rubbing their eyes and yawning, fully prepared for undergoing the fatigues of supper. I thought at dinner that they had amply provisioned themselves for a week, but this repast fully convinced me to what immense capacity the human frame may be brought by perseverance. At an early hour the guests separated to sleep again, and I was conducted to a dormitory which I soon discovered must belong to the ex-friar. Poor old man! He had been ousted for my sake, but the host having retired, there was no one to whom I could apologise; so I sat myself down, not being inclined to sleep, to examine his library. It consisted of about a dozen volumes on theology, such as a monk might be supposed to possess. Among them was one on the Confession, over which I glanced with a curious eye-the result being a disgust I can scarcely explain. I can only say that it fully corroborated all the statements made by Michelêt, and exhibited a knowledge of human depravity in the compiler which I did not before believe to exist. I then turned to a volume of Monkish Legends; tales, such as the most ignorant savage with unwarped judgment would have refused to credit, told as grave and religious truths. "Behold the result of such instruction in the state of Portugal," I thought.

"Her children asked for bread and ye gave them

a stone." I hope that I was not wrong in looking into the old man's books-they did not make me more inclined towards Rome.

The next morning at breakfast the two maiden sisters of our host appeared, and we had the opportunity of complimenting them on the artistic productions of their fingers, in the shape of sheep and fish, and the exquisite delicacy of their sweetmeats. They were considerably older than their brother, and, as I am a gentleman, they wore Wellington boots, and one had rather a ferocious moustache on the upper lip. They were kind and amiable and very courteous, though I suspect their intellectual attainments were rather limited. How could it be otherwise, with ignorant priests, pastors as blind as themselves?

The good old ladies I have been speaking of with the beards and the Wellington boots, were otherwise dressed much in the same style as the rest of their sex of the same age, in coloured calicoes with white 'kerchiefs pinned over their shoulders. Their locks, tinged with grey, were uncovered, and a handkerchief was the only shelter they assumed when they went abroad; their heads most certainly never having been guilty of wearing that modern monstrosity, a bonnet. I was shown into their boudoir. The odour was unpleasant, a combination of apples, cheeses, and snuff, for the windows had not been opened during the winter. On either side were two cane-bottomed sofas, with six chairs arranged in front of them, and a thin strip of carpet for the feet. At one end was a large wardrobe of antique manufacture, and at the other an altar decked with artificial flowers; and in a glass case figures of the Virgin and Child, with crowns on their heads and glittering robes, while little wax angels, with wings, were suspended by wires above them.

We took our leave as soon as we decently could. With many a bow we backed out of the room, but we were compelled to go the rounds of huggings and tappings before we were allowed to mount our beasts on our return to Regoa. I almost laughed outright as we were bandied about from one to the other. "Yet another abraco, my dear friend," exclaimed the fat friar, when I thought that I had got off clear; and before I could leap down the steps, which I felt a strong inclination to do, he seized me in his arms, which were very short while his body was very fat, and nearly squeezed every particle of breath out of me; then, as I am an honest man, if every one of the remaining seven unwashed generation, influenced by the example of the holy man, did not seize us, and go through the whole ceremony over again! This time I was too quick for the Padre, but poor A got a kiss into the bargain. With showers of blessings which would have carried us safe to Timbuctoo, we jogged off on our way to Regoa.

AN ALPHABETICAL ACROSTIC RHYMING ON

ONE SYLLABLE.

A was an Author who lives would portray;

B was the Ball of most dazzling display;
C was the Cannon 'midst murderous fray;
D was the Drunkard in doubtless decay;
E a doom'd Exile from friends far away;
F was a Flower that would bloom but a day;
G was a Giant who could vast armies slay;
Ha strong Horse-a most beautiful grey;
I was an Idol to which heathen did pray ;
J was the Jester so sprightly and gay;
K was a Knave who would cheat and betray;
L the fair Lassie--the Queen o' the May;
M was the Monarch who held potent sway;
N was the Nymph in most gorgeous array;
O a scorn'd Outlaw who'd rules disobey;
P was a Pilgrim "through earth's weary way;"
Q was Quadrille which at cards we play;
R was the Rhymester-myself, I should say;
S was a Song that was term'd Roundelay;
T was the tree that was class'd as a Bay:

U the Umbrella to screen the Sun's ray;

V was a Vale in which lovers would stray;
W the Waves which dash wild 'mid the spray ;
X was brave Xerxes who'd battles assay;

Y the Affirmative-express'd as Yea;
Z was a Zebra an ass that would bray.

HORACE LESLIE.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.**

THE

HE subject of our sketch has not only bequeathed to us works of as great an immortality as most of those written by the many wits who flourished in the last century, but has allowed such an air of refinement to pervade them, and has written in such an elevated and moral style when compared with the works of his compeers, that we need make no apology for singling him out as the subject of a short essay.

Nor is it solely of the fruits of his great mind that we have something to say. It is, however, rather of his works than of his private life that we wish to speak; for as Goldsmith more than most authors possessed the magic gift of identifying himself with his writings, we may almost read his character in every page, and note as we read the nobleness of mind, untainted by the world, which shines out in every sentence. The first work in this very gorgeous edition of Goldsmith, and that upon which the fame of the simple-minded, generous poet chiefly rests, is the "Vicar of Wakefield." The circumstances under which this celebrated novel was first brought to light are so truly characteristic of the man, and show so well the disinterested friendship entertained for him by that rough diamond, Dr. Johnson, that we must repeat the account in the Doctor's own words.

"I received one morning," says Johnson, "a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soca as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion: I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told me he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit;

* Dalziel's Illustrated Goldsmith. With one hundred pictures. By G. J. Pinwell. Ward & Lock, London.

told the landlady I should soon return; and, having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill."

The bookseller who purchased this work was Francis Newbery, and yet, so little did he appreciate its merits, that he allowed it to remain untouched for nearly two years. Nor would it have been published then had not Mr. Newbery been aroused by the great success of a poem called "The Traveller," which Goldsmith published soon after his fracas with his landlady. It must, however, be borne in mind that the publisher of "The Traveller" was John Newbery, the uncle of Frank, and it has been suggested that the "Vicar" was purposely detained until the full harvest of "The Traveller" was reaped.

At length, however, on the 27th May, 1766, the "Vicar of Wakefield" appeared. Before the end of the month a second edition was called for; in three months more, a third; and so it went on. Rogers, the poet, declared that, of all the books which he had seen rise and fall, the charm of the "Vicar of Wakefield" had alone continued as at first; and, could he revisit the world after an interval of many more generations, he should as surely look to find it undiminished. Nor has its popularity been confined to Britain. This beautiful pastoral, one of the most charming pictures of British scenes and manners, has been translated into almost every language. Goethe, the genius of Germany, declared in his eighty-first year that he derived as much pleasure from it as he did at the age of twenty,--that it had in a manner formed a part of his education, influencing his taste and feelings throughout life. The chief cause of its great success is undoubtedly the truth to nature it displays, and nature of the most amiable kind, such as Goldsmith saw it. Could Sterne, or Fielding, or Smollett have produced such a character as Dr. Primrose, the simple, good-natured, large-hearted clergyman, who, when surrounded by troubles, endeavours to reform his fellow prisoners in the gaol, and rather than swerve from the self-imposed task, suffers one to spit at him, another to pick his pocket of his spectacles, a third to displace his books, and to substitute an obscene book for God's Word, conscious of the just cause in which he is engaged, and the respect which a good man's works are sure to inspire? And when we recollect that the original of Dr. Primrose was Goldsmith's own father, does not the poet rise even higher in our estimation for being the son of such a man, and for possessing so much filial love as is shown by the care and grace with which he has drawn the character? Independently, however, of the many charms which the "Vicar of Wakefield" possesses as a picture of English man