The next extract describes, with some feeling, the author's approach to his first parish.

Monday, June 5, 182 .—The ordination over, my papers delivered, and my fees paid; my parting bow made to the bishop, and my grateful acknowledgments offered to his chaplain-I had nothing to do but proceed to my parish. I rode slowly, for my heart was full. What a change in feeling-in sentiment-in profession-had a few hours produced? "The vows I have pronounced are sacredly binding, and can only be cancelled by death. Of the commission, which I have voluntarily undertaken, how paramount the importance-how ceaseless the responsibility!' Thus musing I had reached the boundary of the parish. It was the close of a lovely summer's day. The birds were singing their evening hymn to their Great Creator-the peasant was returning from his toil-the last rays of the sun were taking leave of the surrounding landscape with a smile-and all nature wore that look of sabbath stillness which we can fancy prevailed when God rested from his labours, and "saw that it was very good."

The portraits of some of his parishioners are drawn with humourfor instance, Mr. Neophyte Neversage.

Tuesday, June 27.—I have just parted with a most facetious gentleman-a kind of general executor to the whole county-a sort of testamentary Caleb Quotem. He came up with a smile-introduced himself as "Mr. Neophyte Neversage," and "begged for my company when agreeable." He assured me that he was particularly partial to clerical society-had been extremely fortunate in that respect. "I once, Sir, spent a clerical day with the late worthy vicar Mr. Peyton. Allow me to give you an account of it. It runs thus. In the morning at eight o'clock I had the pleasure of giving away my respected friend Mrs. Diana Doublestakes; she was the widow of my late partner Mr. Zerubbabel Doublestakes; and a very sensitive sympathising woman she was. The ceremony was over by nine and as we left the church, we crossed the grave of her first husband, over which, in passing, she she a flood of tears. At eleven I had the satisfaction of meeting the same excellent incumbent at a christening-that of my nephew's eldest son, my god-child. Most appropriately was the ceremony performed! I was a guest at the christening dinner, but could not long enjoy it. I left the feast of reason and the flow of soul' at seven, to attend as chief mourner the remains of my estemed cotrustee to the grave. This lamentable, but alas! requisite service, was very feelingly performed by the same dignified divine. I was present at the reading of the will; in which I found myself named sole executor and residuary legatee. These little matters satisfactorily adjusted, I joined the wedding party at supper, when we kept it up to a late hour in the morning. This, Sir, I call one of my clerical days'-shall be most happy (with a very low bow) on any future occasion, to go the same round of duty with you!' The hit at the poet preacher Crabbe is somewhat good. Monday, Sept. 25.—I have been diverted this morning almost against my will. A poor woman came to me from Trowbridge to request my interference with the secretary of a benefit club to which her husband belonged; and from which, though disabled by disease, he could obtain no relief. After some preliminary conversation, I observed, "You are very fortunate at Trowbridge, in having for your minister so celebrated and so gifted an individual as Mr. Crabbe." "It's in what that I'm fortunate?" asked she, with her sharp, blue, interrogatory nose. "In the ministry of a man so justly famed as Mr. Crabbe." "Ah! Mr. Crabbe! You've heard of him, I dare say; he's a great pote. Perhaps you've read his books of verses? I never did; I haven't time. They say he's made a mint of money by his potery. I'm sure it's more than he'll ever make by his sermons. They are so very d-r-y:" and she pursed up her thin, spare, skinny lips till her mouth was like the top of a vinegar cruet. "Besides he is so stiff and solemn; no life in him."

"Well, but that does not affect the matter of his sermons."

"O! ha! He's a great scholar, I dare say. Too much learning by far for me; for I can't understand him half my time. There was a sermon he preached us, all about the queen of Sheba-very fine, I make no doubt-I'm sure there wasn't one word in ten that I ever heard before! Then it's nothing but question and answer. Quite provoking! I said to him one day-It's a shame for your reverence to stand up in the pulpit and put question after question, when you know it's an unpossible thing for any poor creature to get up and give an answer to ye. It's all on one side, as a

body may say. You have it all your own way.-Ay-ay, it's very well for the great folks in London: but poor creatures so illiterate about their future state as I am, wouldn't care if they was never to hear again one of your pote parsons."

The

The death of a parishioner, though, perhaps, not a proper subject of fun to the parson of the parish, is amusingly described. foundation of a "Kick scholarship" will cause a smile at Cambridge.

Thursday, Nov. 3.-I am concerned to record the death of Miss Eunice Kick. This melancholy event took place at an early hour this morning. I am afraid it is a species of felo de se. Her enemies, indeed, roundly assert that she killed herself; while her intimate friends as strenuously maintain that she was only “accessary to the fact." Truth lies between. Miss Kick was a female quack. She was the greatest patroness of patent medicines in the village; and prescribed with singular readiness for all complaints, classes, ages, and conditions, Dr. James's Powder"-" Widow Welch's Pills " 66 'Daffy's Elixir" and " - she could 'Dalby's Carminative: "speak from experience to the virtues of them all! At last she fell ill herself. Medical advice was called in; but after some consideration, Miss Eunice “was satisfied she understood the treatment of her complaint" better than her doctor. Mr. Ravenscreech was of course dismissed. Miss Kick undertook the management of her own case-consulted Buchan's Vade Mecum-and died three days afterwards. After all there was no such great mistake! She merely inserted in the prescription mercury for magnesia! Peace to her memory: she was a bustling woman; and will be much missed at the Sunday school, where she put every class into confusion. She has bequeathed-so Miss Goggs informs me-the sum of twenty guineas to this her favourite charity; and a further sum of two guineas, annually, to that girl who shall pass the best examination at Christmas-to be expended in appropriate clothing. The successful candidate to be called "the Kick Scholar."

The writer makes an observation on the frequency of very undistinguished undergraduates at the university, turning out, in after-life, very distinguised men. This topic is worthy of consideration to those who are interested in the selection of university studies, and the regulation of university literary discipline. The author's instances are the late mineralogical professor at Cambridge, Dr. Clarke, and the present rector of St. Giles's, Mr. Benson. Of Dr. Clarke, we have the following sketch; allowing for some exaggerated eulogy, the resemblance is striking, and the praise tolerably just.

Among these very numerous instances, the subject of the present paper may be included. He is the son of a most respectable solicitor at Cockermouth; was sent, at an early period of life, to Cambridge, and entered at Trinity College. At this magnificent college he graduated in 1809, but took no honour. It is singular, that neither Benson nor Clarke arrived at any thing beyond mediocrity in the stated studies of the University. They both appear to have been admired and esteemedthe one for his social qualities and rare conversational powers-the other for his moral excellence and private worth; but neither seem to have given any promise of their future fame. We search in vain for Benson's name as a prizeman, even on his own peculiar and favourite subject; yet it would be difficult to name two individuals who have reflected greater credit on their University. Dr. Clarke's claim to geniusgenius of the highest order, of the most varied kind, and consecrated to the noblest purposes-who is prepared to deny ? His energy and enterprize as a traveller-his accuracy and industry as an author-were only surpassed by his ability as a professor. As a lecturer where shall we find his equal? To fix the capricious attention of the youthful student-to clothe his subject in the most perspicuous language, and adorn it with the happiest illustrations-to turn from the veins in a pebble to the proofs of the Being of a God-to deduce from the consideration of a bed of strata some direct and striking testimony to the authenticity of Scripture-to surprize the mind, engaged in the dullest and driest mineralogical details, into the noblest aspirations after God and goodness; and this without the slightest appearance of affectation or effort, and while the glow of genius was irradiating one of the finest and most expressive countenances with which man was ever gifted-were traits in his character as a public instructor, which those who attended his lectures have often witnessed, though they may not be

able to describe.

The character of Mr. Benson is the very best part of the book. It is just, discriminative, and forcible; and we are glad of an opportunity of circulating the eulogy of so deserving a man.

With Benson these objections are idle. He convinced the understanding, but-he touched the heart. He swayed, by his arguments, the judgment; and he alarmed, by his inferences, the conscience. He pleaded most powerfully to the reason; but he engaged your sympathy, and led captive your affections. And as to his mannerhow simple-how humble-how devout-how utterly devoid of pretension, yet how invariably impressive-let those who have heard him determine.

Encircled by all the insignia of Akadeμia, and supported by that air of imposing solemnity which the University church breathes around the preacher at St. Giles's, surrounded by all the flutter and fashion of a metropolitan audience at the Foundling, where every eye was fixed upon the orator, and every ear was drinking in those gentlypersuasive accents with which he pleaded the cause of charity-under all these circumstances I have listened to Mr. Benson; but never, I am free to confess, with such feelings of uumingled pleasure, or with a more grateful testimony to his powers, than in the small, still, quiet chapel of Magdalen College. It was my privilege, for such I deem it, to have heard him, on two distinct occasions, address the under-graduates of that society, previous to the administration of the sacrament; and even at this moment of time, when long years have intervened, I can listen to the music of his voice-can remember some of those sentiments so fraught with humility and devotion and piety, in which our privileges and duties were pressed upon us-and can trace the effect with which, in more than one instance, his affecting exhortations were blessed. There are those in existence who, amid the turmoils and temptations of the world, have recurred to the observations which followed the text, and have been strengthened, and supported, and comforted!

It is true, that on each of the occasions to which I have referred, the man was the same. In voice, in attitude, in manner, in look and gesture, in all he was unchanged. Though carried along on the full tide of popularity-though wealth, and rank, and fashion sat around him in unbroken attention-there was still the same deep, sustained, sincere devotion-the same dignified and elegant simplicity-the same absence of every thing like pretension-the same subdued but persuasive earnestness-the same low, soft, sweet voice with which he used to read morning prayers, at the early hour of eight, in the College Chapel, to an auditory of a dozen under-graduates. And yet-let the frankness of the confession plead for its selfishness-I admired him most when we had him to ourselves."

In taking this rapid sketch of Mr. Benson, his voice must not be forgotten. It is one of the most attractive things about him; and, I am inclined to think, peculiar to himself. I can hardly define what it is. I must describe it by what it is not. It is neither loud-nor clear-nor strong-nor sonorous; you can hardly call it bass; it undoubtedly is not treble; it is singularly plaintive, touching, and persuasive-very flexible-very musical. It conveys an idea of great delicacy of constitution, but is in exquisite harmony with the matter and manner of the owner.

To this peculiar combination of mental and physical powers of the acquirements of mind with the graces of manner-much of Mr. Benson's popularity among, and influence over, the under-graduates may be mainly ascribed. When he preached at St. Mary's you would find the grave and the gay, the studious and the idle, the mathematical and the sceptical, the serious and the dissipated-all listening to him with pleasure-not a few with profit.

We should be glad to extend our extracts, and make some quotations from the very amusing diary of the rich old gentleman, Mr. Gaius Gompertz of Fenchurch-street, but we can afford no more room; and indeed, the space we have already devoted to it is beyond the proportionate value of the work.

VIVIAN GREY: SECOND PART.

THOU rapid Aar! thy waves are swollen by the snows of a thousand hills-but for whom are thy leaping waters fed ?-Is it for the Rhine?

Calmly, oh! placid Neckar, does thy blue stream glide through thy vine-clad valesbut calmer seems thy course when it touches the rushing Rhine!

How fragrant are the banks which are cooled by the dark-green waters, thou tranquil Maine!-but is not the perfume sweeter of the gardens of the Rhine?

Thou impetuous Nah! I lingered by thy islands of nightingales, and I asked thy rushing waters why they disturbed the music of thy groves?-They told me, they were hastening to the Rhine!

Red Moselle! fierce is the swell of thy spreading course-but why do thy broad waters blush when they meet the Rhine?

Thou delicate Meuse! how clear is the current of thy limpid wave-as the wife vields to the husband, do thy pure waters yield to the Rhine!

Such is the commencement of the second part of Vivian Grey, from which we were at first inclined to infer, that the gentleman had gone out of his mind; on maturer consideration, however, we are disposed to ascribe these flights rather to the intoxication of conceit, than to respectable phrenzy. Our conclusion may be a wrong one; but of this we are certain, that if he indeed be crazy-and appearances are unquestionably suspicious-it is a case of la folie par l'amour, and the love, is love of himself. Never did we observe the evidence of a more sincere, fervent, and devout admiration, than the author discovers of his own parts: he seems most potently persuaded that there is but one man in the world-the writer of Vivian Grey; and that the rest of mankind is divisible only into two classes-his pious worshippers and his unworthy detractors. These he treats with all magnanimity, blighting the one simply with his silent contempt, and blessing the other with the bounties of his great mind. So have we seen in Bedlam, a poor creature dispense straws as sceptres, and graciously bestow rubbish as riches-" here is a jewel above all price," he would proudly say, displaying a pebble," and here the wealth of Peru," liberally handing to us some chips of slate. It is thus with Vivian Grey: he gives us the cobwebs and sweepings of that narrow cell, his cranium, with the air of one who.confers inestimable treasures on a grateful world. He treats us as the Barmecide, in the Arabian Nights, regaled his guests-sets before us a number of bare platters, with infinite show and ostentation of entertainment; licks his lips at his own imagined dainties; and hospitably bids us enjoy his luxuries, while we see nothing but the cameleon's fare. Acting as fugalman, he goes through all the motions of feeding, rattles his knife and fork, and says, "this is good; and I flatter myself that it is to your taste:" or, "not a cook in Europe can match the bonne bouche before you;" and we observe a feast on which, in two hours, a grasshopper would die of famine. The courteous public, like the Barmecide's guests, find every thing excellent that is so authoritatively recommended to them, and rise from the regale perfectly surfeited with inanity; and protesting, that if life and soul depended on it, they could not swallow another morsel. Here the parallel stops, for no real follows the mock feast, and the host, like the member of parliament who had poured

forth a cento of nothings, concludes his bounties by chaunting the modest Non nobis Domine for his magnificent performance. There is something mighty engaging in all this; but what the cause of it is, whether it arise from conceit, or self-love melancholy, as old Burton would term it, we must leave the competent tribunals to determine. The author, somewhat in the manner of Horace's madman, sits a glad applauder in the empty circus of his head, and sees most excellent thoughts; but this delusion may be cured by the hellebore of criticism, as the party appears to be one

Posset qui rupem et puteum vitare patentem.

The disease, if we do not err most egregiously, is wind in the head, a disorder too often mistaken for genius, and the encouragement of which leads to the most unpleasant consequences. It is a particularly unfortunate thing for the world, that Minerva came out of the cranium of Jupiter. The consequence is, that every man who feels any little nonsense in that quarter, instantly conceives it to be Wisdom herself, and forthwith he "assumes the god, affects to nod, and seems to shake the spheres." Johanna Southcote, in her seventieth year, observing that her zone or her apron string, whichever it was, was becoming insufficient for its purposes, by reason of an enlargement of her waist, immediately conceived that she was enceinte, (we love to be delicate, like the newspapers,) and with a Messiah at the very least. It turned out, however, to be only a tympany. There are more Southcotes than Jupiters in the world; there are more watery and windy commotions than divine conceptions; though every brain, big with worthless, peccant matter, fondly lays it to the account of the latter cause. Having written thus far nosologically, we must now proceed to Mr. Vivian Grey's particular symptoms. The young gentleman begins in the Byron vein, complaining, but disdainful. The universe, from Ganges to Peru, has dealt unfairly with him. At Timbuctoo, they say that the author has painted his own character in Vivian Grey; and it has been malignly whispered in the Andes, that he wrote for the defunct Representative; at Kamtschatka too, he has been reproached for personality. "I am blamed," he pathetically observes, "for the affectation, the arrogance, the wicked wit of this fictitious character." Here we would entreat him, in some measure, to be comforted. Believe us, Mr. Grey, no creature ever blamed you for your wicked wit, or any description of wit whatever-you are wholly free from the imputation. Some smart things, some acute observations, some piquant sallies of satire, amuse in the first part of your history; but of wit you are wholly innocent. You have, we perceive, extremely erroneous ideas on the subject of wit. It is not wit to thrust a corking pin up to the head into mortal flesh; nor is it wit to draw a chair from under a man when he is about to sit down; nor is it wit to make apple pies in drowsy men's beds, or to give somnolent persons cold pigs for breakfast; or to administer jalap in soup. These are the lively strokes akin to your particular style of pleasantry, but witty they are not. So never again talk of your wit, and vex thyself no more about its wickedness, for of Zero no bad quality can be predicated. If, however, you persist in troubling your repose with the idea of the wickedness of your wit, you must be classed with those too imaginative persons who fancy themselves possessed of glass sterns, and noses APRIL, 1827.

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