mirth. He fails as often as he succeeds in this work, and an author of such strong original powers should have been above playing Pantaloon even to Cervantes.

my voyage, and be brought up in the latitude of heaven. Here has been a doctor that wanted to stow me choke full of physic; but when a man's hour is come, what signifies his taking his departure with a 'pothecary's shop in his hold? These fellows come alongside dying men, like the messengers of the Admiralty with sailing orders; but I told him as how I could slip my cable without his direction or assistance, and so he hauled off in dudgeon. This cursed hiccup makes such a ripple in the current of my speech that mayhap you don't understand what I say. Now, while the sucker of my windpipe will go, I would willingly mention a few things which I hope you will set down in the log-book of your remembrance when I am stiff, d' ye see. There's your aunt sitting whim

Humphry Clinker is the most easy, natural, and delightful of all the novels of Smollett. His love of boyish mischief, tricks, and frolics had not wholly burnt out, for we have several such undignified pranks in this work; but the narrative is replete with grave, caustic, and humorous observation, and possesses throughout a tone of manly feeling and benevolence, and fine discrimination of character. Matthew Bramble is Smollett himself grown old, somewhat cynical by experi-pering by the fire; I desire you will keep her tight, ence of the world, but vastly improved in taste. warm, and easy in her old age: she's an honest heart in He may have caught the idea, as he took some her own way, and, thof she goes a little crank and of the incidents of the family tour, from Anstey's humoursome by being often overstowed with Nantz and New Bath Guide; but the staple of the work is religion, she has been a faithful shipmate to me. Jack emphatically his own. In the light sketching of Hatchway, you know the trim of her as well as e'er a scenery, the quick succession of incidents, the man in England, and I believe she has a kindness for romance of Lismahago's adventures among the when I am gone, I do suppose that my godson, for love you, whereby if you two grapple in the way of matrimony American Indians, and the humour of the serving- of me, will allow you to live in the garrison all the days men and maids, he seems to come into closer of your life. I need not talk of Pipes, because I know competition with Le Sage or Cervantes than in you'll do for him without any recommendation; the any of his other works. The conversion of fellow has sailed with me in many a hard gale, and I'll Humphry may have been suggested by Anstey, warrant him as stout a seaman as ever set face to the but the bad spelling of Tabitha and Mrs Winifred weather. But I hope you'll take care of the rest of the Jenkins is an original device of Smollett, which crew, and not disrate them after I am dead in favour of aids in the subordinate effects of the domestic new followers. ... Shun going to law as you would drama. Lismahago's love of disputation, his shun the devil, and look upon all attorneys as devouring jealous sense of honour, and his national pride-sharks or ravenous fish of prey. As soon as the breath characteristics of a poor Scottish officer, whose is out of my body, let minute guns be fired, till I am safe underground. I would also be buried in the red wealth and dignity lay in his sword-seem also jacket I had on when I boarded and took the Renummy. purely original and are highly diverting. The old Let my pistols, cutlass, and pocket-compass be laid in lieutenant, as Matthew Bramble says, is like a the coffin along with me. Let me be carried to the crab-apple in a hedge, which we are tempted to grave by my own men, rigged in the black caps and eat for its flavour, even while repelled by its white shirts which my barge's crew were wont to wear; austerity. The descriptions of rural scenery, and they must keep a good look-out that none of your society, and manners in England and Scotland, pilfering rascallions may come and heave me up again given under different aspects by the different for the lucre of what they can get, until the carcass is letter-writers, are clear and sparkling-full of belayed by a tombstone. As for the motto or what you fancy and sound sense. call it, I leave that to you and Mr Jolter, who are scholars, but I do desire that it may not be engraved in the Greek or Latin lingos, and much less in the French, which I abominate, but in plain English, that when the angel comes to pipe all hands at the great day, he may know that I am a British man, and speak to me in my mother-tongue. And now, I have no more to say, bet God in heaven have mercy upon my soul, and send you all fair weather wheresoever you are bound.'

The Death of Commodore Trunnion. About four o'clock in the morning our hero [Peregrine Pickle] arrived at the garrison [Commodore Trunnion's house was fitted up as a fortress, with ditch, drawbridge, and courtyard with artillery], where he found his generous uncle in extremity, supported in bed by Julia on one side and Lieutenant Hatchway on the other, whilst Mr Jolter administered spiritual consolation, and between whiles comforted Mrs Trunnion, who, with her maid, sat by the fire, weeping with great decorum: the physician having just taken the last fee, and retired after pronouncing the fatal prognostic.

Though the Commodore's speech was interrupted by a violent hiccup, he still retained the use of his senses; and when Peregrine approached, stretched out his hand, with manifest signs of satisfaction. The young gentleman, whose heart overflowed with gratitude and affection, could not behold such a spectacle unmoved; so that the Commodore perceiving his disorder, made a last effort of strength, and consoled him in these words: 'Swab the spray from your bowsprit, my good lad, and coil up your spirits. You must not let the toplifts of your heart give way because you see me ready to go down at these years. Many a better man has foundered before he has made half my way; thof I trust, by the mercy of God, I shall be sure in port, in a most blessed riding; for my good friend Jolter hath overhauled the journal of my sins, and by the observation he hath taken of the state of my soul, I hope I shall happily conclude

His last moments, however, were not so near as they imagined. He began to doze, and enjoyed small inter vals of ease till next day in the afternoon; during which remissions he was heard to pour forth many pious ejaca. lations, expressing his hope that for all the heavy cargo of his sins, he should be able to surmount the puttock shrouds of despair, and get aloft to the cross-trees of God's good favour. At last his voice sunk so low as not to be distinguished; and having lain about an hour almost without any perceptible sign of life, he gave up the ghost with a groan.

Epitaph on Commodore Trunnion, composed by Lieutenant
Hatchway.

Here lies, foundered in a fathom and a half, the shell of Hawser Trunnion, formerly commander of a squadron in his Majesty's service, who broached to at 5 P.M. Oct. in the year of his age threescore and nineteen. He kept his guns always loaded, and his tackle ready manned, and never showed his poop to the enemy, except when he took her in tow; but his shot being expended, his match burnt out, and his upper works decayed, he was sunk by Death's superior weight of metal. Nevertheless

company, went in quest of the painter, who remained in his penitentials in another apartment, and could not be persuaded to re-enter the banqueting-room until Peregrine undertook to procure his pardon from those whom he had injured. Having assured him of this indulgence, our young gentleman led him in like a criminal, bowing on all hands with an air of humility and contrition; and particularly addressing himself to the count, to whom he swore in English he had no intent to affront man, woman, or child, but was fain to make the best of his way, that he might not give the honourable company cause of offence by obeying the dictates of nature in their presence.

When Pickle interpreted this apology to the Italian, Pallet was forgiven in very polite terms, and even received into favour by his friend the doctor in consequence of our hero's intercession; so that all the guests forgot their chagrin, and paid their respects so piously to the bottle, that in a short time the champagne produced very evident effects in the behaviour of all present.

LAURENCE STERNE.

His

which he served in Flanders, and was present at the sieges of Lisle and Douay. The mother of the novelist was Agnes Hebert, widow of a captain of good family. Her father-in-law,' says Sterne, 'was a noted sutler in Flanders in Queen Anne's wars, where my father married his wife's daughter (N.B.-He was in debt to him).' The family thus characteristically mentioned was from Clonmel in Ireland, and to Clonmel, at the close of the war, Ensign Sterne and his wife repaired after leaving Dunkirk. In the barracks at Clonmel Laurence was born, November 24, 1713. father was again called to active service, and Laurence was familiar with soldiers and a soldier's life until he had reached his tenth year. He had a generous cousin, Squire Sterne of Elvingston, and this gentleman placed the boy at school at Halifax, and afterwards at Jesus College, Cambridge. Having entered into holy orders, Laurence obtained by the interest of another relative, his uncle Dr Jaques Sterne, the vicarage of Sutton, in Yorkshire, and shortly afterwards a prebendal stall in York Cathedral. Sterne then married a Yorkshire lady, and received from a friend of his wife's the living of Stillington, close to Sutton. For about twenty years the fortunate churchman continued happy in the country, reading, painting, fiddling, and shooting. He has been accused of neglecting his poor widowed mother, who had set up a school in Ireland, and run in debt on account of an extravagant daughter. She would have rotted in a jail, Horace Walpole says, if the parents of her scholars had not raised a subscription for her; and Walpole adds: 'Her own son had too much sentiment to have any feeling a dead ass was more important to him than a living mother.' The latest biographer of Sterne argues that, because others took part in the benevolent work of relieving the widow, it must not be assumed that her son was wanting. One would have been glad, however, to find some proof of active sympathy on the part of the gay clerical son; but his best apology, perhaps, is that he was generally in debt himself, and had not resolution to shake off extravagant tastes and habits. In 1759, the first two volumes of Tristram Shandy were published in York, and their author instantly became famous. He visited London, and 'the odd Yorkshire parson was received as a sort of Tristram in the flesh. With those who had no chance of coming in contact with him, the book received additional piquancy from the knowledge that the strange author was among them-fluttering here and there, fêted, courted, and caressed.'* Lord Falconbridge conferred on him the curacy of The life of LAURENCE STERNE was as little in Coxwould (about twenty miles from Sutton); the keeping as his writings. A clergyman, he was pro-imperious Warburton, bishop of Gloucester, fane and licentious; a sentimentalist, who had with presented him with a purse of gold; Reynolds his pen, tears for all animate and inanimate nature, painted his portrait; Dodsley offered him £650 he was selfish and reckless in his conduct. Had he for a second edition, and two more volumes of kept to his living in the country, he would have Tristram; in society he boasted of being engaged been a better and wiser man. He degenerated fourteen dinners deep! Two more volumes of in London,' says his friend David Garrick, ‘like the novel were ready in 1761, and other two in an ill-transplanted shrub: the incense of the great 1762. These contained the story of Le Fevre, spoiled his head, and their ragouts his stomach. which was copied into almost every journal in He grew sickly and proud—an invalid in body the kingdom. Sterne now set off on a tour to and mind.' Laurence Sterne was the great grand- France, which enriched the subsequent volumes son of Dr Richard Sterne, archbishop of York. of Tristram with his exquisite sketches of peasants His father-one of a numerous family-entered the army as an ensign in the 34th Regiment, with

Next in order of time and genius to Fielding and Smollett, and not inferior in conception of rich eccentric comic character, or in witty illustration, was the author of Tristram Shandy. Sterne was a great humorist, a master of pathos, and a singularly original novelist, though at the same time a daring plagiarist. My Uncle Toby, Mr Shandy, Corporal Trim, and Dr Slop, will go down to posterity with the kindred creations of Rabelais and Cervantes. This idol of his own day is now, however, but little read by the great mass of readers of fiction; except perhaps in passages of pure sentiment or description. His broad humour is not relished, his oddities have lost the gloss of novelty, his indecencies startle the prudish and correct. The readers of this busy age will not hunt for his beauties amidst the blank and marbled leaves, the pages of no meaning, the quaint erudition stolen from old folios, the abrupt transitions and discursive flights in which his Shakspearian touches of character and his gems of fancy, wisdom, and feeling lie imbedded. His polished diction has even an air of false glitter, yet it is the weapon of a master-of one who can stir the heart to tears as well as laughter. The want of simplicity and decency is his great fault. His whim and caprice, which he partly imitated from Rabelais, | and partly assumed for effect, come in sometimes with intrusive awkwardness to mar the touches of true genius, and the kindlings of enthusiasm. He took as much pains to spoil his own natural powers by affectation, as Lady Mary says Fielding did to destroy his fine constitution.

*The Life of Sterne, by Percy Fitzgerald (London, 1864).

every day pour out of one vessel into another; and as the Romans robbed all the cities in the world to set out their bad-sited Rome, we skim the cream of other men's wits, pick the choice flowers of their tilled gardens to set out our own sterile plots. We weave the same web, still twist the same rope again and again.' Sterne follows: Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new medicines, by pouring only out of one vessel into another? Are we for ever to be twisting and untwisting the same rope-for ever in the same track-for ever at the same pace?' Scores of such thefts might be cited from Burton, Bishop Hall, Donne, &c. Luckily for Sterne, his plagiar isms were not detected until after his death.* He died in the blaze of his fame, as an original eccentric author-the wittiest and most popular of boon-companions and novelists. His influence on the literature of his age was also considerable.

and vine-dressers, the muleteer, the abbess and Margarita, Maria at Moulines-not forgetting the poor ass with his heavy panniers at Lyon. In 1765, appeared vols. vii. and viii. and in 1767, vol. ix. Previous to the conclusion of the novel, Sterne published six small volumes of Sermons— two in 1760, and four in 1766. In 1768 appeared his Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, which he intended to continue in two more volumes. The work was published on the 27th of February 1768. Sterne had gone from Coxwould to London to superintend the publication. He was in wretched health, and about three weeks afterwards (March 18) he died in his lodgings | in Bond Street. There was nobody but a hired nurse in attendance. He had wished to die in an inn, where the few cold offices he might want could be purchased with a few guineas, and paid to him with an undisturbed but punctual attention. His wish was realised almost to the letter. No one reads Sterne for the story: his great A party of noblemen and gentlemen were dining work is but a bundle of episodes and digressions, at Clifford Street in the neighbourhood, and they strung together without any attempt at order. sent a footman to inquire after the invalid. The The reader must 'give up the reins of his imaginmistress told the man to go up to the nurse. Iation into his author's hand-be pleased he knows went into the room,' he says, and he was just a-dying. I waited ten minutes; but in five he said, "Now is it come!" He put up his hand, as if to stop a blow, and died in a minute." The body was interred in a new burying-ground attached to St George's, Hanover Square; but was taken up two nights afterwards by a party of resurrectionists, and sent to the Professor of Anatomy at Cambridge. A gentleman present at the dissection told Malone that he recognised Sterne's face the moment he saw the body. Although Sterne had made large sums of money by his works (his Sermons and Sentimental Journey were published by subscription, besides which he had the copyright), he left 1100 of debt. His effects sold for £400, and a collection of £800 was made for his widow and daughter in York during the race-week. The widow had a small estate worth £40 per annum. His daughter Lydia (to whom he was tenderly attached) in 1775 published her father's correspondence, which she ought never to have permitted to see the light, as it is discreditable to his name and memory.

In Yorkshire, before he had attained celebrity, Sterne spent much of his time at Skelton Hall, the residence of JOHN HALL STEVENSON (17181785), a writer of satirical and humorous poetry, possessed of lively talents, but over-convivial in his habits, and licentious in his writings and conversation. Stevenson wrote Crazy Tales, Fables for Grown Gentlemen, Lyric Epistles, &c. ; but his chief claim to remembrance is that he was the original of Sterne's Eugenius in Tristram Shandy, and the chosen friend and associate of the witty novelist. In the library at Skelton Hall there was a collection of old French authors, from whom Sterne derived part of the quaint lore that figures in his works. His chief plagiarisms, however, were derived from Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, which he plundered with an audacity almost without a parallel. Even when condemning such literary dishonesty, Sterne was eminently dishonest. Burton has the following figurative passage: 'As apothecaries, we make new mixtures,

not why, and cares not wherefore.' Through the whole novel, however, over its mists and absurdities, shines his little family band of friends and relatives-that inimitable group of originals and humorists-which stand out from the canvas with the force and distinctness of reality. This distinctness and separate identity is a proof of what Coleridge has termed the peculiar power of Sterne, of seizing on and bringing forward those points on which every man is a humorist, and of the masterly manner in which he has brought out the characteristics of two beings of the most opposite natures-the elder Shandy and Toby-and surrounded them with a group of followers, sketched with equal life and individuality; in the Corporal, the obstetric Dr Slop; Yorick, the lively and careless parson; the Widow Wadman, and Susannah. During the intervals of the publication of Tristram, Sterne ventured before the public, as we have stated, with some volumes of Sermons, his own comic figure, from the painting by Reynolds, at the head of them. The Sermons, according to the opinion of Gray the poet, shew a strong imagination and a sensible heart; 'but,' he adds, 'you see the author often tottering on the verge of laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in the face of the audience. The affected pauses and abrupt transitions which disfigure Tristram are not banished from the Sermons, but there is, of course, more connection and coherency in the subject. The Sentimental Journey is also more regular than Tristram in its plan and details; but, beautiful as some of its descriptions are, we want the oddities of Shandy, and the ever-pleasing good-nature and simplicity of Uncle Toby. Sterne himself is the only char acter. The pathetic passages are rather over strained, but still finely conceived, and often expressed in his most felicitous manner. That gentle spirit of sweetest humour, who erst did sit upon the easy pen of his beloved Cervantes, turning the twilight of his prison into noonday brightness,' was seldom absent long from the invocations of his English imitator, even when he

The detection was first made by a Manchester physician. DR JOHN FERRIAR (1764-1815), who, in 1798, published s *The Life of a Footman, or the Travels of James Macdonald, Illustrations of Sterne. Dr Ferriar was also the author of an Essay on Apparitions, and some medical treatises.

1790.