of a Poet-Errant.

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me, and this sickness of mine has left me bare of cash. But I have bethought myself of a conveyance for you; sell your horse, and I will furnish you a much better one to ride on.' I readily grasped at his proposal, and begged to see the nag; on which he led me to his bedchamber, and from under the bed he pulled out a stout oak stick. Here he is,' said he; 'take this in your hand, and it will carry you to your mother's with more safety than such a horse as you ride.' I was in doubt, when I got it into my hand, whether I should not, in the first place, apply it to his pate; but a rap at the streetdoor made the wretch fly to it, and when I returned to the parlour, he introduced me, as if nothing of the kind had happened, to the gentleman who entered, as Mr. Goldsmith, his most ingenious and worthy friend, of whom he had so often heard him speak with rapture. I could scarcely compose myself; and must have betrayed indignation in my mien to the stranger, who was a counsellor-at-law in the neighbourhood, a man of engaging aspect and polite address.

asked my friend and me This I declined at first,

After spending an hour, he to dine with him at his house. as I wished to have no farther communication with my hospitable friend; but at the solicitation of both I at last consented, determined as I was by two motives; one that I was prejudiced in favour of the looks and manner of the counsellor; and the other, that I stood in need of a comfortable dinner. And there, indeed, I found everything that I could wish, abundance without profusion, and elegance without affectation. In the evening, when my old friend, who had eaten very plentifully at his neighbour's table, but talked again of lying down with the lamb, made a motion to me for retiring, our generous host requested I should take a bed with him, upon which I plainly told my old friend that he

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might go home and take care of the horse he had given me, but that I should never re-enter his doors. He went away with a laugh, leaving me to add this to the other little things the counsellor already knew of his plausible neighbour.

And now, my dear mother, I found sufficient to reconcile me to all my follies; for here I spent three whole days. The counsellor had two sweet girls for his daughters, who played enchantingly on the harpsichord ; and yet it was but a melancholy pleasure I felt the first time I heard them; for that being the first time also that either of them had touched the instrument since their mother's death, I saw the tears in silence trickle down their father's cheeks. I every day endeavoured to go away, but every day was pressed and obliged to stay. On my going, the counsellor offered me his purse, with a horse and servant to convey me home; but the latter I declined, and only took a guinea to bear my necessary expenses on the road. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

To Mrs. Anne Goldsmith, Ballymahon.

As epistolary specimens of four of the other literary celebrities already referred to in the capacity of distinguished letter-writers, I insert the following without any comment :

THE REV. LAURENCE STERNE TO HIS BELOVED FRIEND'EUGENIUS.'

THE first time I have dipped my pen in the ink-horn for this week past is to write to you, and thank you most sincerely for your kind epistle. Will this be a sufficient apology for my letting it be ten days upon my table without answering it? I trust it will: I am sure my own

to his friend' Eugenius.'

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feelings tell me so; because I felt it impossible for me to do anything that is ungracious towards you. It is not every hour, or day, or week of a man's life, that is a fit season for the duties of Friendship. Sentiment is not always at hand; pride and folly, and what is called business, often-times keep it at a distance; and, without Sentiment, what is Friendship?—a name! a shadow !— But to prevent a misapplication of all this (though why should I fear it from so kind and gentle a spirit as yours?) you must know, that by the carelessness of my curate, or his wife, or his maid, or some one within his gates, the parsonage house at was about a fortnight ago burnt to the ground, with the furniture which belonged to me, and a pretty good collection of books. The loss about three hundred and fifty pounds. The poor man, with his wife, took the wings of the next morning and fled away. This has given me real vexation; for so much was my pity and esteem for him, that, as soon as I heard of this disaster, I sent to desire he would come and take up his abode with me till another habitation was ready to receive him; but he was gone, and, as I am told, through fear of my prosecution! Heavens! how little did he know me, to suppose I was among the number of those wretches that heap misfortune upon misfortune! and when the load is almost insupportable, still add to the weight. God, who reads my heart, knows it to be true, that I wish rather to share than increase the burden of the miserable; to dry up, instead of adding a single drop to the stream of sorrow. As for the dirty trash of this world, I regard it not! the loss of it does not cost me a sigh; for, after all, I may say with the Spanish captain, that I am as good a gentleman as the King, only not quite so rich.—But to the point.

Shall I expect you here this summer? I much wish that you may make it convenient to gratify me in a visit

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for a few weeks: I will give you a roast fowl for your dinner, and a clean table-cloth every day, and tell you a story by way of dessert. In the heat of the day we will sit in the shade, and, in the evening, the fairest of all the milk-maids, who pass by my gate, shall weave a garland for you. If I should not be so fortunate to see you here, do contrive to meet me here the beginning of October. I shall stay here about a fortnight, and then seek a kindlier climate. This plaguy cough of mine seems to gain ground, and will bring me at last to my grave, in spite of all I can do; but while I have strength to run away from it, I will—I have been wrestling with it for these twenty years past; and what with laughter and good spirits have prevented it giving me a fall; but my antagonist presses closer than ever upon me, and I have nothing left on my side but another abroad! A-propos -are you for a scheme of that sort? If not, perhaps you will be so good as to accompany me as far as Dover, that we may laugh together on the beach, to put Neptune in a good humour before I embark. God bless you. Adieu. L. STERNE.

CHARLES LAMB TO P. G. PATMORE.

DEAR P.,—I am so poorly! I have been to a funeral, where I made a pun, to the consternation of the rest of the mourners. And we had wine. I can't describe to you the howl which the widow set up at proper intervals. Dash could, for it was not unlike what he makes.

The letter I sent you was one directed to the care of E. White, India House, for Mrs. Hazlitt. Which Mrs. Hazlitt I don't yet know, but A. has taken it to France on speculation. Really it is embarrassing. There is Mrs. present H., Mrs. late H., and Mrs. John H., and to which of the three Mrs. Wigginses it appertains I don't know. I wanted to open it, but it's transportation.

to P. G. Patmore.

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I am sorry you are plagued about your book. I would strongly recommend you to take for one story Massinger's 'Old Law.' It is exquisite. I can think of no other.

Dash is frightful this morning. He whines and stands up on his hind legs. He misses Becky, who is gone to town. I took him to Barnet the other day, and he couldn't eat his victuals after it. Pray God his intellects be not slipping.

Mary is gone out for some soles. I suppose it's no use to ask you to come and partake of 'em ; else there's a steam-vessel.

I am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and have got on tolerably; but it will be refused, or worse. I never had luck with anything my name was put to.

Oh, I am so poorly! I waked it at my cousin's the bookbinder's, who is now with God; or if he is not, it's no fault of mine.

We hope the Frank wines do not disagree with Mrs. Patmore. By the way, I like her.

Did you ever taste frogs? Get them, if you can. They are like little Lilliput rabbits, only a thought nicer.

Christ, how sick I am !—not of the world, but of the widow's shrub. She's sworn under £6000, but I think she perjured herself. She howls in E la, and I comfort her in B flat. You understand music?

If you haven't got Massinger, you have nothing to do but go to the first bibliothèque you can light upon at Boulogne, and ask for it (Gifford's edition), and if they haven't got it, you can have 'Athalie,' par Monsieur Racine, and make the best of it. But that' Old Law' is delicious.

'No shrimps!' (That's in answer to Mary's question about how the soles are to be done.)

I am uncertain where this wandering letter may reach