of the two other of Richardson's works, but it is not at all to our taste; wanting the naturalness of Pamela and the artistic finish of Sir Charles, it sways the passions more powerfully than either, but, on the whole, it does not please. The three productions taken together, however, are calculated to make us form the most elevated conceptions of Richardson's varied powers, of which it is his greatest praise that they were ever consecrated to the service of pure morality, virtue, and religion.

shore, we would shed a tear to the memory of poor Henry Fielding.

'Be all his failings buried in his tomb,

1

But not remembered in his epitaph." The works of Sterne, and especially of Smollett, are (shall we say unfortunately?) too well known to call for any particular remark in an essay so very sketchy as the present. Sterne deserves no mercy. In his Tristram Shandy,' and still more in his Sentimental Journey,' With a greater amount of scholarship, wit, and know- though a minister of the Christian faith, he not only deledge of the world, Fielding, however, falls below Richard- scribes vice but stands out its bold apologist. Two of son in original genius. Richardson was the founder of a Smollett's novels abound in scenes and conversations school-Fielding, like Smollett, belongs to that of Cer- shockingly licentious. His 'Humphrey Clinker' is passable, vantes. Not that Fielding wanted originality-not that however, and may, as a book of travels, be read with profit. | he was destitute of the creative or inventive faculty-he The forest scene in 'Count Fathom' is allowed to be the thought, spoke, acted for himself. Parson Adams is as most finished specimen of the terrific in description that much his as Falstaff belongs to Shakspeare. But in the has hitherto found its way into the pages of romance. Re- ! construction of his stories, and the arrangement of his ma-garded as a moralist, however, Smollett, equally with Sterne, i chinery, he strictly adhered to the rules of art, and in must undergo our unsparing condemnation. "Tom Jones' his success was decided. It is the best told We now pass on to Mackenzie, the Scottish Addison,' story extant. Had it possessed no other merit, it would, as Sir Walter Scott calls him, though in no respect re from that single circumstance, have immortalised its author. sembling Addison that we can see, except in his easy, But merit of a high order it does unquestionably possess. harmonious, and idiomatic prose, and in (what perhaps Tom Jones and Sophia are perhaps the least interesting obtained for him the title) his sweet and generous love of personages in the drama. The conduct of the former, his his fellowmen, and cordial interest in their joys and sor gross licentiousness, his debauchery, and revels, would rows. By his works we have more of aesthetical pleasure secure for him our unmitigated censure, were it not that the than occasions of sympathy; our taste is gratified more -author has had the art to make his enemies call him worse than our hearts are interested. Mackenzie gives a beautithan he is. Though bad, he gets rather more than his due, ful picture of human life, of its thoughts and feelings, and this excites for him a sort of false sympathy, not only hopes and fears, rather than an actual representation of in our hearts, but, we are sorry to say, in the bosom of what it is. Perhaps objection to this may seem to pro- | his admirable mistress, who certainly treats the low fellow claim our ignorance, since to awaken a sense of beauty much better than he deserves. For low as Roderick Ran- through the imagination is the primary end of the fine arts. dom sinks, when he sorns on poor Strap, his meanness is True, but it is not the whole and adequate end of them. nothing to that of Jones. Those who have read the novel And it is in the proportions of these elements that we think know what we intend, and those who have not will dis- Mackenzie to fail: his having addressed the sense of beauty pense with explanation. Honour (Sophia's waiting-maid) more than the real and common feelings of men. To atis one of the best drawn characters, with the exception of tain the point where beauty and expression harmonise, Jenny Dennison, the beloved of Cuddie Headrig, of the sort and to produce with the contemplator's pleasure of the out of Shakspeare. Partridge is inimitable; his attach- beautiful the feelings that would be awakened in scenes ment and fidelity to Jones, rendered compatible with so of real life, is the highest perfection of art. To say, theremuch pedantry, cowardice, selfishness, and falsehood, cer- fore, that Mackenzie has not reached that perfection, tainly required on the novelist's part no little art to ac-saying nothing but what is true of every artist. complish; and he has been eminently successful. Then the dispute between Thwackem and Square, and the sneaking cunning of young Bliful, who contrives to side with both, but never commits himself to either, are very happily described. The controversy about the escape of Sophia's linnet, with the boorish summing up of Squire Western himself, is above all praise. Allworthy, though rather tedious and formal, is an admirable and nearly perfect character. Seagrim is the prince of molecatchers. The squabbles at the various inns where the parties halt to refresh, and the many adventures of almost all the characters in the drama, render Tom Jones, next to Don Quixote, the most fascinating novel of its day. It is to be regretted that it contains so many objectionable passages, that, with all its merits, it cannot be safely intrusted into the hands of youth. The other two works of Fielding, 'Amelia' and 'Joseph Andrews,' do not call for particular remark. Amelia is perhaps the finest picture of an affectionate, heart-broken, illused wife that ever was thrown off by the novelist's pencil. It seems as if Fielding wished to atone for the dubious style of his moral lessons in Tom Jones by marking distinctly, in this charming novel, the boundaries between vice and virtue. Joseph Andrews, however, is our especial favourite; not the hero but the work. Joe, indeed, is immaculate, the very paragon of virtuous footmen, but we scarce like him. Parson Adams we both admire and love; there is no mistake about the matter; corpulent, learned, benevolent, pious, and absent-in wit a man, in simplicity a child. Had Fielding produced nothing but Tom Jones, we would scarcely have deemed him more than a depraved sensualist-clever, acute, witty, but no believer in human virtue. His Amelia and Parson Adams must always, however, to a considerable extent, modify the severity of censure, and, with all his faults, were we to visit his tomb on a foreign |

Mackenzie's power lies chiefly in the pathetic, in which field he is approached by none but Sterne. His range of ' characters is not so various as that of Fielding; nor, per- | haps in the management of subordinate characters, has he equal skill with him. But his tastes and sympathies are finer, and his power of arresting the whole feelings of the reader is greater. The Man of the World,' indeed, is really too tragical, and the feelings are often harrowed to a degree that is hardly bearable. Julia de Roubigne' is more natural than the Man of Feeling,' though it will never be so popular a work. The Catastrophe,' however, as Mr Moir remarks, is too shocking. The picture of Montoabar is scarcely consistent; for the change from a character of high moral and intellectual worth to that of a swearer and inhuman butcher, is not rendered credible even by the violent remorse by which, on discovering the truth, he was at last driven to put a termination to his own life. It is certainly very difficult to predict in many cases || what changes can be undergone by man within a brief space. But to these, as well as to other things, there are limits. Mackenzie's minor pieces in the Lounger are very fine. La Roche' is unequalled in its kind; gathering a sort of melancholy grandeur from the illustrious man whom in a most engaging aspect it fancifully represents. The others contain a pleasing mixture of beauty and benevolence.

Goldsmith must be allowed to take a very high place as i a novelist. In the Vicar of Wakefield' there is infinite case and simplicity in the narration, a wonderful amount of cheerful humour, many quiet strokes of acute reflection on laws and manners, as well as great consistency in the characters, and a happy and natural issue of the story. What a sunshine lies on the page of Goldsmith! Nothing is more striking than the unfailing resources of

the worthy and amiable vicar himself, even after the most disastrous of his misfortunes. In him there is unquestionably a strong reflection of many points in Goldsmith's personal history and character. In the infantine simplicity of both, which laid them open to the cunning of knaves and sharpers; in exuberant spirits and profuse liberality; in the belief that sufficient for the day was the evil thereof,' and in ready accommodation to circumstances, there is a marked resemblance between them. The vicar is the vicar from beginning to end; in his halls before his fortune left him, and in the jail after. Everywhere and at all times, you discover the same benevolence and capacity to make the most of the present, with the same sturdy adherence to his own opinions, and the same whimsicality of conception. Mrs Primrose is a choice specimen of a class-a well-meaning, good-hearted wife; vain of her daughters, and plotting for their settlement. Olivia and Sophy preserve their individuality admirably. Poor Moses! we love and laugh at him. Burchell is captivating at the denouement; and Sophy's faint from disgust when offered Jenkinson, and relapse into her former hap-sible, the places where their nests are made. They never piness when claimed by Burchell, now Sir William, are charming. The purity of the tale is above all praise. There is nothing in it to offend the most fastidious moralist. The modern romance took its rise with the Castle of Otranto,' by Walpole, and has since been improved upon by Clara Reeve and Mrs Ratcliffe. The 'Castle of Otranto' is full of the marvellous, combined with the realities of modern life. But the shock to our sense of the real is too great to allow of the story being read with success, except at that period of life when credulity has not been subdued by experience. A feeling of awe and terror, very agreeable, however, is excited by it, when you throw out of account the improbability of a sword which should require a hundred men to lift it, of a super-ponderous helmet, and the walking picture, and place yourself passively in the hands of the romancer. Though lauded for their dramatic power, the dialogues strike us as being merely smart; in short, as being too much an exponent of high life dialogue in modern times to harmonise with the mysterious appearances which we can even for a moment think credible only by throwing them back into the middle ages.

ings of the above-mentioned enemies, since they very much prefer the new-laid eggs to those which have been brooded. But they seem also to have a more important designation, that is, to assist in the nourishment of the young birds. These, when first hatched, are as large as a common pullet, and since their tender stomachs cannot digest the hard. food eaten by the old ones, the spare eggs serve as their first nourishment. The increase of the ostrich race would be incalculable, had they not so many enemies, by which great numbers of the young are destroyed after they quit the nest.

THE OSTRICH.

THE habits of the ostrich are so remarkable, and have been so imperfectly described by travellers in general, that I cannot forbear bringing together here all the knowledge I acquired upon the subject. The drought and heat sometimes compel these gigantic birds to leave the plains, and then they pursue their course together in large flocks to the heights, where they find themselves more commodiously lodged. At the time of sitting, there are seldom more than four or five seen together, of which only one is a cock, the rest are hens. These hens lay their eggs all together in the same nest, which is nothing more than a round cavity in the clay, of such a size as to be covered by one of the birds, when sitting upon it. A sort of wall is scraped up round with their feet, against which the eggs in the outer circle rest. Every egg stands upon its point in the nest, that the greatest possible number may be stowed within the space. When ten or twelve eggs are laid, they begin to sit, the hens taking their turns, and relieving each other during the day; at night the cock alone sits, to guard the eggs against the jackals and wild cats, who will run almost any risk to procure them. Great numbers of these smaller beasts of prey have often been found crushed to death about the nests; a proof that the ostrich does not fight with them, but knows very well how to conquer them at once by its own resistless power; for it is certain that a stroke of its large foot trampling upon them, is enough to crush any such animal.

The ostrich is a very prudent, wary creature, which is not easily ensnared in the open field; since it sees to a very great distance, and takes to flight upon the least idea of danger. For this reason the quaggas generally attach themselves, as it were instinctively, to a troop of ostriches, and fly with them, without the least idea that they are followed. Xenophon relates that the army of Cyrus met ostriches and wild asses together, in the plains of Syria. The ostriches are particularly careful to conceal, if posgo directly to them, but run round in a circle at a considerable distance before they attempt to approach the spot. On the contrary, they always run directly up to the springs where they drink, and the impressions they make on the ground, in the desolate places they inhabit, are often mistaken for the footsteps of men. The females, in sitting, when they are to relieve each other, either both remove a while to a distance from the nest, or change so hastily, that any one who might by chance be spying about, could never see both at once. In the day-time, they occasionally quit the nest entirely, and leave the care of warming the eggs to the sun alone. If at any time they find that the place of their nest is discovered, that either a man or a beast of prey has been at it and has disturbed the arrangement of the eggs, or taken any away, they immediately destroy the nest themselves, break all the eggs to pieces, and seek out some other spot to make a new one. When the colonist therefore finds a nest, he contents himself with taking one or two of the spare eggs that are lying near, observing carefully to smooth over any footsteps which may have been made, so that they may not be perceived by the birds. Thus visits to the nest may be often repeated, and it may be converted into a storehouse of very pleasant food, where, every two or three days, as many eggs may be procured as are wanted to regale the whole household.

An ostrich's egg weighs commonly near three pounds, and is considered as equal in its square contents to twentyfour hen's eggs. The yolk has a very pleasant flavour, yet, it must be owned, not the delicacy of a hen's egg. It is so nourishing and so soon satisfies, that no one can eat a great deal at once. Four very hungry persons would be requisite to eat a whole ostrich's egg; and eight Africans, who are used to so much harder living, might make a meal of it. These eggs will keep for a very long time: they are often brought to Cape Town, where they are sold at the price of half a dollar each.

In the summer months of July, August, and September, the greatest number of ostriches' nests are to be found; but the feathers, which are always scattered about the nest at the time of sitting, are of very little value. I have, however, at all times of the year, found nests with eggs that have been brooded: the contrasts of the seasons being much less forcible in this part of the world than in Europe, the habits of animals are consequently much less fixed and regular. The ostrich sits from thirty-six to forty days before the young are hatched.

It is well known that the male alone furnishes the beautiful white feathers which have for so long a time been a favourite ornament in the head-dress of our European ladies. They are purchased from the people who collect them, for as high as three or four shillings each; they are. The hens continue to lay during the time they are sit- however, given at a lower price, in exchange for European ting, and that not only till the nest is full, which happens wares and clothing. Almost all the colonists upon the when about thirty eggs are laid, but for some time after. borders have a little magazine of these feathers laid by, The eggs laid after the nest is filled are deposited round and when they would make a friendly present to a guest, about it, and seem designed by nature to satisfy the crav-it is generally an ostrich's feather. Few of them are, how

nominal, while the disappointment it brings with it is too real. Nevertheless, there is something to be said also on the contrary side, unless we would altogether deny the existence of those pleasures of the imagination which arise from contemplating the figure we make in other people's eyes; or what amounts to the same thing, the figure we fancy that we there make. Unsparingly abused, as it is, by moralists, even poor human vanity does some good in the world, as well as no little mischief; for if it prompts some to indiscretion and folly, it also excites some to noble exertions, whose ultimate reward comes merely in the intangible shape of public opinion. Indeed, a little vanity of that species, at least, which constitutes the last infirmity of noble minds,' is a very necessary ingredient in a sound moral constitution. If we altogether abstract what others feel, what others think,' our enjoyments become very contracted, and we place ourselves in the condition of Robinson Crusoe in his solitary island-happy mortal that, he was, if happiness entirely depends upon being perfectly independent of other people's eyes. We, however, who do not live in desert islands, cannot claim Robinson's privilege, but must pay regard-that is, a due regard, to appearances. True, exclaims some reader, yet how are we to interpret that qualifying epithet, due?' for though so very much depends upon it, it is so pliable and elastic in meaning, that it has no fixed meaning at all. Such is, we own, the fact, therefore every one must be left to take advice of Messrs Commonsense and Discretion, as regards his own particular case; and if that be followed, the due medium will be observed.

moving in the same sphere. Strange that those who are at perfect liberty to please themselves, and to consult only their own tastes, are precisely the persons who most anxiously consult the tastes of others, and who suffer themselves to be domineered over and controlled by the opinion of the world. Even those who pique themselves upon being above prejudices, are not unfrequently the dupes, as well as the slaves, of the vulgar prejudices' and the fanciful superstitions of fashion.

Nevertheless, in this as well as in many other cases, so much may be said on both sides, that it becomes, upon the whole, doubtful whether the deference so universally paid to other people's opinions, and to other people's eyes, is attended with more of evil or of good to society. It is all very well for poets to rail at all pomp save that of nature; all other luxuries except the luxury of vagabondising in groves and through wilds; or for moralists to rail at vanity, its extravagances, and its vagaries. Moralists are not manufacturers, and therefore do not choose to see that it is the very vanity they so much abuse which helps to support our manufactures and our commerce, which imparts vigour to trade, and affords patronage to art. Cure the world of its fondness for idle gauds; top off from the list of human wants those innumerable superfluities which constitute the most craving wants of those who want for nothing,' and what would be the result?-a more complete stagnation of trade than was ever caused by a general mourning. Within six months, there would be a 'live long' holiday for half the shops in London, and half the trades now carried on in it would be all but complete If error there be at all, it will be safer on the side of too ly annihilated. Tailors and dressmakers, milliners and little than of too much; a caution many would do well to jewellers, might exclaim with the Moor, ‘Our occupation's attend to, because mistakes of the latter kind are most gone!' since, were it not for the respect we pay to other prevalent and most ruinous. It is a very bad symptom people's eyes, there would be a final farewell to all the when people begin to talk of what they can contrive to pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious dress;' a blanket afford, and make excuses to themselves for running into would serve just as well as the costliest cachmere shawl. unnecessary expenses, upon the delusive plea that it is Nor would the strange revolution be confined to matters only so and so much, the only being perhaps about half of dress and personal appearance alone, but would extind the ultimate expense incurred. Such onlies, moreover, itself to everything now intended to gratify the sight, or to seldom come alone, but succeed each other, if not in troops, be imposing in the eyes of our neighbours. Deny it who yet in long procession, like that of the royal visions in Mac-will, it is for their eyes rather than our own that we furbeth; for if they be once admitted, to visionary wants there nish our houses in style,' and fill our rooms with a thouis no end. Hence nothing is more common than for people sand nicknackeries, not only useless in themselves, but to get into a false position,' a quagmire from which they which afford little other gratification than what is borrowed cannot always extricate themselves before it is too late, from the idea of the admiration or the envy they may exand all in consequence of their determination to outrival cite in others. If there be any one thing in which the mere their acquaintance, coute que coute. There is a certain indulgence of our own eyes would be ample enjoyment in kind of pleasure-less gross, doubtless, than those of eat- itself, apart from all extrinsic considerations, it would ing and drinking-in being the object of envy to one's assuredly be painting. Yet who would buy pictures if his 'friends.' Still this pleasure is attended with many draw-satisfaction was to be limited to the mere pleasure of lookbacks upon it, not the least of these being, that the envied ing at them by himself? It is the pleasure of possessing, are, from their peculiar sensitiveness, very liable to become not hat of looking at such things, which secures purchasers envious in turn, when their mortification is in proportion for them, and that not only among those who can really to their previous triumph. Those who attach so much appreciate and enjoy them as works of art, but those also importance to the opinion of the world as to be unable to to whom they are in themselves objects of indifference, and dispense with its favour, are placed at the world's mercy. valuable only on account of the sort of distinction they Their vanity renders them constantly beggars for admira- confer; so true is Pope's admirable couplet, tion; and if that be withheld, what should contribute to enjoyment becomes only a source of chagrin and vexation, though the one may be masked in smiles, and the other should put on an air of gaiety.

After the philosopher, it is only the very proud man, or the very humble man, who is independent of other people's opinion; the one because he sets no value upon its outward distinction, the other because he has no idea of aspiring to it; whereas the mass of mankind are so dependent upon it, that they enjoy life only in proportion as they obtain credit for doing so from their neighbours. Such, at least, is by far too commonly the case, especially among that class who, being already in possession of all the reasonable comforts of life, have no other object of pursuit than its vanities, and who frequently sacrifice the substance of happiness to the mere shadow, toiling incessantly, and with far more painful thought and anxiety, than do those who labour for their daily bread. Of such persons, the chief happiness consists in being thought happy: neither will that content them, for they must also be thought happier than every one else

'Abstract what others feel, what others think, All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink.' Lord Chesterfield, therefore, displayed more of malice than of his usual worldly sagacity, when he said of a nobleman who had built a very handsome front to his mansion, that he should go and live just opposite, in order that he might have the satisfaction of constantly seeing it. Pity that it did not occur also to Chesterfield, that were he to have ridden on horseback beside his own carriage, he himself also might have enjoyed the sight of the armorial bearings on its panels.

Truly, were it not for the sake of other people's eyes, there would be very small encouragement to any of those arts which minister to more than our necessities, and which both multiply and refine the necessaries of civilised life. Neither is the magic influence of those eyes altogether unproductive of good in regard to other matters than those above alluded to. On the contrary, it is quite wonderful to observe what a sudden and exceedingly happy change for the better they frequently produce in regard to temper