the place where Goldsmith's monument now stands, over a door. in the Poet's Corner. He thought himself lucky in being able to find so conspicuous a situation for it, as there scarcely remained another so good.

Nollekens, the sculptor, was employed to make the monument, and Dr. Johnson composed the epitaph.

There is a very fine portrait, which is the only original one, of Dr. Goldsmith, now at Knowle, the seat of the Duke of Dorset, painted by Sir Joshua.

A lady, who was a great friend of Dr. Goldsmith, earnestly desired to have a lock of his hair to keep as a memorial of him; and his coffin was opened again, after it had been closed up, to procure this lock of hair from his head; this relic is still in the possession of the family, and is the only one of the kind which has been preserved of the doctor.

An observation of Dr. Beattie, respecting the deceased poet, in a letter to Mrs. Montagu, must not be passed over. "I am sorry for poor Goldsmith. There were some things in his temper which I did not like; but I liked many things in his genius; and I was sorry to find, last summer, that he looked upon me as a person who seemed to stand between him and his interest. However, when next we meet, all this will be forgotten, and the jealousy of authors, which, Dr. Gregory used to say, was next to that of physicians, will be no more.

Soon after Goldsmith's death, some people dining with Sir Joshua were commenting rather freely on some part of his works, which, in their opinion, neither discovered talent nor originality. To this Dr. Johnson listened, in his usual growling manner, for some time; when, at length, his patience being exhausted, he rose, with great dignity, looked them full in the face, and exclaimed, "If nobody was suffered to abuse poor Goldy, but those who could write as well, he would have few censors.

Yet, on another occasion, soon after the death of Goldsmith, a lady of his acquaintance was condoling with Dr. Johnson on their loss, saying, "Poor Goldsmith! I am exceedingly sorry for him; he was every man's friend!"

"No, madam," answered Johnson, "he was no man's friend!" In this seemingly harsh sentence, however, he merely alluded to the careless and imprudent conduct of Goldsmith, as being no friend even to himself, and when that is the case, a man is ren dered incapable of being of any essential service to any one else.

It has been generally circulated, and believed by many, that Goldsmith was a mere fool in conversation; but, in truth, this has been greatly exaggerated by such as were really fools. In allusion to this notion, Mr. Horace Walpole, who admired his wri

tings, said he was "an inspired idiot," and Garrick described him

Sir Joshua Reynolds mentioned to Boswell that he frequently had heard Goldsmith talk warmly of the pleasure of being liked, and observe how hard it would be if literary excellence should preclude a man from that satisfaction, which he perceived it often did, from the envy which attended it; and, therefore, Sir Joshua was convinced, that he was intentionally more absurd, in order to lessen himself in social intercourse, trusting that his character would be sufficiently supported by his works. If it was his intention to appear absurd in company, he was often very successful. This, in my own opinion, was really the case; and I also think Sir Joshua was so sensible of the advantage of it, that he, yet in a much less degree, followed the same idea, as he never had a wish to impress his company with any awe of the great abilities with which he was endowed, especially when in the society of those high in rank.

I have heard Sir Joshua say that he has frequently seen the whole company struck with an awful silence at the entrance of Goldsmith, but that Goldsmith has quickly dispelled the charm, by his boyish and social manners, and he then has soon become. the plaything and favourite of the company.

His epitaph in Westminster Abbey, written by Dr. Johnson, is a true character of the eccentric poet.

Among the various tributes to his memory, was one by Courtney Melmoth, (Mr. Pratt, I believe,) dedicated to Sir Joshua, "who will naturally receive with kindness whatever is designed as a testimony of justice to a friend that is no more." In this, the dedicator has well attempted to portray the feelings of Sir Joshua's heart.

Before I dismiss poor Goldsmith from the stage, it may be proper to notice another dedication to Sir Joshua, prefixed to that edition of his works published by Evans, in which he says

"SIR, "I am happy in having your permission to inscribe to you this complete edition of the truly poetical works of your late ingenious friend, Oliver Goldsmith. They will prove a lasting monument of his genius. Every lover of science must deeply lament that this excellent writer, after long struggling with adversity, finished his mortal career just as his reputation was firmly established, and he had acquired the friendship of Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Edmund Burke, the Dean of

Derry, Mr. Beauclerk, and Mr. Cumberland, names which adorn our age and nation. It is, Sir, being merely an echo of the public voice, to celebrate your admirable productions,

'In which, to latest time, the artist lives.'

Had Goldsmith understood the art of painting, of which he modestly declares himself ignorant, his pen would have done justice to the merits of your pencil. He chose a nobler theme, by declaring his ardent affection for the virtues of your heart. That you may long continue, Sir, the ornament of your country and the delight of your friends, is the sincere wish of your most obliged humble servant,

"T. EVANS."

HISTORY OF SWIZOSLOW AND THE BEAUTIFUL STEPHANIA.

THE churchyard of the convent of St. Alexander Neoski, at Petersburg, contains a heap of stones, said to have covered the tomb of the unfortunate Swizoslow, of whom they relate the following story.

Russia, in its time, was a prey to intestine wars, and continually plundered by the Poles, Swedes, Lithuanians, Tartars, and Tschoudes. The mansion of Boverow, in Russia, which had been the asylum for travellers formerly, was in those times formed into a castle, fortified and surrounded by lofty walls; the high placed windows were defended by iron bars. There a young beauty attended by her nurse and her maids, passed their time, which was to be interrupted only by the hand of a spouse, whom her father should choose to unite her to. Such was the life of the young Stephania, by the banks of the Ilmen. She was the daughter of an old and respectable warrior: here she lived " unknowing and unknown to the world; never had she seen farther than the horizon, and from thence she saw the sun rise from the east to call her to her distaff. She was happy; she thought so, and said So, and her greatest pleasure was to add to the comfort of her father. Boris only seemed to live for her, having lost all the rest of his family by an incursion of the Tschoudes. Upon the holidays Stephania went to church in a neighbouring village. A coloured riband, with a garniture of rich pearl, served to fall over her ivory forehead, and her beautiful brown tresses. She was then seen by a young warrior, who came there to offer his prayers. The blushes of the young Stephania, and the turning away her eyes, soon announced to him her thoughts; but he had no hopes of entering the castle of Boris, neither could he flatter himself that a re

spectable Boyard would give his daughter to a young man from the south of Russia, who had no other recommendation than his courage. But the war rekindling, Novogorod had not only fallen into the hands of the Tartars, but the hideous Swedes had attempted to take it; and it was now attacked by the Tschoudes, who were fired with a desire to carry terror, death, and slavery all through Russia. The Lithuanians were also united with the Swedes, and menaced that city. The Novogorodians heard of this famous league by the deputies of these barbarians, who, advancing from the north, summoned it to submit to a foreign yoke. Alexander, Prince of Novogorod, assembled his warriors, who were all animated with a desire to combat their enemies. The imminent danger in which they stood only inflamed their courage, and these invincible troops, although but few in number, advanced to meet the Swedish army. Amongst the warriors in Alexander's suite was the valiant Boris. The danger of his country would not suffer him, notwithstanding his advanced age, to remain inactive. But how was it possible to leave the beautiful Stephania alone, in a solitary castle, without her defender, without friends to protect her in a country overrun with a horde of savages? He dressed her therefore in man's apparel, and calling her his adopted son, took her along with him. The unfortunate Swizoslow, that passionate undeclared lover, saw them quit the castle, begged leave to join them, and during their march was always near Boris. It was he who constantly chose his lodging, and made his bed of boughs; he opened not his mouth to Stephania, whom he knew notwithstanding her disguise; but his looks, less discreet, spoke for him. At length the armies are in sight of each other: the Russians fell upon the Scandinavians as the eagles upon their prey: six brave warriors advanced with their victorious bands. Boris was one of the number; with his own hands he fired the Swedish camp, and seized the royal standard. Swizoslow and his Stephania, with her love united to the ties of consanguinity, assisted to help and defend him. Upon a sudden, Swizoslow, whose youthful courage made him advance in pursuit, perceived that he had left behind his fellow soldier, Boris. He soon returned in search of him, and found him surrounded by some of the enemy, who had rallied before he could join him. The horse of Boris, wounded in several places, had fallen with him, and poor Stephania was imploring pity and mercy of the enemy. The Swedes, seeing the Russians come up, were car rying their prisoner along with them. Swizoslow pursued, and coming up with them, found Boris upon the ground: he immediately lifted him up, and assisted him to walk, as he perceived he was only stunned by the fall of his horse, and undertook to deliver her who was so dear to them both. The old warrior could

not follow fast enough for the young hero, who soon overtook his enemies near a little river, which was swelled with rain and human blood. Just at the place where it empties itself into the Neva, and where a tree laid across served for a bridge, at that spot, overthrowing and slaying all who opposed him, he succeeded in delivering his beloved; tranquillized her with respect to her father; presumed to encircle her in his arms, and falling at her feet, weakened with the number of wounds he had received, begged that he might, in dying, have the happiness to embrace one he so dearly loved. Stephania, in despair, vainly implored heaven to prolong the life of her lover. Boris arrived in time to see him expire at their feet. The unfortunate lady spent the remainder of her days in sorrow and grief.

The victorious Russians having entirely routed the Swedes, before they quitted the place collected a large heap of stones and pieces of rock, to render immortal the attachment of this noble hero to his country, to its glory, and to his love!

LAST DAYS OF KING CHARLES I

The recent discovery of the body of Charles I. has given rise to many inquiries respecting his interment, both as to its place and mode. It will, therefore, be amusing to our readers, perhaps, to peruse the following account of what took place from the day of his execution to that of his burial, as narrated by one of his constant attendants, (Mr. Herbert,) and published by authority in Wood's Athene Oxonienses. Mr. Bennet and Bishop Juxon were the persons who received the body of the unfortunate monarch after decapitation, and charged themselves with the duties of its interment; and the former confided to Wood a relation of the last days of the king's life, with a promise from him that he would introduce it into some part of his voluminous work. Wood did so; and as his Athena is a book not commonly to be met with, the following extract cannot fail to be interesting at the pre

sent moment:

JANUARY 30, Tuesday. Herbert, (saith the king,) this is my second marriage day; I will be as trim to-day as may be, for before night I hope to be espoused to my blessed Jesus. He then appointed what clothes he would wear. Let me have a shirt more than ordinary (said the king) by reason the season is so sharp as probably may make me shake, which some observers will imagine proceeds from fear: I would have no such imputation; I fear not death; death is not terrible to me; I bless God I am prepared. Death, indeed, only sets men free from the misery of this world, and breaks asunder the chains of bondage, &c. These, or words to the same effect, his majesty spake to Mr. Herbert as he was making ready. Soon after came Dr. Juxon, Bishop of London, precisely at the time his majesty the night before had appointed him. Mr. Herbert then falling upon his knees, he humbly begged his majesty's pardon if he had at any time been negligent in