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proved an excellent parish priest. Even his most admiring friends did not expect this result. The general impression was, that he was infinitely better fitted for the bar than for the Church. "Ah! Mr. Smith," Lord Stowell used to say to him, "you would be in a far better situation, and a far richer man, had you belonged to us."

One jeu d'esprit more, and Smith hastened to take possession of his living, and to enter upon duties of which no one better knew the mighty importance than he did.

Among the Mackintosh set was Richard Sharp, to whom we have already referred, termed, from his great knowledge and ready memory, "Conversation Sharp." Many people may think that this did not imply an agreeable man, and they were, perhaps, right. Sharp was a plain, ungainly man. One evening, a literary lady, now living, was at Sir James Mackintosh's, in company with Sharp, Sismondi, and the late Lord Denman, then a man of middle age. Sir James was not only particularly partial to Denman, but admired him personally. "Do you not think Denman handsome?" he inquired of the lady after the guests were gone. "No? Then you must think Mr. Sharp handsome," he rejoined; meaning that a taste so perverted as not to admire Denman must be smitten with Sharp. Sharp is said to have studied all the morning before he went out to dinner, to get up his wit and anecdote, as an actor does his part. Sydney Smith having one day received an invitation from him to dine at Fishmongers' Hall, sent the following reply:

"Much do I love

The monsters of the deep to eat;
To see the rosy salmon lying,
By smelts encircled, born for frying;
And from the china boat to pour
On flaky cod the flavored shower.
Thee above all I much regard,
Flatter than Longman's flattest bard,
Much honor'd turbot! sore I grieve
Thee and thy dainty friends to leave.
Far from ye all, in snuggest corner,
I go to dine with little Horner;
He who with philosophic eye

Sat brooding o'er his Christmas pie;

Then firm resolved, with either thumb,

Tore forth the crust-enveloped plum;

And mad with youthful dreams of deathless fame,
Proclaimed the deathless glories of his name.

One word before we enter on the subject of Sydney Smith's ministry. In this biography of a great Wit, we touch but lightly upon the graver features of his character, yet they can not wholly be passed over. Stanch in his devotion to the

452

THE FIRST VISIT TO FOSTON LE CLAY.

Church of England, he was liberal to others. The world in the present day is afraid of liberality. Let it not be forgotten that it has been the fanatic and the intolerant, not the mild and practical among us who have gone from the Protestant to the Romish faith. Sydney Smith, in common with other great men, had no predilection for dealing damnation round the land. How noble, how true, are Mackintosh's reflections on religious sects! "It is impossible, I think, to look into the interior of any religious sect without thinking better of it. I ought, indeed, to confine myself to those of Christian Europe, but with that limitation it seems to me the remark is true, whether I look at the Jansenists of Port Royal, or the Quakers in Clarkson, or the Methodists in these journals. All these sects, which appear dangerous or ridiculous at a distance, assume a much more amicable character on nearer inspection. They all inculcate pure virtue, and practise mutual kindness; and they exert great force of reason in rescuing their doctrines from the absurd or pernicious consequences which naturally flow from them. Much of this arises from the general nature of religious principle-much also from the genius of the Gospel."

Nothing could present a greater contrast with the comforts of Orchard Street than the place on which Sydney 'Smith's "lines" had now "fallen." Owing to the non-residence of the clergy, one third of the parsonage-houses in England had fallen into decay, but that of Foston le Clay was pre-eminently wretched. A hovel represented what was still called the parsonage-house: it stood on a glebe of three hundred acres of the stiffest clay in Yorkshire: a brick-floored kitchen, with a room above it, both in a ruinous condition, was the residence which, for a hundred and fifty years, had never been inhabited by an incumbent. It will not be a matter of surprise that for some time, until 1808, Sydney Smith, with the permission of the Archbishop of York, continued to reside in London, after having appointed a curate at Foston le Clay.

The first visit to his living was by no means promising. Picture to yourself, my reader, Sydney Smith, in a carriage, in his superfine black coat, driving into the remote village, and parleying with the old parish clerk, who, after some conversation, observed, emphatically, striking his stick on the ground, "Master Smith, it stroikes me that people as comes froe London is such fools." "I see you are no fool," was the prompt answer; and the parson and the clerk parted mutually satisfied.

The profits arising from the sale of two volumes of sermons carried Sydney Smith, his family, and his furniture to Foston

SYDNEY SMITH'S WITTY ANSWER TO THE OLD PARISH CLERK.

COUNTRY QUIET.-THE UNIVERSAL SCRATCHER.

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le Clay in the summer of 1809, and he took up his abode in a pleasant house about two miles from York, at Heslington.

Let us now, for a time, forget the wit, the editor of the "Edinburgh Review," the diner out, the evening preacher at the Foundling, and glance at the peaceful and useful life of a country gentleman. His spirits, his wit, all his social qualities, never deserted Sydney Smith, even in the retreat to which he was destined. Let us see him driving in his second-hand carriage, his horse "Peter the Cruel," with Mrs. Smith by his side, summer and winter, from Heslington to Foston le Clay. Mrs. Smith at first trembled at the inexperience of her charioteer; but "she soon," said Sydney, "raised my wages, and considered me an excellent Jehu." "Mr. Brown," said Sydney to one of the tradesmen of York, through the streets of which he found it difficult to drive, “ your streets are the narrowest in Europe." "Narrow, sir? there's plenty of room for two carriages to pass each other, and an inch and a half to spare!"

Let us see him in his busy, peaceful life, digging an hour or two every day in his garden to avoid sudden death by preventing corpulency; then galloping through a book, and when his family laughed at him for so soon dismissing a quarto, saying, "Cross-examine me, then," and going well through the ordeal. Hear him, after finishing his morning's writing, saying to his wife, "There, Kate, it's done; do look over it, put the dots to the i's, and cross the t's;" and off he went to his walk, surrounded by his children, who were his companions and confidants. See him in the lane, talking to an old woman whom he had taken into his gig as she was returning from market, and picking up all sorts of knowledge from her; or administering medicine to the poor, or to his horses and animals, sometimes committing mistakes next to fatal. One day he declared he found all his pigs intoxicated, grunting "God save the King" about the sty. He nearly poisoned his red cow by an over-dose of castor-oil; and Peter the Cruel, so called because the groom said he had a cruel face, took two boxes of opium pills (boxes and all) in his mash without ill consequences.

See him, too, rushing out after dinner-for he had a horror of long sittings after that meal-to look at his "scratcher." He used to say, Lady Holland (his daughter) relates, “I am all for cheap luxuries, even for animals; now all animals have a passion for scratching their back-bones; they break down your gates and palings to effect this. Look! there is my universal scratcher, a sharp-edged pole, resting on a high and a low post, adapted to every height, from a horse to a lamb.