publisher to whom it was offered, was afterwards published in the "Whisperer." From a hint given him, to the effect that he was more fit to write for men than for children, his next ambitious literary exploit was a novel, after the manner and style of Fielding. On its completion, the manuscript was placed in the hands of Lane, who took it with him to his country-house, that he might there read it at his leisure. We can well imagine the trembling anxiety with which Montgomery waited upon the publisher, on his return to town, to ascertain its fate; but whatever might have been the misgivings that sometimes overshadowed his bright hopes, he was little prepared for the extraordinary censure passed upon it. "You swear so shockingly, that I dare not publish the work as it is," said the man of letters. The shrinking, sensitive youth was petrified by these words of doom. Although no oath had ever stained his lips, yet in imitating his model of fiction, he had, as is usual in such cases, inadvertently copied many of the defects and vices of Fielding, and among them the profane expressions which the author of "Tom Jones" puts into the mouths of some of his dramatis persona. Not to crush the youthful aspirant before him, however, Lane told him that if he would rewrite the work, he would give him twenty pounds for it. This tempting bait to his ambition and poverty he was only too glad to accept; but shortly afterwards quitting the metropolis, the revision of this work of fiction was reserved for his long leisure in York Castle, five years afterwards. When he had remodelled the story, he demanded forty pounds for the copyright, which was refused; and thus was preserved from publication a work, the writing of which in subsequent life caused him deep regret.

His next literary adventure is somewhat amusing. Moved by the scribbling impulse, he soon produced an Eastern Tale, which he took one evening to a publisher in town, to whose private room he was introduced with imposing formality. The picture is worth a moment's study by all young writers who may be dreaming of fame and fortune through their presumed talents. Here it is, from the Memoirs:'6 "The cautious bibliopolist read the title, counted first the pages, then the lines in each, and, after a brief calculation, turned to the author, who was not a little surprised at this mode of estimating the merit of a work of

imagination-by pinching it between the thumb and fingers!-very civilly placed the copy in his hand, saying, Sir, your manuscript is too small-it won't do for me; take it to —, he publishes this kind of thing.' The young author withdrew from the presence of the literary Rhadamanthus with so much embarrassment and precipitation, that in repassing through the shop, he bolted his head right against a patent lamp, smashed the glass, and spilt the oil! He was endeavouring to frame an awkward apology, when he saw the shopmen were enjoying a hearty laugh at his expense, which gave a less serious air to the accident than he had at first apprehended. He rushed into the street, with all the emotions of the bashful man;' and yet he could scarcely then refrain from laughing at a scene that might almost have tempted Hogarth to resume his pencil, even after he had finished his 'Tailpiece.'

His inauspicious London career was now well nigh at an end; for Providence had destined him for a different sphere from that which his early and unchastened ambition had chosen. His path to literary renown being for the present clearly hedged-up, and some slight misunderstanding having arisen between him and his employer, Montgomery resolved to return to Yorkshire. Among his fellowpassengers in the lumbering old coach was the father of Lord Byron-a dark, tall, thin, and taciturn man, with a blue beard of immense luxuriance. It must not be concluded that the embryo poet's brief sojourn in London was without advantage or gratification. He had extended his

acquaintance with books, and, to some extent, with living authors. Among the visitors at Harrison's shop was D'Israeli, afterwards author of the "Curiosities of Literature." He was also brought much into contact with the celebrated William Huntingdon, the converted coal-heaver, and the eccentric preacher at Gray's Inn Chapel. Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, so well known as the friend of Dr. Johnson, was likewise a frequent visitor at the same shop, and Montgomery had occasionally the honour of escorting her to her carriage.

Somewhat cooled, probably, in his enthusiastic expectations, he returned to his previous situation at Wath, and devoted himself assiduously to the duties of his post; still, however, during his intervals of leisure, feeding and exercising his imagination, and preparing for bolder flights in the rich-hued future. Indeed, the germs of many of

those sweet little poems which have acquired such an everliving interest among us, were conceived at this period. Here he remained until he had attained his majority, when, it seems, he began to feel anxious to improve his condition. And about this time a circumstance occurred which altered the whole course of his existence, and led to a speedy and perhaps premature introduction to the turbulent public life of the close of the eighteenth century.

When out, on one occasion, collecting the weekly accounts of Mr. Hunt, Montgomery took up the "Sheffield Register," and glancing his eye over its columns, his attention was arrested by an advertisement for a clerk, at Sheffield. The situation so exactly accorded with his desires, that he immediately sought the appointment. His application was succeeded by an interview with Mr. Gales, printer, bookseller, and auctioneer, which resulted in an engagement. Here, then, on the verge of a long career of public usefulness and private virtue, which opened before him in that great manufacturing town-beginning in peril, and trial, and storm, but ending in renown and honour, and peacewe must pause. The dreaming boy of Fulneck has now become a man, compelled to do battle for liberty and right in troublesome times, and even to suffer bonds and imprisonments for daring, as a bold though perhaps injudicious journalist, to utter freely his opinions upon the engrossing questions and public characters of the day. His early passion for poetic fame survived the changes of his outward lot, and after having been chastened and purified by repeated rebuffs and scathing criticism, triumphed at length over all obstacles, and won for his more finished and harmonious productions the admiration and praise of his contemporaries. Still he ever after bore about with him the scars of the wounds received in these youthful conflicts. For many years he was the victim of morbid gloom and melancholy, which he ascribed to the poetic frenzies that preyed upon his fine mind throughout his early years. Let poetasters study his story, and be warned!

THE TREE OF PEACE.

EOTHEN.

FAST by the Thracian Bosphorus, within an eastern glade,
Dying, a Christian warrior slept beneath an olive's shade;
His latest cup of glory drained, his last of battles won,
Small space away his dropped sword lay, lit by the Moslem sun.

Sudden, a wild tumultuous shout resounded fast and far, And a pealing clang of arms rang out, which spoke not of the

war;

Burst on his soul that trumpet-roll, half rose he from his rest, And death took pause a little while to mark his heaving breast. Not to his gleaming sword he looked, no martial impulse stirred The passing spirit of the brave; but Peace, thy magic word! And, turning to his own loved West, where low the sunbeams lay,

His dying voice in joy he poured upon the dying day.

"Silence yon brazen trumpet! Call my children to my knee, And let me feel the winds that steal along the olive tree; It is the same blest tree of peace round which the breezes curled,

When rose its form above the storm that wreck'd our ancient world.

"Sound not one note! the trumpet's throat that summoned to the fray,

Shall never wake rock, hill, or brake, to hail the better day; The God-sent pledge of peace of old, the ripe green bough of love,

Never the croaking raven bore-its herald was the dove.

"To weeping nations lift the cry of this redeeming birth; Let lisping babes proclaim it round to all the listening earth; The cannon's roar shall burst no more through Stamboul's Golden Horn,

But voices soft shall sound aloft- This day a Peace is born.'

Oh, gracious tree! oh, living tree! that budded on the mount Where stood, of man the sacrifice, of peace the source and

fount;

Shower gently down thy sunny crown of leaves on each dear head,

Bowed humbly 'neath thine ancient boughs to hail the blessing shed.

"Come hither in your beauty, O belovèd of my heart

Yeolive branches' of my soul stern war would rend apart! The vital trunk that gave ye birth to spread its roots shall

cease,

But ye shall flourish greenly still, and bear the fruits of Peace.

My course is run, my day is done; but of this Peace, I ween, These scions fair shall nobly dare to keep the memory green: What heed I tho' the mists of death are gathering in mine eye; For this I fought, for this I bled, for this I gladly die!"

E. L. HERVEY.

THE STORMY NIGHT;

OR, AN EXAMPLE OF PERSEVERANCE.

BY AN AMERICAN PASTOR.

THE most remarkable instance of protracted and determined perseverance in seeking God, that has ever come within my knowledge, was that of a young married woman, whose seriousness commenced soon after I visited her at her own house, for the first time. The conversation that I then had with her, as she afterwards told me, "led her to make up her mind that she would seek the Lord, and would not stop, till she believed her salvation was secure.' The one consideration, and, so far as I could ever ascertain, the only one, which had any special influence to lead her to form this resolution and begin to act upon it, was taken from the assurance I gave her in my first conversation with her, that salvation was within her reach that she might be a christian if she wouldthat she would not seek the Lord in vain, if she only sought him with all her heart. "You told me, sir,' said she to me, years afterwards, "I should not seek God in vain. Your words were, (I remember it well, and always shall,) I know, Mrs. E- that you will be saved, if you seek God with all your heart.""

She tried to do so. She came to my house for conversation with me about her salvation, almost every Sabbath evening for nearly two years. In the depth of winter, on a cold, stormy night, the wind blowing violently, the snow drifting into the path, in places more than two feet in depth, (as I found on accompanying her home,) one of the most unpleasant and even terrific nights for a woman to be abroad, she came nearly half a mile to my house, alone. As I opened the door for her admission that stormy night, I uttered an expression of surprise, "Why, Mrs. Eare you here on such a night ?" And I shall never

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