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LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 According to the fly-sheet of his father's family Bible, " Oliver 
 Goldsmith was born at Pallas, November ye e 10th 
 17 ." The last two figures have been lost with the 1728 " 1774 
 margin of the leaf; but, from other sources, the poet is known to 
 have been born in the year 1728. Pallas, his birthplace, is a 
 hamlet in the parish of Forney, and county Longford, where the 
 parents of Oliver Goldsmith took up house on being married in 
 1718, and where they resided twelve years. The whole family 
 consisted of five sons and two daughters, Oliver being the fourth 
 child and second son. Of the others may be mentioned the eldest 
 son Henry, who, after being elected scholar in Trinity College, 
 Dublin, forfeited all the advantages connected with that appoint- 
 ment by a precipitate marriage, and spent his whole life on a 
 curacy of £40 a-year, with what else he could make by teaching ; 
 and Maurice, a cabinet-maker, who died in great indigence in 
 1792, whilst a life of his poet-brother, undertaken for his relief 
 was going through the press. 
 
 That want of manly self-control, and that incapacity of prac- 
 tising the wisdom acquired by reflection and experience, which 
 characterised the poet throughout his whole career, were defects 
 running in the Goldsmith blood ; and his father's marriage seems 
 to have been nearly as imprudent as his brother Henry's. The 
 "Rev. Charles Goldsmith, father of the poet, had, whilst a pupil at 
 the diocesan school of Elphin, fallen in love with Ann, daughter 
 of the Rev. Oliver Jones, the head-master ; and their marriage was 
 resolved upon, although the bridegroom had as yet no cure, and 
 the bride's portion was insignificant. On being married, they were 
 indebted for a residence to the Rev. Mr Green, rector of Kilkenny 
 West, and uncle to the bride. In 1730 this gentleman died, the 
 poet's father succeeding to his rectory ; and then it was that the 
 Goldsmiths removed to Lishoy, which was the true original of 
 Auburn, ■ The Deserted Village.' 
 
 Oliver received his first lessons from Mrs Delap, who often after- 
 
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 wards, and with almost her last breath in 1787, when about ninety 
 years of age, boasted that she had been the first to put a book into 
 Oliver Goldsmith's hands. At the age of six he was handed over 
 to Thomas Byrne, the Lishoy schoolmaster, who, after exchanging 
 the birch for the musket, and seeing some service in Spain during 
 the reign of Queen Anne, had resumed his original profession, and 
 was fully competent to teach the elementary courses of reading, 
 writing, and arithmetic. In all these departments Oliver was sur- 
 passed by many of his fellows ; but, as afterwards at the univer- 
 sity, so now, when a boy, he excelled them all in extra-academi- 
 cal lore. None were so well acquainted as he with the marvels of 
 popular literature, oral and printed, and he alone rhymed his 
 boyish impressions. This Thomas Byrne is understood to have 
 sat for the portrait of the schoolmaster in ' The Deserted Village ;' 
 and it was while under his care that Goldsmith was attacked with 
 smallpox, which completed the disfigurement of a face by no 
 means naturally prepossessing. His whole person and manner 
 were, even in after life, indicative of anything but genius or re- 
 finement. Boswell describes him thus : — ' His person was short* 
 his countenance coarse and vulgar, and his deportment that of a 
 scholar awkwardly affecting that of a gentleman.' This unflatx 
 tering portrait may be individualised by an anecdote. One day 
 at Sir Joshua Reynold's, Goldsmith was indignantly relating how 
 some person had insulted him, and concluded by saying, ' The 
 fellow took me for a tailor !' whereupon the whole company either 
 laughed outright, or with difficulty suppressed a laugh, — Gold- 
 smith's appearance being precisely that of a low mechanic, espe- 
 cially of a journeyman tailor. 
 
 On recovering from the smallpox, Goldsmith was sent to the 
 diocesan school of Elphin, and to this period belongs the earliest 
 of his couplets quoted by Prior. At an er ening party Goldsmith 
 was dancing a hornpipe, while another j outh named Cumming 
 played on the violin ; the latter drew the attention of the company 
 to Goldsmith's ungainly person, by calling him iEsop ; but the 
 laugh was soon turned against the aggressor by the dancer stopping 
 short, and repeating the following impromptu : 
 4 Our herald hath proclaimed this saying, 
 See jEsop dancing, and his monkey playing. * 
 
 This, and the like of this, from a boy nine or ten years of age, 
 naturally excited the hopes of his friends ; and in 1739 Goldsmith 
 was removed to a school of repute in Athlone, that he might be 
 better prepared for the University, should means be found of 
 supporting him there. On the master retiring, after two years, he 
 was sent to the school of the Rev. Patrick Hughes, in Edgeworth- 
 stown, where he remained till his entrance into the University. 
 
 At Edgeworthstown Goldsmith came into contact with two poets 
 of local celebrity, viz. Turlogh O'Carolan, the last of the ancient 
 Irish bards, and Laurence Whyte, who set the popular grievances 
 
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 of the Irish, absenteeism of landlords, eviction of tenants, &c, to 
 rhyme. About 1741, consequently just about the time when 
 Goldsmith was removed to Edgeworthstown, TThyte published a 
 volume of poems by subscription, and although his rhymes are 
 wooden on the whole, yet the parallel between some of them and 
 certain passages in ' The Deserted Village ' is so very close, that 
 Whyte's humbler lines may very well have been running in Gold- 
 smith's mind, when engaged on his classic composition. It was 
 in the course of Goldsmith's last journey from home to Edge- 
 worthstown school that the adventure occurred which afterwards 
 suggested the chief incident in ' She stoops to conquer.' He was 
 on horseback, and intent on spending magnificently a guinea with 
 which some friend had furnished him. Accordingly, when night 
 overtook him in the small town of Ardagh, he asked a passer-by 
 for the best house in the place, meaning the best inn ; but the 
 party addressed happened to be a wag, and, perceiving young 
 Goldsmith's greenness, answered his question according to the 
 letter by namiDg his own master's house, that of Mr Featherstone, 
 a gentleman of fortune. On alighting at the door, Oliver gave 
 authoritative directions about his horse, and was ushered into Mr 
 Featherstone's presence by the servants, who supposed him to be 
 an expected guest. Mr Featherstone at once perceived the 
 mistake and did everything to encourage it, especially as he soon 
 discovered, from Oliver's talk, that he was the son of an old 
 acquaintance. The boy called for wine at supper, inviting his 
 supposed landlord with his wife and daughters to partake of it, 
 ordered, on retiring for the night, a hot cake to his breakfast on 
 the following morning, and did not become aware how matters 
 really stood till the moment of leaving. Had Goldsmith given 
 proof in after life of ordinary good sense in practical matters, this 
 adventure might be set down to the account of his inexperience, 
 but as in practical matters he was from beginning to end a fool, 
 it must be regarded as an early demonstration of that vanity and 
 simplicity, which distinguished him throughout life. 
 
 On the 11th June 1744, Goldsmith was enrolled a student in 
 Trinity College, Dublin. He obtained a sizarship 
 which entitled him to commons and tuition free, and, ' 
 
 as such privileges are the reward of excellence at competitive 
 examinations, Goldsmith's success is a proof that he brought with 
 him more than average classical acquirements from school. By 
 the death of his father early in 1747, certain small supplies of 
 money were interrupted ; and, to make up the deficiency, he 
 composed street-ballads which brought him five shillings each. 
 He would perambulate the streets at night to hear his verses sung, 
 and witness their effect on the listening crowds. All this was very 
 poetical, not at all academical however. It must indeed be 
 admitted that, while Goldsmith retained at college that reputation 
 for cleverness which he brought with him from school, he did not 
 
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 rise to distinction as a scholar. He entertained a positive aversion 
 for mathematics, and his appreciation of the classics seems to 
 have been that of the poet rather than of the critic. There is 
 however no evidence that he was distinguished for irregularity of 
 conduct ; and it is not true that he was expelled for taking part 
 in a street riot attended with loss of life. Four of the ringleaders 
 in this affair were expelled, and four of the participators publicly 
 admonished ; Goldsmith was one of the latter. 
 
 Shortly after this untoward event Goldsmith obtained one of the 
 minor exhibitions, of which there are so many in Trinity College, 
 Dublin ; and, to celebrate his success, he convened a dancing party 
 of young ladies and gentlemen in his college-rooms. On this 
 occasion his tutor, a Mr Wilder, committed an indiscretion as 
 flagrant as his pupil's, by proceeding to Goldsmith's rooms, as 
 soon as he heard of the irregularity, and administering personal 
 chastisement on the spot. Goldsmith could not stomach the affront, 
 quitted the University, and sold his books and clothes, with the 
 intention of travelling to Cork, and there embarking for America. 
 With characteristic indecision, however, he wandered about Dublin 
 till only one shilling remained in his pocket. He then set out for 
 Cork, but had not walked far, when he was reduced to such 
 extremities that, after a twenty-four hours' fast, a handful of grey 
 peas, given him by a girl at a wake, seemed to him the most 
 delightful repast he had ever made. Necessity now obliged him 
 to communicate with his brother Henry, who effected a reconcilia- 
 tion between him and his tutor, and restored him to the University, 
 where he took his degree of B. A. on the 27th February 1749. 
 
 Goldsmith left the University not only without distinguished 
 acquirements as a scholar, but without a definite life- 
 aim ; and nearly two years were now passed in miscel- 
 laneous light reading, and in visiting among friends. Though con- 
 scious of having no vocation for the sacred office, he applied to the 
 bishop of Elphin for ordination, and was rejected, according to some 
 because he was too young, according to others because the bishop 
 believed in an exaggerated account of his irregularities at college, 
 and according to others still, because he had appeared before the 
 bishop in scarlet breeches ! His friends, who had urged him to 
 make the application, were greatly disappointed, himself not at all. 
 
 About this time he acted for nearly a year as tutor in the 
 family of a Mr Flinn. On leaving this situation, which he did 
 on occasion of some quarrel, none of his relations knew for six 
 weeks what was become of him, and to this period belong the 
 adventures of which he wrote so delightfully naive an account to 
 his mother.* Mounted on a good horse, and with £30 in his 
 pocket, he went to Cork, where he sold hid horse, and prepaid his 
 passage to America. For three weeks, contrary winds prevented 
 the vessel from sailing, and, when a change of wind carried her 
 * Prior's Life of Goldsmith, Vol. I., p. 119. 
 
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 out to sea, Goldsmith was enjoying himself with some friends in 
 the country. He lingered on as usual, and, when only two 
 guineas of his money remained, at length bethought himself of 
 returning to his relations. He bought a sorry beast, to which he 
 gave the name of Fiddleback, and left Cork with only five shil- 
 lings, half of which he parted with on the very first day, to a 
 poor woman who asked charity of him on the road. Recollecting 
 now that the residence of an old college friend was at hand, he 
 directed Fiddleback thither, and his reception was very promis- 
 ing till the narrative of his adventures revealed his folly and 
 destitution. Not even the loan of a guinea could then be ob- 
 tained, and, when Goldsmith begged to be informed how it was 
 possible to continue his journey without funds, his friend readily 
 answered that he ought to sell his horse, and accept of a better, 
 which was at his service. Goldsmith grasped at the proposal, and 
 was instantly presented with a stout oak stick, and advised that 
 it would carry him to his mother's more surely than Fiddleback. 
 This insult would probably have been repaid with blows, had not 
 a hospitable gentleman called just at this moment, and invited 
 both to dinner ; Goldsmith spent several days with this new ac- 
 quaintance, and was enabled by him to complete his journey. 
 
 It was now proposed that Goldsmith should study law, the Rev. 
 Thomas Contarine, his uncle by marriage, furnishing him with 
 £50, that he might proceed via Dublin to London, there to keep 
 the usual terms. In Dublin, however, Goldsmith fell in with 
 sharpers, who won from him all he had in a gaming-house. His 
 uncle forgave him, and not long after united with others in con- 
 tributing the funds necessary for enabling him to study medicine* 
 in Edinburgh, where he actually arrived in the autumn of 1752. 
 The day of his arrival in that city was signalised by an instance 
 of his habitual thoughtlessness in practical matters. After hiring 
 rooms, and depositing his luggage in them, he sallied out to view 
 the town, but without taking note of the street in which his lodg- 
 ings were situated. At nightfall accordingly he searched for them 
 in vain, and would not have found them at all, had he not accident- 
 ally met with the porter whom he had employed in the morning. 
 
 After about eighteen months' residence in Edinburgh, divided, 
 in what proportions cannot now be ascertained, between study 
 and conviviality, Goldsmith embarked for Bordeaux, but stress 
 of weather drove the vessel into Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Gold- 
 smith landed here, and was making merry with some of his fellow- 
 passengers, when he and they were suddenly arrested in the 
 King's name. It appeared that his companions were Scotchmen 
 in the service of France, returning to that country from a re- 
 cruiting expedition in their own, and Goldsmith was supposed to 
 be of their party. After a fortnight's imprisonment, his inno- 
 cence was ascertained, and he regained his liberty ; but the vessel 
 bound for Bordeaux had by this time left, and Goldsmith, impa- 
 
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 tient to reach the Continent, embarked in a vessel bonnd for 
 Rotterdam, where he arrived in safety. To this apparently unto- 
 ward accident the world is indebted for all it has inherited from 
 Oliver Goldsmith.; for the vessel from which it separated him 
 was lost at the mouth of the Garonne, and all on board perished. 
 In going to the Continent, Goldsmith's primary object seems to 
 have been to prosecute his medical studies ; for he proceeded at 
 once from Rotterdam to Leyden, and spent a year at the Univer- 
 sity there ; but another motive, viz., the desire of foreign travel, 
 though kept in the back-ground by his judgment, was probably 
 foremost in his feeling. Accordingly, his second year on the 
 Continent was spent in wandering over Holland, Belgium, France, 
 Switzerland, and northern Italy. All we know of this bold and 
 romantic undertaking is, that it was immediately preceded by 
 an act of improvidence, the generosity and folly of which are 
 alike characteristic, and that it ended with the same penniless- 
 ness in which it began. Dr Ellis had furnished him with some 
 money for the journey, and it instantly occurred to Goldsmith 
 that he had now the means of gratifying the taste for flowers of 
 his kind uncle, Contarine, by sending him a box of the choicest 
 Dutch flower-roots. They were accordingly bought, and Gold- 
 smith was a pauper once more. Perhaps he really wished to 
 start without funds, like the Baron Louis de Holberg, who died 
 in the previous year, and who, in this whole project of travel, 
 seems to have been his model. In sketching the Baron's life, 
 Goldsmith thus refers to his European tour : ' Without money, 
 recommendation, or friends, he undertook to set out upon his 
 travels, and make the tour of Europe on foot. A good voice and 
 a trifling skill in music were the only finances he had to support 
 an undertaking so extensive, so he travelled by day, and at night 
 sang at the doors of peasants' houses, to get himself a lodging.' 
 In this very way Goldsmith, who was a tolerable performer on 
 the German flute, is understood to have accomplished his tour, at 
 least till he reached Italy, where his musical skill was outdone 
 by that of the peasants themselves. There, however, another re- 
 source was opened up to him in the hospitality of the universities 
 and monasteries ; for on occasion of public discussions these in- 
 stitutions not only boarded and lodged for a day and a night 
 every stranger who acquitted himself well in the disputation, 
 but also rewarded him with a gratuity in money ; and Goldsmith 
 is supposed to have been expert in these intellectual gymnastics. 
 This may or may not have been the case ; but, with such preca- 
 rious supplies, it is probable that our poet-tourist had to content 
 himself with the bare necessaries of life, and that the first line of 
 the * Traveller' is a literal description of himself : — 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. 
 Of all Goldsmith's life, this year of vagrancy is the most attractive 
 to the imagination, because it presents a spacious canvas with the 
 
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. is 
 
 solitary figure of a wandering minstrel in the foreground, and a 
 vacant background which can be filled up with strange adventures. 
 These, doubtless, were not wanting ; and perhaps this year was 
 the most attractive to Goldsmith himself in the retrospect, however 
 gloomy it may have been in actual experience. It is at least certain 
 that his desire of travel wa3 not extinguished ; for ten years after 
 this he endeavoured, though unsuccessfully, to carry out a project 
 of travel in the East, which he had long entertained. 
 
 On returning to London in 1756, Goldsmith had to begin the 
 world anew ; but the evil was, that he knew not where 
 to begin. He was now twenty-eight years of age ; he ~ ' 
 
 had accumulated, on the basis of at least an average scholarship, 
 a vast amount of miscellaneous information : he had experienced 
 much, and observed more ; he was in fact a wise man theoretically. 
 But how were all these treasures to be turned to account ? Had 
 literature been a regularly organized profession, he would have 
 embraced it at once ; as it was, he reached it by a circuitous route. 
 He first became an usher, and what sort of situation that was in 
 his time, he has pourtrayed in the Vicar of "Wakefield. He next 
 entered the service of a chemist, and then set up for himself as 
 a medical practitioner in Southwark. These three changes were 
 made in the course of one year, that of his return to England ; 
 for in the beginning of 1757, we find him undertaking the charge 
 of a classical school at Peckham, Surrey, in the room of a dissent- 
 ing minister, Dr John Milner, who was temporarily disabled by ill- 
 ness. Thi3 gentleman appreciated Goldsmith's services ; and in- 
 troduced him to Mr (afterwards Dr) Griffiths, projector and pro- 
 prietor of the Monthly Review, to which Goldsmith soon became 
 a regular contributor. It was also Dr Milner who obtained for 
 Goldsmith a professional appointment in India under the Com- 
 pany ; but this opportunity of obtaining a fixed and adequate 
 income was let slip, partly from Goldsmith's dislike to permanent 
 expatriation, and partly from the difficulty of procuring the requi- 
 site outfit. He still entertained, however, the idea of turning his 
 professional skill to account, for, in December 1758, he presented 
 himself at Surgeons' Hall for examination as an hospital mate ; 
 he was rejected as unqualified. His professional knowledge was 
 probably never either very exact or very extensive ; at all events 
 it could not have been so, after years of interrupted professional 
 study. It is no wonder, therefore, and no disparagement to Gold- 
 smith's genius that he was rejected : his application was merely 
 an instance of his folly in practical matters, and his admission 
 would have argued little for the Surgeons' Hall examination. 
 
 Goldsmith was now fairly shut up to a literary life. It was the 
 only field open to him, and the only one in which his services 
 were welcomed. Accordingly from this time he becomes ever 
 more and more prolific as a writer. In 1760 he began that famous 
 series of contributions to the Public Ledger, entitled ' Chinese 
 
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Letters,' on account of which, Newbery, the publisher, allowed him 
 £100 per annum. They were afterwards published separately, 
 under the title 'Letters from a Citizen of the World,' and, in the 
 more modern language of book titles, might be called ' What a 
 Chinese Philosopher thought of England and the English.' 
 Goldsmith's literary employment was exceedingly miscellaneous, 
 and chiefly in connection with Newbery, to be nearer whom, he 
 removed in 1762 from London itself to Islington, where that 
 gentleman resided. Here he remained till 1764 ; and, according 
 to some, his Islington landlady, a Mrs Fleming, was the one who 
 offered herself in marriage to Goldsmith as the only condition of 
 his escaping the bailiffs, whose aid she had called in to enforce the 
 payment of her bill. Prior doubts the locality assigned to this 
 affair, and rejects the unfeminine proposal ascribed to the land- 
 lady as an exaggeration. The facts ascertained are simply these, 
 that about the year 1764, Goldsmith, being arrested by his land- 
 lady for debt, sent for Dr Johnson, to whom he committed the 
 manuscript of the Vicar of Wakefield ; Johnson went straight to 
 Newbery, who bought the manuscript for £60, and thus Goldsmith 
 was relieved from his difficulties. 
 
 At the close of 1764 ' The Traveller ' was published, and Gold- 
 smith's reputation as a poet established. It had been sketched 
 at Geneva, and is not less instructive as the report of an experi- 
 enced observer, than charming as the production of an elegant 
 fancy. Johnson contributed to it nine lines, two of which are me- 
 morable for their profound wisdom, pensive and cheering at once : — 
 • How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
 That part, which kings or laws can cause or cure I' 
 The circle of Goldsmith's acquaintances and patrons was greatly 
 extended by the publication of ' The Traveller.' Among his new 
 patrons was the Earl of Northumberland, who, on setting out for 
 Ireland as Lord Lieutenant, expressed himself ready to do Gold- 
 smith a kindness. Instead of improving the opportunity for his 
 own benefit, Goldsmith called his Lordship's attention to his brother 
 Henry, who was still doing clerical duty on £40 a year. How 
 unselfish say they who look on the right side of the transaction ; 
 how foolish say they who look on the wrong. 
 
 Goldsmith's unselfishness in turning the Earl of Northumber- 
 land's regards from himself to his brother is all the 
 more remarkable, because his own circumstances 
 were at this very time so straitened that, in the end of 1765, he 
 made one effort more to establish a regular medical practice. It 
 was the last of the kind he made, — brief and unsuccessful like all 
 the others. Goldsmith was destined to rise in fame, not in fortune ; 
 and in the beginning of 1766 a notable accession was made to the 
 former by the publication of the ' Vicar of Wakefield.' A few copies 
 of ' The Hermit ' had been printed two years previously for the 
 amusement of the Countess of Northumberland. The one is the 
 
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. x\ 
 
 sweetest ballad, and the other the most delightful tale in the 
 English language. 
 
 If Goldsmith cannot be acquitted of the charge of academica* 
 idleness, brought against his youth, he must be wondered at, or at 
 least admired for the literary industry of his prime. Compilation 
 was the form which his taskwork assumed. His History of 
 Animated Nature, extending to eight octavo volumes, was an 
 immense undertaking; and many generations have known little 
 of political history but what Goldsmith has taught them. His 
 proper reputation however rests not at all on these numerous works, 
 which were the outcome of persevering labour, but on the few 
 which were the outpouring of spontaneous inspiration. To these 
 belongs ' The Deserted Village,' which was published in 1770. 
 His comedy of the ' Good-Natured Man' was brought out two 
 years earlier, and ' She Stoops to Conquer' three years later, the 
 former with but moderate, the latter with the greatest success. 
 
 Goldsmith was now turned forty, and had reached the zenith 
 at once of his reputation and of his powers. His life had for 
 many years been divided between desk labour and conviviality 
 neither of them regular nor always in measure ; and the effect 
 at length appeared in occasional depression of spirit, and in 
 some permanent bodily infirmities. He had resolved upon retiring 
 to the country, and spending only two months of the year in 
 London ; but before this purpose could be carried into effect, a 
 fever, the combined result of local disease and mental harassment, 
 carried him off in the forty-sixth year of his age. His remains 
 were interred in the Temple burying-ground, and a monument 
 erected to him in Westminster Abbey, bearing a Latin inscrip- 
 tion from the pen of Dr Samuel Johnson, of which the following 
 is a translation : — 
 
 To Oliver Goldsmith, 
 
 Poet, Naturalist, Historian, 
 
 Who attempted almost every style, 
 
 And adorned whatever he touched ; 
 
 Whether to laughter, 
 
 Or to tears, 
 
 A mighty yet gentle mover of the passions ; 
 
 In genius, lofty, striking, versatile, 
 
 In expression, dignified, brilliant, graceful, 
 
 This monument is dedicated by 
 
 The regret of his companions, 
 
 The attachment of his friends, 
 
 The grateful respect of his readers. 
 
 Bora in Forney parish, C. Longford, Ireland, 
 
 At a place called Pallas, 
 
 NOV. XXIX. 1EDCCXXXI.* 
 
 Educated at Dublin. 
 
 Died in London, 
 April iv. MDecLxxrv. 
 
 It must be confessed that Goldsmith's life, as a man, is eml- 
 
 * This misstatement of Goldsmith's hirth-year still remains in the inscription 
 In Westminster Abbey. As has been stated, he was really born in the year 1728 
 
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 nently unsatisfactory. There is no trace of a sustained effort to 
 grapple with the wayward bias of his nature, and consequently 
 the stages of his career are not marked by the growth of his 
 moral manhood. What he was at the beginning he continued 
 throughout, and was at the end, simple yet vain ; kind, yet irrit- 
 able ; generous, yet envious. He was to the last practically a 
 stranger to the precept * Be just before you are generous/ and 
 left behind him debts amounting to about £2000. Never was there 
 an instance in which the little state of man was more truly a king- 
 dom divided against itself; so completely opposed were his con- 
 victions to his impulses, his precepts as a teacher of mankind to 
 his practice as an actor on the stage of life. His readers may, 
 indeed, safely forget the man Goldsmith altogether, and commune 
 only with the poet. Not that his writings are without traces of his 
 life, but that these traces belong to the outward circumstances of 
 his career, not at all to his inward history. The truthfulness of 
 his scenes and characters is no doubt mainly due to their being 
 idealisations of what had come under his own observation : touches 
 of sentiment, too, and the charms of fancy are there ; but moral 
 earnestness was not in the man, and may not be looked for in his 
 works. Neither his contemporaries, nor posterity, have been un- 
 just to him ; and Johnson said neither more nor less than the 
 truth when he remarked that * no man was more foolish than 
 Goldsmith, when he had not a pen in his hand, or more wise wher 
 ho had on9.' 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS— 
 
 The Traveller, .... 
 
 3 
 
 The Deserted Village, 
 
 15 
 
 The Captivity, .... 
 
 27 
 
 The Hermit, .... 
 
 37 
 
 The Haunch of Venison, 
 
 42 
 
 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, 
 
 46 
 
 Threnodia Augustalis, 
 
 47 
 
 Retaliation, . . . . 
 
 54 
 
 The Double Transformation, 
 
 59 
 
 Miscellaneous — 
 
 The Clown's Reply, .... 62 
 
 Prologue Written and Spoken by the Poet Laberius, 62 
 
 63 
 64 
 65 
 65 
 66 
 66 
 67 
 68 
 68 
 70 
 70 
 70 
 71 
 74 
 75 
 
 Prologue to Zobeide, 
 
 The Logicians Refuted, 
 
 Epigram on a Beautiful Youth Struck Blind, 
 
 Stanzas on the taking of Quebec, • 
 
 „ " Weeping, Murmuring, Complaining," 
 The Gift, to Iris, in Bow Street, 
 An Elegy on Mrs Mary Blaize, 
 Description of an Author's Bedchamber, 
 A new Simile, in the manner of Swift, 
 Stanzas on Woman, .... 
 Epitaph on Edward Purdon, . . 
 
 „ on Dr Parnell, 
 Epilogue, intended to be spoken by Mrs Bulkley, 
 to the Comedy of " The Sisters," . 
 intended for Mrs Bulkley, 
 ,. spoken by Mr Lee Lewis in the character 
 of Harlequin, . . ... 
 
 76 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS, Miscellaneous— {continued). page 
 
 Song, Ah me ! when shall I marry me, . 77 
 
 On the Death of the Right Hon. *'»■♦, 78 
 
 Answer to an Invitation to Dinner, . . 78 
 
 „ to a Versified Invitation, . . 80 
 
 PLAYS- 
 
 The Good-Natured Man, ... 82 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer, ... 138 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, . . . 196 
 
 ESSAYS— MISCELLANEOUS— 
 
 Preface, ...... 330 
 
 I. Description of various Clubs, . . 332 
 
 II. Asem, an Eastern Tale, . . . 338 
 
 III. On the English Clergy, ... 344 
 
 IV. Adventures of a Strolling Player, . . 347 
 V. On the Frailty of Man — supposed Memoir by the 
 
 Ordinary of Newgate, . . . 354 
 VI. Female Warriors, .... 356 
 VII. Taste, ..... 359 
 VIII. Cultivation of Taste, ... 365 
 IX. Origin of Poetry, .... 372 
 X. Poetry distinguished from other writing, . 380 
 XI. Metaphor, . . . . 387 
 XII. Versification, .... 399 
 XIII. Schools of Music, .... 402 
 XIV. Scottish Marriages, ... 407 
 XV. Supposed to be written by a Common-Council- 
 man at the Coronation, • . . 409 
 XVI. Second Letter, by the same, . . 411 
 
 THE BEE— 
 
 No. I. Introduction, . . % 
 
 Remarks on our Theatres, . 
 Story of Alcander and Septimius, 
 II. On Dress, . . 
 
 Some particulars relative to Charle3 XII. 
 
 Sweden, . ... • 
 
 Happiness dependent on Constitution, 
 On our Theatres, 
 III. On the Use of Language, . • 
 
 On Justice and Generosity, • 
 
 of 
 
 414 
 417 
 
 420 
 423 
 
 427 
 430 
 433 
 434 
 439 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 5V 
 
 ESSAYS, THE BEE— (continued). 
 
 I AGE 
 
 IV. Miscellaneous, 
 
 441 
 
 A Flemish Tradition, 
 
 445 
 
 The Sagacity of some Insects, 
 
 447 
 
 A City Night Piece, 
 
 450 
 
 V. Upon Political Frugality, . 
 
 452 
 
 A Reverie, 
 
 459 
 
 Upon Unfortunate Merit, 
 
 464 
 
 VI. On Education, 
 
 466 
 
 On the Instability of Worldly Grandeur, . 474 
 
 VII. An account of the Augustan age in 
 
 England, 477 
 
 The Opera in England, 
 
 482 
 
 THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD— 
 
 
 Letter I. First Impressions of England, 
 
 485 
 
 II. Pride of the English, 
 
 488 
 
 III. Westminster Abbey, 
 
 490 
 
 IV. Politics of England and France, 
 
 495 
 
 V. Plays, 
 
 497 
 
 VI. Virtues of the English, 
 
 501 
 
 VII. Rise and Declension of the Kingdon 
 
 i of Lao, 504 
 
 VIII. The Charitable Man, 
 
 507 
 
 IX. The same continued, . , 
 
 510 
 
 X. An Invitation to Dinner, 
 
 515 
 
 XI. From Hingpo, a Slave in Persia, \ 
 
 ;0 Lien Chi 
 
 Altangi, .... 
 
 518 
 
 XII. From the same, 
 
 520 
 
 XIII. The Valley of Ignorance, 
 
 522 
 
 XIV. The Glass of Lao, 
 
 525 
 
 XV. Beau Tibbs, . 
 
 529 
 
 XVI. The same continued, 
 
 531 
 
 XVII. From Hingpo to Altangi, 
 
 534 
 
 XVIII. From Altangi to Hingpo — an Advic 
 
 a, . 536 
 
 XIX. Catherine of Russia, 
 
 539 
 
 XX. Mad Dogs, . 
 
 543 
 
 XXI. Beau Tibbs at Vauxhall, 
 
 544 
 
 XXII. Hingpo to Altangi— Region of Beaut; 
 
 Y and Valley 
 
 of the Graces, . 
 
 548 
 
 XXIII. From Hoam to Altangi — On Russia, 
 
 551 
 
 XXIV. Hingpo to Altangi — Zelis taken by ] 
 
 Urates, 552 
 
 XXV. The English Sailor, . 
 
 554 
 
 XXVI. Discovery of Zelis— The Wedding, 
 
 558 
 
THE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
THE TRAVELLER; 
 
 OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY, 
 
 TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I am sensible that the friendship between us can 
 acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication ; and 
 perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my 
 attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part 
 of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the 
 whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will 
 also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader under- 
 stands, that it is addressed to a man who, despising fame and 
 fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an in- 
 come of forty pounds a-year. 
 
 I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble 
 choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest 
 is great, and the labourers are but few ; while you have left the 
 field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest 
 not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition — what 
 from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criti- 
 cism, and from the divisions ">f party — that which pursues poeti- 
 cal fame is the wildest. 
 
 Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations ; 
 but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, painting 
 and music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a 
 less laborious entertainment, they at first rival poetry, and at 
 length supplant her ; they engross all that favour once shown to 
 her, and, though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth- 
 right. 
 
 Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is 
 still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the Earned to 
 
goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour 
 of blank verse and Pindaric odes, choruses, anapests, and iambics 
 alliterative care and happy negligence ! Every absurdity has now 
 a champion to defend it ; and as he is generally much in the 
 wrong, so he has always much to say ; for error is ever talkative. 
 
 But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, — 1 
 mean Party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys 
 the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it 
 ean only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the dis- 
 temper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man 
 after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, who has 
 once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the 
 most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers 
 generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought 
 a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they 
 dignify with the name of poet : his tawdry lampoons are called 
 satires ; his turbulence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire. 
 
 What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, 
 party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I soli- 
 citous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the 
 cause of any party, I have endeavoured to moderate the rage ot 
 all. I have attempted to show, that there may be equal happi- 
 ness in states that are differently governed from our own ; that 
 every state has a particular share of happiness, and that this 
 principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There 
 are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are 
 illustrated in this poem. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, 
 ¥our most affectionate brother, 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
 Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
 Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
 Against the houseless stranger shuts the door 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
 A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
 Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
 My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee : 
 Still to my Brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 
 
 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints attend I 
 Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
 And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
 Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
 And learn the luxury of doing good. 
 
 But me, not destined such delights to share, 
 My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; 
 Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
 Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; 
 That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow flies ; 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
 And find no spot of all the world my own. 
 
 Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And, placed on high above the storm's career, 
 
GOLDSMITH S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Look downward where a hundred realms appear ; 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 
 When thus Creation's charms around combine, 
 Amidst the store should thankless pride repine ? 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
 That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown ; d ; 
 Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
 Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
 Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; 
 For me your tributary stores combine : 
 Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! 
 
 As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er ; 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
 Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
 Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies 
 Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
 To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
 Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
 Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, 
 May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
 
 But where to find that happiest spot below, 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
 The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease 
 The naked negro panting at the line, 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
 Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
 Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam, 
 His first, best country, ever is at home. 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
 And estimate the blessings which they share, 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
 An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
 
: 
 
 Coiili i^atuie's T>oimty satisfy ike Tr.reast 
 Tie Soils of - 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 As different good, by art or nature given 
 
 To different nations, makes their blessings even. 
 
 Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
 Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call ; 
 With food as well the peasant is supplied 
 On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
 And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 
 These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
 From art more various are the blessings sent, 
 "Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content ; 
 Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
 That either seems destructive of the rest. 
 Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fail*, 
 And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
 Hence every state to one loved blessing prone, 
 Conforms and models life to that alone. 
 Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, 
 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
 Till, carried to excess in each domain, 
 This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 
 
 But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
 And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 
 Here for a while, my proper cares resign'd, 
 Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
 Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, 
 That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 
 
 Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
 Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
 Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
 Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
 While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
 
 Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
 The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
 Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
 That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
 These here disporting, own the kindred soil, 
 Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil : 
 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
 To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 
 
 But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
 
goldsmith's poetical wof.ks. 
 
 And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
 In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
 Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; 
 Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain : 
 Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
 And even in penance planning sins anew. 
 All evils here contaminate the mind, 
 That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
 For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date, 
 When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state ; 
 At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
 Again the long-fallen column sought the skies ; 
 The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, 
 The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
 Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
 While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, 
 But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave: 
 And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
 Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
 
 Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride : 
 From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind 
 An easy compensation seem to find. 
 Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
 The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
 Processions form'd for piety and love, 
 A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
 By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, 
 The sports of children satisfy the child ; 
 Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, 
 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
 While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind. 
 As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, 
 Defaced by time an 1 tottering in decay, 
 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
 And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 
 My soul, turn from them ; turn we to survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 No product here the barren hills afford, 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
 But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, 
 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small, 
 He sees his little lot, the lot of all ; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
 But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
 Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose, 
 Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
 With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
 Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep ; 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. 
 At night returning, every labour sped, 
 He sits him down the monarch of a shed : 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 . His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 
 While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
 And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
 
 Thus every good his native wilds impart 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
 And e'en those hills that round his mansion rise, 
 Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
 Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
 And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
 So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 
 Such are the charms to barren states assign 'd ; 
 Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. 
 Yet let them only share the praises due ; 
 If few their wants, their pleasures are but few : 
 For every want that stimulates the breast 
 
10 goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest ; 
 Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies 
 That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
 Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
 To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
 Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
 Catch every nerve, and vibrate" through the frame, 
 Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
 Unquench'd by want, unfanned by strong desire ; 
 Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
 On some high festival of once a-year, 
 In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
 Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 
 
 But not that joys alone thus coarsely flow ; 
 Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; 
 For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
 Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run ; 
 And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart 
 Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
 Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
 May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; 
 But all the gentler morals, such as play 
 Through life'3 more cultured walks, and charm the way 
 These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, 
 To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 
 
 To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
 I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
 Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
 Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please ! 
 How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
 With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ; 
 Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
 And, freshen 'd from the wave, the zephyr flew ; 
 And haply, though my harsh touch faltering still 
 But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill, 
 Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 
 And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 
 Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children through the mirthful maze, 
 And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 
 Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 
 
 So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 
 Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
 Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
 For honour forms the social temper here. 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 11 
 
 Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 
 
 Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
 
 Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
 
 It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; 
 
 From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
 
 And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
 
 They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem, 
 
 Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 
 
 But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
 It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
 For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, 
 Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ! 
 And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
 Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
 Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
 Pants for the vulgar praise, which fools impart ; 
 Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
 Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a-year : 
 The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws. 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self- applause. 
 
 To men of other minds my fancy flies 
 Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies : 
 Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
 Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
 And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
 Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
 Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
 The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, 
 Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
 Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
 While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile : 
 The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
 The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, — 
 A new creation rescued from his reign. 
 
 Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
 Impels the native to repeated toil, 
 Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
 And industry begets a love of gain. 
 Hence all the good from opulence that springs. 
 With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
 Are here display 'd. Their much-loved wealth imparta 
 
12 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts : 
 But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 
 Even liberty itself is barter'd here : 
 At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
 The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
 A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
 Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, 
 And calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
 Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
 
 Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
 Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
 War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; — 
 How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 
 
 Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
 And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
 Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
 And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide, 
 There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
 There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
 Extremes are only in the master'3 mind ! 
 Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, 
 With daring aims irregularly great ; 
 Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
 I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
 Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
 By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand, 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
 True to imagined right, above control, 
 While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
 And learns to venerate himself as man. 
 
 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; 
 Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, 
 But foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy : 
 That independence Britons prize too high, 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; 
 Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd : 
 Ferments arise, imprison 'd factions roar, 
 Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore, 
 Till, over-wrought, the general system feels 
 Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 18 
 
 Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
 As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
 Still gather strength and force unwilling awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
 And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : 
 Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, 
 The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
 Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
 Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 
 
 Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
 I mean to flatter kings, or court the great, 
 Ye powers of truth that bid my soul aspire, 
 Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 By proud conteicpt, or favour's fostering sun, 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
 I only would repress them to secure : 
 For just experience tells in every soil, 
 That those that think must govern those that toil : 
 And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach, 
 Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
 Hence, should one order disproportioned grow, 
 Its double weight must ruin all below. 
 
 then how blind to all that truth requires, 
 Who think it freedom when a part aspires I 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
 Except when fast-approaching danger warms : 
 But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
 Contracting legal power to stretch their own ; 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it freedom, when themselves are free ; 
 Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
 The wealth of climes where savage nations roam, 
 Pillaged from slaves, to purchase slaves at home ; 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 
 Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 
 
 Yes, Brother, curse with me that baleful hour, 
 
14 GOLDSMITH S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
 And thus polluting honour in its source, 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
 Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
 Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ; 
 Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
 Lead stern depopulation in her train 
 And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
 In barren solitary pomp repose ! 
 Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call 
 The smiling long-frequented village fall ! 
 Beheld the duteous son, the sire deeay'd, 
 The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
 Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
 To traverse climes beyond the western main ; 
 Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
 And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? 
 
 E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
 Through tangled forests, and through dangerous way? 
 Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
 And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ; 
 There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
 And all around distressful yells arise, 
 The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
 To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
 Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
 And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 
 
 Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
 Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, 
 To seek a good each government bestows ? 
 In every government, though terrors reign, 
 Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, 
 How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
 That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. 
 Still to ourselves in every place consign 'd, 
 Our own felicity we make or find : 
 With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
 Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
 The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
 Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, 
 To men remote from power but rarely known, 
 Leave reason* faith, and conscience, all our own. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 
 
 Dear Sir,— I can have no expectations, in an address of this 
 kind, either to add to your reputation or to establish my own. 
 You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of 
 that art in which you are said to excel ; and I may lose much 
 by the severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in 
 poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I 
 never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in fol- 
 lowing my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to 
 my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He 
 is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you. 
 
 How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere 
 mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire ; 
 but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and 
 wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation it de- 
 plores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are 
 only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can 
 scarcely make any other answer than that I sincerely believe 
 what I have written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my 
 country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain 
 of what I allege, and that all my views and inquiries have led me 
 to believe those miseries real which I here attempt to display. 
 But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the 
 country be depopulating or not ; the discussion would take up 
 much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent 
 politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his 
 unfatigued attention to a long poem. 
 
 In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against 
 the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect the shout of 
 modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past. 
 
15 goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest 
 national advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity, in that 
 particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a pro- 
 fessed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries 
 prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and 
 so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much has been 
 poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely 
 for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to 
 be in the right. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, 
 Your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, 
 
 OTIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAaE. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 
 "Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, 
 
 "Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd : 
 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
 
 Kow often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
 
 "Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
 
 How often have I paused on every charm,, 
 
 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
 
 The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill, 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
 
 How often have I bless'd the coming day, 
 
 "When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 
 And all the village train, from labour free, 
 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 
 The young contending as the old survey'd; 
 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; 
 
 And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 
 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
 
 By holding out to tire each other down ; 
 
 The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 
 "While secret laughter titter d round the place ; 
 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong look3 of lo?e, 
 
 The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 
 
 These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, 
 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; 
 
18 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green ! 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
 But choked with sedges, works its weedy way 
 Along thy glades a solitary guest, 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may. flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 "When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
 For him light Labour spread her wholesome store, 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 
 His best companions, innocence and health, 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are alter 'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : 
 Along the lawn where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose : 
 And every want to luxury allied, 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Those gentle hour3 that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
 Those heathful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
 Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green, 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's powsr. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 19 
 
 Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
 Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train, 
 Swells at my breast, and turn3the past to pain. 
 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share— 
 I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down 
 To husband out life's taper at the close, 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
 And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
 Here to return— and die at home at last. 
 
 blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
 How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
 "Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
 Nor surly porter stands in guilty state, 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate : 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 "While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
 The mingling notes came soften'd from below : 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
 The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 The playful children just let loose from school ; 
 The watch-dog's voice, that bay'd the whispering wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
 
STO GOLDSMITH S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 
 And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale ; 
 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
 
 But all the bloomy flush of life is fled : 
 
 All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
 
 She, wretched matron ! forced in age, for bread, 
 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a-year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ! 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learnt to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
 The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; 
 Wept e'er hi3 wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learn 'd to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 21 
 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place , 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 "With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth express "d, 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress 'd; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on his head. 
 
 Beside yon struggling fence that skirts the way, 
 "With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school : 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
 I knew him well and every truant knew ; 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown 'd : 
 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
 The village all declared how much he knew, 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge : 
 In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, 
 For e'en though vanquish 'd, he could argue still 
 
GOLDSMITH S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 While words of learned length, and thundering sound, 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 Bat past is all his fame. The very spot 
 "Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 
 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
 Low lies that house where nut>brown draughts inspired, 
 Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, 
 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place ; 
 The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
 The varnish 'd clock that click'd behind the door ; 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
 The Twelve Good Rules, the royal game of Goose 
 The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
 
 Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, ' 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art : 
 Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
 
 ightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 2 J 
 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
 
 "With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, 
 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : 
 
 And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 
 The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ? 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
 And shouting folly hails them from the shore ; 
 Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 
 And rich men flock from all the world around. 
 Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name, 
 That leave our useful products still the same, 
 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, 
 Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
 Around the world each needful product flies. 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies. 
 "While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all, 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
 Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
 Thus fares the land, by luxury betray "d ; 
 In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 
 But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 While, scourged by famine from the smiling land 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
 The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. 
 
24 goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And e'en the hare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city speed — What waits him there ? 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
 To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, 
 Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
 Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
 Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train : 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine eyes 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 
 Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled, 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 
 And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
 At proud men's doors' they ask a little bread ! 
 Ah no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
 Far different there from all that charm 'd before, 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
 
 Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
 
 "Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
 
 And savage men, more murderous still than they ; 
 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 
 Par different these from every former scene, 
 
 The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 
 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 
 That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, 
 That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
 Hang round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, 
 And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
 And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
 The good old sire the first prepared to go 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
 He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
 The fond companion of his helpless years, 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
 And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
 And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief, 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
 
26 goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 E'en now the devastation is begun, 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
 And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
 And piety with wishes placed above, 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry ! thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade : 
 Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride : 
 Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; 
 Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell, and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
 On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
 Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
 Still let thy voice prevailing over time, 
 Redress the rigours of the inclement clime ; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
 Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd, 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
THE CAPTIVITY 
 
 AN ORATORIO. 
 
 THE PERSONS. 
 
 First Jewish Prophet. 
 Second Jewish Prophet, 
 israelitish woman. 
 First Chaldean Priest. 
 Second Chaldean Priest. 
 Chaldean "Woman. 
 Chorus of Youths and Virgins. 
 Scene — The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 ISRAELITES sitting on the Banks of the Euphrates. 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Recitative, 
 Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep 
 "Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep ; 
 Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend, 
 And turn to God, your Father and your Friend: 
 Insulted, chained, and all the world our foe, 
 Our God alone is all we boast below. 
 
 Chorus of Prophets, 
 
 Our God is all we boast belo^ 
 
 To him we turn our eyes ; 
 And every added weight of woe 
 
 Shall make our homage rise. 
 
 And though no temple richly drest, 
 
 Nor sacrifice is here; 
 We'll make his temple in our breast, 
 
 And offer up a tear. 
 
 [ The first stanza repeated by the CnoBtra 
 
 i 
 
28 goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 israeliti5h woman. 
 
 Recitative. 
 That strain once more ! it bids remembrance rise, 
 And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes. 
 Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride ; 
 Ye plains, where Kedron rolls its glassy tide ; 
 Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd ; 
 Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around : 
 Those groves how sweet ! those plains how wondrous fair ! 
 But doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there. 
 
 Air. 
 
 O memory, thou fond deceiver! 
 
 Still importunate and vain ; 
 To former joys recurring ever, 
 
 And turning all the past to pain ; 
 
 Thou, like the world, the oppressed oppressing, 
 
 Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe; 
 And he who wants each other blessing, 
 
 In thee must ever find a foe. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 Recitative. 
 Yet, why repine ? What, though by bonds confined, 
 Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind ? 
 Have we not cause for triumph, when we see 
 Ourselves alone from idol-worship free ? 
 Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun, 
 Where prostrate Error hails the rising sun ? 
 Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain 
 For superstitious rites and mirth profane ? 
 And should we mourn ? Should coward Virtue fly, 
 When vaunting Folly lifts her head on high ? 
 No ! rather let us triumph still the more, 
 And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar. 
 
 Air. 
 
 The triumphs that on vice attend 
 Shall ever in confusion end ; 
 The good man suffers but to gain, 
 And every virtue springs from pain : 
 
 As aromatic plants bestow 
 No spicy fragrance while they grow ; 
 But crush'd or trodden to the ground, 
 Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 Recitative. 
 But hush, my sons ! our tyrant lords are near ; 
 
That - ' more . it TtlcLs remembrance rise 
 
 Ani oiua^s izxx long lost country to m in e eyes 
 
 Tne Captivrt\-P.2 8. 
 
THE CAPTIVITY. 
 
 The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear ; 
 
 Triumphant music floats along the Yale ; 
 
 Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale : 
 
 The growing sound their swift approach declares 5— 
 
 Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs. 
 
 Enter Chaldean priests attended. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Come on, my companions, the triumph display, 
 
 Let rapture the minutes employ ; 
 The sun calls us out on this festival day, 
 
 And our monarch partakes in the joy. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplier 
 
 Both similar blessings bes'tow : 
 The sun with his splendour illumines the skie3, 
 
 And our monarch enlivens beiow. 
 
 A CHALDEAN WOMAN. 
 
 Air. 
 Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure 
 Love presents tbe fairest treasure, 
 Leave all other joys for me. 
 
 A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. 
 
 Or rather love's delights despising, 
 Haste to raptures ever rising, 
 Wine shall bless the brave and free. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 Wine and beauty thus inviting, 
 Each to different joys exciting, 
 
 Whether shall my choice incline ? 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 I'll waste no longer thought in choosing 
 But neither this nor that refusing, 
 I'll make them both together mine. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 Recitative. 
 But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the lani ; 
 This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band \ 
 Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung ? 
 Or why those harps on yonder willows hung ? 
 Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along, 
 The day demands it; sing us Sion's song. 
 Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir; 
 For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre ? 
 
a# goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Chain 'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind. 
 To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd, 
 Is this a time to bid us raise the strain, 
 Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ? 
 No, never ! May this hand forget each art 
 That wakes to finest joys the human heart, 
 Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, 
 Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth ! 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 Rebellious slaves ! if soft persuasion fail, 
 More formidable terrors shall prevail. 
 
 [Exeunt Chaldeans 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Why, let them come ! one good remains to cheer — 
 We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. 
 
 Chorus of Israelites. 
 
 Can chains or tortures bend the mind, 
 On God's supporting breast reclined? 
 Standfast, and let our tyrants see 
 That fortitude is victory. 
 
 \Exeunt 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Chorus of Israelites. 
 
 peace of mind, angelic guest ? 
 Thou soft companion of the breast ! 
 
 Dispense thy balmy store ; 
 Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies, 
 Till earth receding from our eyes, 
 
 Shall vanish as we soar. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 Recitative. 
 No more ! Too long has justice been delay 'd j 
 The king's commands must fully be obey'd : 
 Compliance with his will your peace secures, 
 Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. 
 But if, rebellious to his high command, 
 You spurn the favours offer 'd at his hand, 
 
THE CAPTIVITY. 
 
 Think, timely think, "what terrors are behind ; 
 Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 Air. 
 
 Fierce is the whirlwind rolling 
 
 O'er Afrie's sandy plain, 
 And fierce the tempest howling 
 
 Along the furrow'd main; 
 
 But storms that Sy, 
 
 To rend the sky. 
 Every ill presaging, 
 
 Less dreadful show* 
 
 To worlds below 
 Than angry monarch's raging, 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 
 Recitative. 
 Ah, me ! what angry terrors round us glow ; 
 How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow I 
 Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth, 
 Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth ! 
 If, shrinking thus when frowning power appears, 
 I wish for life, and yield me to my fears, 
 Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey ; 
 To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Fatigued with life, yet loth to part, 
 
 On Hope the wretch relies ; 
 And every blow that sinks the heart 
 
 Bids expectation rise. 
 
 Hope, like the taper's gleamy light, 
 
 Adorns the wretch's way; 
 And still, as darker grows the night, 
 
 Emits a brighter ray. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 "Why this delay \ At length for joy prepare ; 
 I read your look3, and see compliance there. 
 Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise, 
 Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies. 
 Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre : 
 The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire. 
 
 CHALDEAN WOMAN. 
 
 Air. 
 
 See the ruddy morning smiling, 
 Hear the grove to bliss beguiling 
 Zephyrs through the woodland playing, 
 Streams along the valley straying. 
 
GOLDSMITH S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 While these a constant revel keep, 
 Shall Reason only teach to weep? 
 Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue 
 Nature a better guide than you. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 Every moment, as it flows, 
 Some peculiar pleasure owes \ 
 Then let us, providently wise, 
 Seize the debtor as he flies. 
 
 Think not to-morrow can repay 
 The debt of pleasure lost to-day ; 
 Alas! to-morrow's richest store 
 Can but pay its proper score. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 Recitative, 
 But, hush ! see, foremost of the captive choir. 
 The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre. 
 Mark where he sits, with executing art, 
 Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart. 
 See, how prophetic rapture fills his form, 
 Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm ; 
 And now his voice, accordant to the string, 
 Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 Air. 
 
 From north, from south, from east, from weet, 
 
 Conspiring nations come ; 
 Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast, 
 
 Blasphemers, all be dumb. 
 
 The tempest gathers all around, 
 
 On Babylon it lies ; 
 Down with her f down down to the ground. 
 
 She sinks, she groans, she dies. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust, 
 
 Ere yonder setting sun ; 
 Serve her as she has served the just, 
 
 »Tis flx'd it shall be done. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 Recitative, 
 No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume. 
 The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom. 
 Unthinking wretches ! have not you and all 
 Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall ? 
 To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes, 
 
THE CAPTIVITY. 
 
 33 
 
 See where dethroned your captive monarch lies. 
 
 Deprived of sight and rankling in his chain ; 
 
 See where he mourns his friends and children slain. 
 
 Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind 
 
 More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined. 
 
 Chorus of AH. 
 
 Arise, all-potent Ruler, rise, 
 And vindicate thy people's cause ; 
 
 Till every tongue in every land 
 Shall offer up unfeign'd applause. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 Recitative. 
 Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are passed, 
 And our fix'd empire shall for ever last ; 
 In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe, 
 In vain Rebellion aims her secret blow ; 
 Still shall our name and growing power be spread, 
 And still our justice crush the traitor's head. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Coeval with man 
 Our empire began, 
 And never shall fall 
 Till ruin shakes all. 
 When ruin shakes all, 
 Then shall Babylon fall. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Recitative. 
 'Tis thus that Pride triumphant rears the head,— 
 A little while, and all her power is fled ; 
 But, ah ! what means yon sadly plaintive train, 
 That this way slowly bend along the plain ? 
 And now, behold ! to yonder bank they bear 
 A pallid corse, and rest the body there. 
 Alas ! too well mine eyes indignant trace 
 The last remains of Judah's royal race : 
 Fallen is our king, and all our fears are o'er, 
 Unhappy Zedekiah is no more ! 
 
3* 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Ye wretches, who hy fortune's hate 
 
 In want and sorrow groan, 
 Come, ponder his severer fate, 
 
 And learn to bless your own. 
 
 Ve vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, 
 
 Awhile the bliss suspend ; 
 like yours, his life began in pride 
 
 Like his, your lives may end. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn, 
 His squalid limbs with ponderous fetters torn ; 
 Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare, 
 Those ill-becoming rags — that matted hair ! 
 And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe, 
 Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low f 
 How long, how long, Almighty God of all, 
 Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall ! 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 
 Air. 
 
 As panting flies the hunted hind, 
 
 Where brooks refreshing stray ; 
 And rivers through the valley wind, 
 
 That stop the hunter's way t 
 
 Thus we, Lord, alike distress'd, 
 
 For streams of mercy long : 
 Those streams which cheer the sore oppress'd, 
 
 And overwhelm the strong. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 Recitative. 
 But whence that shout ! Good heavens ! amazement all 
 See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : 
 Behold, an army covers all the ground, 
 'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round ! 
 The ruin smokes, destruction pours along, 
 How low the great, how feeble are the strong ! 
 And now, behold, the battlements recline — 
 O God of hosts, the victory is thine ! 
 
 Chorus of Captives. 
 
 Bote* with her, Lord, to lick the dust 
 
 Thy vengeance be begun : 
 Serve her as she has served the just, 
 And let thy will be done. 
 
 All, all is lost. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 Recitative. 
 
 The Syrian army fails 
 
THE CAPTIVITY. 
 
 Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails I 
 The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along, — 
 How low the proud, how feeble are the strong ! 
 Save us, Lord ! to thee, though late, we pray, 
 And give repentance but an hour's delay. 
 
 FIRST AND SECOND PRIESTS 
 Air. 
 
 Thrice happy, -who in happy hour 
 
 To G-od their praise bestow, 
 And own his all-consuming poorer, 
 
 Before they feel the blow. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Recitative. 
 Now, now's our time ! ye wretches bold and blind, 
 Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind ; 
 Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before, 
 Your wealth, your pride, your kingdom are no mere. 
 
 Air, 
 
 O Lucifer, thou son of morn, 
 Alike of Heaven and man the foe,— 
 
 Heaven, men, and all, 
 
 Now press thy fall, 
 And sink thee lowest of the low. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 O Babylon, how art thou fallen ! 
 Thy fall more dreadful from delay ! 
 
 Thy streets forlorn, 
 
 To wilds shall turn, 
 Where toads shall pant and vultures prey. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 Recitative. 
 Such be her fate ! But hark ! how from afar 
 The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war ! 
 Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand, 
 And thi3 way leads his formidable band. 
 Give, give your songs of Zion to the wind, 
 And hail the benefactor of mankind : 
 He comes, pursuant to divine decree, 
 To chain the strong, and set the captive free. 
 
 CJiorus of Youths. 
 
 Rise to transports past expressing, 
 
 Sweeter by remember'd woes ; 
 Cyrus comes, our tcronps redressing, 
 
 Comes to give the world repose. 
 
36 
 
 goldsmith's POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Chorus of Virgins. 
 
 Cyrus comes, the world redressing. 
 Love and pleasure in his train > 
 
 Comes to heighten every blessing, 
 Comes to soften every pain. 
 
 Semi- Chorus. 
 
 Sail to him with mercy reigning, 
 
 Skill'd in every peaceful art ; 
 Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining, 
 
 Only binds the willing heart. 
 
 Last Chorus. 
 
 But chief to Thee, our God, defender, frtend, 
 Let praise be given to all eternity ; 
 
 O Thou, without beginning, without end, 
 Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee. 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 " Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 And guide my lonely way, 
 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 "With hospitable ray. 
 
 u For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
 'With fainting steps and slow ; 
 
 Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
 Seem lengthening as I go." 
 
 ' Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 " Here to the houseless child of want 
 
 My door is open still ; 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 
 I give it with good will. 
 
 " Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 " No flocks that range the valley fres 5 
 
 To slaughter I condemn ; 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 
 I learn to pity them : 
 
38 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 " But from the mountain's grassy side 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 " Then pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego ; 
 
 All earth-born cares are wrong ; 
 ' Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long.' " 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 
 
 His gentle accents fell ; 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay, 
 A refuge to the neighbouring poor, 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 Required a master's care ; 
 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire 
 To take their evening rest, 
 
 The Hermit trimm'd hi3 little fire, 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest ; 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 And gaily press'd, and smiled ; 
 
 And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
 Around in sympathetic mirth 
 Its tricks the kitten tries, 
 
 The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 
 The crackling faggot flies. 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart 
 To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
THE HERMIT. 3» 
 
 His rising cares the Hermit spied, 
 
 With answering care opprest : 
 " And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
 
 " The sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 " From better habitations spurn "d, 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
 " Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
 
 Are trifling, and decay; 
 And those who prize the trifling things, 
 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 " And what is friendship but a name ; 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
 
 But leaves the wretch to weep ? 
 
 " And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modern fair one's jest: 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 " For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush, 
 
 And spurn the sex," he said ; 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 
 His love-lorn guest betray *d. 
 
 Surprised he sees new beauties rise, 
 
 Swift mantling to the view ; 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confest, 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 " And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 
 A wretch forlorn," she cried ; 
 " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
 
 Where Pleaven and you reside. 
 
40 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S poetical works. 
 
 1 
 
 iS But let a maid thy pity share, 
 "Whom love has taught to stray : 
 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 " My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he ; 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine ; 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 " To win me from his tender arms, 
 
 Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
 Who praised me for imputed charms, 
 
 And felt, or feign'd a flame. 
 
 " Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 With richest proffers strove ; 
 
 Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
 But never talk'd of love. 
 
 u In humble, simplest habit clad, 
 No wealth nor power had he ; 
 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 " And, when beside me in the dale 
 
 He caroll'd lays of love, 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
 
 And music to the grove. 
 
 " The blossom opening to the day, 
 
 The dews of heaven refined, 
 Could nought of purity display 
 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 " The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 With charms inconstant shine ; 
 
 Their charms were his, but woe to me ! 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 " For still I tried each fickle art, 
 
 Importunate and vain : 
 And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 
 I triumph'd in his pain : 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 * Till quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
 
 And well my life shall pay : 
 111 seek the solitude he sought, 
 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 " And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 
 I'll lay me down and die ; 
 'Twas so for me that Edwin did ; 
 
 And so for him will I." 
 
 " Forbid it, Heaven !" the Hermit criea, 
 And clasp'd her to his breast : 
 
 The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, — 
 'Twas Edwin's self that prest. 
 
 " Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Restored to love and thee. 
 
 " Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 
 And every care resign : 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 
 My life, my all that's mine ? 
 
 " No, never, from this hour to part, 
 
 Well live and love so true ; 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too." 
 
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 
 
 Thanks, my Lord, for your Venison ; for finer )r fatter, 
 
 Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a piatter. 
 
 The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
 
 The fat wa3 so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 
 
 Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting 
 
 To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : 
 
 I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view, 
 
 To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; 
 
 As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, 
 
 One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 
 
 But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
 
 They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
 
 But hold — let me pause — Don't I hear you pronounce 
 
 This tale of the bacon's a bounce ? 
 
 "Well ! suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
 But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn. 
 It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr Burn.* 
 
 To go on with my tale — as I gazed on the Haunch, 
 I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, 
 So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 
 To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — 
 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's : 
 But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 
 With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when, 
 There's H— d, and C— y, and H— rth, and H— ff, 
 I think they love venison — I know they love beef; 
 There's my countryman, Higgings — Oh ! let him alone 
 For making a blunder, or picking a bone, 
 
 * Lord Clare's ntohew. 
 
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 But, hang it ! to poets, "who seldom can eat, 
 
 Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 
 
 Such dainties to them their health it might hurt ; 
 
 It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 
 
 "While thu3 I debated, in reverie centred, 
 
 An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, enter'd : 
 
 An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
 
 And he smiled as he look'd at the ven'son and me. 
 
 " What have we got here ? — Why, this is good eating ! 
 
 Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting ?" 
 
 " Why, whose should it be ?" cried I, with a flounce, 
 
 * I get these things often" — but that was a bounce : 
 
 " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
 
 Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation." 
 
 " If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, 
 " I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
 To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
 No words — I insist on't — precisely at three : 
 We'll have Johnson and Burke ; all the wits will be there ; 
 My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
 And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! 
 We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. 
 What say you — a pasty ? — it shall, and it must, 
 And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
 Here, porter ! this venison with me to Mile-end ; 
 No stirring, I beg, — my dear friend — my dear friend !" 
 Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, 
 And the porter and eatables followed behind. 
 
 Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
 And " nobody with me at sea but myself,"* 
 Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
 Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty, 
 Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
 Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
 So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
 I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. 
 
 When come to the place where we all were to dine, 
 (A chair-luinber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,) 
 My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
 With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ! 
 " For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, 
 The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ; 
 But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
 
 * See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke 
 Cumberland and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo, 17G3 
 
a goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
 The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 
 They're both of them merry, and authors like you, 
 The one writes the ' Snarler/ the other the ■ Scourge :' 
 Some thinks he writes ' Cinna' — he owns to ' Panurge.' " 
 While thus he described them by trade and by name, 
 They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. 
 
 At the top a fried liver and bacon were 'veen, 
 At the bottom was tripe in a swingeing tureen : 
 At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot ; 
 In the middle a place where the Pasty — was not. 
 Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
 And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
 So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, 
 While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 
 But what vex'd me most was that — Scottish rogue, 
 AVith his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue ; 
 And " Madam," quoth Ue, " may this bit be my poison, 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ! 
 
 Pray, a slice of your liver, though, may I be , 
 
 But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 
 " The tripe V quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
 " I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week ; 
 I like these here dinners, so pretty and small ; 
 But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all." 
 * O — ho !" quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a trice, 
 He's keeping a corner for something that's nice ; 
 There's a Pasty" — " A Pasty !" repeated the Jew, 
 " I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." 
 
 " What , mon, a Pasty ?" re-echoed the Scot, 
 
 " Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." 
 
 " We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 
 
 " We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. 
 
 While thus we resolved, and £he Pasty delay 'd, 
 
 With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ; 
 
 A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
 
 Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. 
 
 But we quickly found out — for who could mistake her ? — 
 
 That she came with some terrible news from the baker : 
 
 And so it fell out ; for that negligent sloven 
 
 Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
 
 Sad Philomel thus -but let similes drop — 
 
 And, now that I think on't, the story may stop. 
 
 To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced, 
 To send such good verses to one of your taste : 
 
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 YouVe got an odd something — a kind of discerning— 
 A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; 
 At least, it's your temper, as very well known, 
 That you think very slightly of all that's your own : 
 So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
 Ycu may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 
 
*6 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 
 Good people all, of every sort, 
 
 Give ear unto my song, 
 And if you find it wondrous short — 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man, 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 
 That still a godly race he ran — 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
 A kind and gentle heart he had, 
 
 To comfort friends and foes ; 
 The naked every day he clad — 
 
 When he put on his clothes. 
 
 And in that town a dog was found, 
 
 As many dogs there be, 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hounu, 
 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends ; 
 
 But when a pique began, 
 The dog, to gain some private ends, 
 
 Went mad, and bit the man. 
 
 Around from all the neighbouring streets 
 The wondering neighbours ran, 
 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 And while they swore the dog was mad, 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light, 
 That show'd the rogues they lied : 
 
 The man recovered of the bite — 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
THKENODIA AUGUSTALIS, 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE 
 PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It -was 
 prepared for the composer in little more than two days ; and may therefore rather 
 be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the 
 composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music (by Sign or 
 Vento) was composed in a period of time equally short. 
 
 Overture. — A solemn Dirge. 
 Air. — Trio. 
 
 Arise, ye sons of worth, arise, 
 
 And waken every note of woe ! 
 When truth and virtue reach the skies, 
 
 'Tis our3 to weep the want below. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 When truth and virtue, &.C. 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 The praise attending pomp and power, 
 
 The incense given to Kings, 
 Are but the trappings of an hour — 
 
 Mere transitory things : 
 The base bestow them ; but the good agree 
 To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. 
 But when to pomp and power are join'd 
 An equal dignity of mind ; 
 
 When titles are the smallest claim ; 
 When wealth, and rank, and noble blood, 
 But aid the power of doing good ; 
 
 Then all their trophies last— and flattery turns to fame. 
 
 Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, 
 Shall spread and flourish from the tomb ; 
 
43 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 How hast thou left mankind for Heaven ! 
 E'en now reproach and faction mourn, 
 And, wondering how their rage was born, 
 
 Request to he forgiven ! 
 Alas ! they never had thy hate ; 
 
 Unmoved, in conscious rectitude, 
 
 Thy towering mind self-centred stood, 
 Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. 
 
 In vain to charm thy ravish'd sight, 
 A thousand gifts would fortune send ; 
 
 In vain, to drive thee from the right, 
 A thousand sorrows urged thy end : 
 Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood, 
 And purchased strength from its increasing load. 
 Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, 
 Affliction still is virtue's opportunity ! 
 
 Song, — By a Man, 
 
 Virtue, on herself relying, 
 
 Every passion hush'd to rest, 
 Loses every pain of dying, 
 
 In the hopes of being blest. 
 Every added pang she suffers, 
 
 Some increasing good bestows, 
 And every shock that malice offers. 
 
 Only rocks her to repose. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Yet, ah ! what terrors frown'd upon her fato — 
 
 Death, with its formidable band, 
 Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, 
 
 Determined took their stand. 
 Nor did the cruel ravagers design. 
 
 To finish all their efforts at a blow ; 
 
 But, mischievously slow, 
 They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine. 
 
 With unavailing grief, 
 
 Despairing of relief, 
 Her weeping children round 
 
 Beheld each hour 
 
 Death's growing power, 
 And trembled as he frown'd. 
 As hapless friends who view from shore 
 The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar, 
 
 While winds and waves their wishes cross, — 
 They stood, while hope and comfort fail, 
 Not to assist, but to bewail 
 
 The inevitable loss. 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 Relentless tyrant, at thy call 
 
 How do the good, the virtuous fall ! 
 
 Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, 
 
 But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. 
 
 Song. — By a Man. 
 
 When vice my dart and scythe supply, 
 
 How great a king of terrors I ! 
 If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, 
 
 Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage I 
 
 Fall, round me fall, ye little things, 
 
 Te statesmen, warriors, poets, kings J 
 If virtue fail her counsel sage, 
 Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage I 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, 
 
 Teach us to estimate what all must suffer ; 
 
 Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, 
 
 As a safe inn, where weary travellers, 
 
 When they have journey 'd through a world of cares, 
 
 May put off life and be at rest for ever. 
 
 Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, 
 
 May oft distract us with their sad solemnity : 
 
 The preparation is the executioner. 
 
 Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, 
 
 And is a terror only at a distance ; 
 
 For as the line of life conducts me on 
 
 To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair, 
 
 'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open 
 
 To take us in when we have drained the cup 
 
 Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. 
 
 In that secure, serene retreat, 
 
 Where all the humble, all the great, 
 
 Promiscuously recline ; 
 Where, wildly huddled to the eye, 
 The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie, 
 
 May every bliss be thine. 
 And, ah ! blest spirit, wheresoever thy flight, 
 Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, 
 May cherubs welcome their expected guest, 
 May saints with songs receive thee to their rest ; 
 May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love, 
 May blissful, endless peace be thine above ? 
 
 Song, — By a Woman. 
 
 Lovely, lasting Peace, below, 
 Clomforter of ev'ry woe, 
 
so goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 Heav'nly born, and bred on high, 
 To crown the favourites of the sky ; 
 Lovely, lasting, Peace, appear ; 
 This world itself, if thou art here, 
 Is once again with Eden blest, 
 And man contains it in his breast. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Our vows are heard ! long, long to mortal eyes, 
 
 Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies ; 
 
 Celestial-like her bounty fell, 
 
 Where modest want and silent sorrow dwell 
 
 "Want pass'd for merit at her door, 
 
 Unseen the modest were supplied, 
 
 Her constant pity fed the poor, — 
 
 Then only poor, indeed, the day she died- 
 
 And, oh ! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine. 
 
 And art exhausts profusion round, 
 The tribute of a tear be mine, 
 
 A simple song, a sigh profound. 
 There Faith shall come a pilgrim gray, 
 To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay ; 
 And calm Religion shall repair, 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there. 
 Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree 
 To blend their virtues while they think of thee. 
 
 Air. — Chorus. 
 
 Let us — let all the world agree, 
 To profit by resembling thee. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Overture. — Pastorale. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream 
 
 Reflects new glories on his breast, 
 Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, 
 
 He forms a scene beyond Elvsium blest ; 
 Where sculptured elegance and native grace 
 Unite to stamp the beauties of the place ; 
 While, sweetly blending, still are seen, 
 The wavy lawn, the sloping green ; 
 
 While novelty, with cautious cunning, 
 
 Through every maze of fancy running, 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 From China borrows aid to deck the scene : — 
 There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, 
 
 Forlorn a rural band complain'd, 
 All whom Augusta's bounty fed, 
 
 All whom her clemency sustain'd. 
 The good old sire, unconsious of decay, 
 The modest matron, clad in homespun gray, 
 The military boy, the orphan'd maid, 
 The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd, — ■ 
 These sadly join beside the murmuring deep, 
 And as they view the towers of Kew, 
 Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Ye shady walks, ye waving greens, 
 
 Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes. 
 
 Let all your echoes now deplore, 
 
 That she who form'd your beauties is no store 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 First of the train the patient rustic came, 
 
 Whose callous hand had form'd the scene, 
 Bending at once with sorrow and with age, 
 
 With many a tear, and many a sigh between : 
 " And where," he cried, " shall now my babes have bread, 
 
 Or how shall age support its feeble fire ? 
 No lord will take me now, my vigour fled, 
 
 Nor can my strength perform what they require ; 
 Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare, 
 A sleek and idle race is all their care. 
 My noble mistress thought not so : 
 
 Her bounty, like the morning dew, 
 Unseen, though constant, used to flow, 
 
 And, as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew." 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 In decent dress, and coarsely clean, 
 
 The pious matron next was seen, 
 
 Clasped in her hand a godly book was borne, 
 
 By use and daily meditation worn ; 
 
 That decent dress, this holy guide, 
 
 Augusta's care had well supplied. 
 
 " And, ah !" she cries, all woe-begone, 
 
 " What now remains for me ? 
 Oh ! where shall weeping want repair 
 
 To ask for charity ! 
 Too late in life for me to ask, 
 
62 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And shame prevents the deed, 
 And tardy, tardy are the times 
 
 To succour, should I need. 
 But all my wants, before I spoke, 
 
 Were to my Mistress known ; 
 She still relieved, nor sought my praise, 
 
 Contented with her own.' 
 But every day her name I'll bless, 
 
 My morning prayer, my evening song ; 
 I'll praise her while my life shall last, 
 
 A life that cannot last me long." 
 
 Song.— By a Woman, 
 
 Each day, each hour, her name I'll blesa. 
 My morning and my evening song, 
 
 And when in death my vows shall cease, 
 My children shall the note prolong. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 The hardy veteran after struck the sight, 
 Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part, 
 Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight, 
 In nought entire — except his heart ; 
 Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd, 
 At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast :- 
 " Wild is the whirlwind rolling 
 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain, 
 And wild the tempest howling 
 
 Along the billow'd main ; 
 But every danger felt before, 
 The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar, 
 Less dreadful struck me with dismay 
 Than what I feel this fatal day. 
 Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, 
 Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave ; 
 111 seek that less inhospitable coast, 
 And lay my body where my limbs were lost/ 5 
 
 Song. — By a Man. 
 
 Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, 
 Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field, 
 
 To do thy memory right ; 
 For thine and Briton's wrongs they fool, 
 Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 
 
 And wish the avenging fight 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER, 
 In innocence and youth complaining, 
 Next appear 'd a lovely maid ; 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 Affliction, o'er each feature reigning, 
 
 Kindly came in beauty's aid ; 
 Every grace that grief dispenses, 
 
 Every glance that warms the soul, 
 In sweet succession charms the senses, 
 
 While pity harmonized the whole. 
 " The garland of beauty/' 'tis thus she would say, 
 
 " No more shall my crook or my temples adorn : 
 I'll not wear a garland — Augusta's away, 
 
 I'll not wear a garland until she return ; 
 But, alas ! that return I never shall see : 
 
 The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, 
 There promised a lover to come — but, ah me ! 
 
 'Twas Death — 'twas the death of my mistress that came, 
 But ever, for ever, her image shall last, 
 
 111 strip all the spring of its earliest bloom ; 
 On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
 
 And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.' , 
 
 Song. — By a Woinan, 
 
 Pastorale. 
 
 With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May- 
 No more will her crook or her temples adorn; 
 
 For who'd wear a garland when she is away, 
 When she is removed, and shall never return! 
 
 On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed, 
 
 We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom, 
 And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
 
 And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb. 
 
 Chorus, 
 
 On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed; 
 
 We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom, 
 And there shall the couslip and primrose be cast, 
 
 The tears of her country shall water her tomb. 
 
RETALIATION. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV., AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH. 
 
 (Dr Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St James's 
 cotfee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, 
 dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for retalia- 
 tion, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.) 
 
 Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, 
 
 Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; 
 
 If our landlord* supplies us with beef and with fish, 
 
 Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish : 
 
 Our Deanf shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
 
 Our BurkeJ shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; 
 
 Our Willg shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavour, 
 
 And Dick^f with his pepper shall heighten the savour 
 
 Our Cumberland's|| sweet-bread its place shall obtain, 
 
 And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
 
 Our Garrick'sff a salad ; for in him we see 
 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
 
 That RidgeJJ is anchovy, and Reynolds§§ is lamb ; 
 
 That Hickey's^ff a capon, and, by the same rule, 
 
 Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
 
 At a dinner so various — at such a repast, 
 
 Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? 
 
 * The master of the St James's coffee-house. 
 
 f Dr Barnard, Dean of Derry in Ireland. J The Right Hon. Edmund Burke 
 
 § Mr William Burke, late secretary to General Conway. 
 
 I Mr Bichard Burke, collector of Granada. 
 
 J Richard Cumberland, Esq., author of the West-Indian, &c. 
 ** Dr Douglas, canon of Windsor (afterwards Bishop of Salisbury). 
 tf- David Garrick, Esq. ££ Counsellor John Ridge of the Irish bar. 
 
 §§ Sir Joshua Reynolds. 5t An eminent attorney 
 
RETALIATION. 55 
 
 Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able, 
 Till all my companions sink under th6 table ; 
 Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
 Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 
 
 Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, 
 Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : 
 If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, 
 At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out ; 
 Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
 That Sly-boots was cunning to hide 'em. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
 We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; 
 Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote ; 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
 And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining : 
 Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
 For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient, 
 And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient. 
 In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in plaoe, sir, 
 To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
 
 Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, 
 While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; 
 The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, 
 His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 
 Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, 
 The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : 
 Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none : 
 What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 
 
 Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; 
 Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
 What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
 Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb If 
 Now wrangling and grumbling, to keep up the ball ! 
 Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
 
 In short, so provoking was Dick, 
 
 That we wish'd him full ten times a day ; 
 
 But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
 
 * Mr Thomas Townshend, member for Whitchurch. 
 
 f Mr Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms 
 and legs at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these accidents, as a kind 
 of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. 
 
56 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 
 
 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
 The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
 A flattering painter, who made it his care, 
 To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
 His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 
 And Comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
 Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 
 Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. 
 His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
 Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud ; 
 And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
 Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
 Say, where has our poet this malady caught, 
 Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
 Say was it, that vainly directing his view 
 To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
 He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? 
 
 Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
 The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
 Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, 
 Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines : 
 When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
 I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; 
 But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
 Our Dodds * shall be pious, our Kenricks f shall lecture ; 
 Macpherson J write bombast, and call it a style, 
 Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; 
 New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, 
 No countrymen living their tricks to discover ; 
 Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
 And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. 
 
 Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
 As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine ; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
 Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
 The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
 Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
 
 * The Rev. Dr. William Dodd. 
 
 f Dr Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of " The 
 School of Shakspeare." 
 
 t James Macpherson, Esq., who lately, from the mere force of his style, ■wrote 
 iown the first poet of all antiquity. 
 
RETALIATION. 57 
 
 And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 
 
 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 
 He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : 
 
 Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
 
 If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
 
 He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
 
 For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back, 
 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, 
 
 And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; 
 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
 
 Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please. 
 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 
 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, * and Woodfalls f so grave, 
 
 What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! 
 
 How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, 
 
 While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised ! 
 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
 
 To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 
 
 Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, 
 
 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
 
 Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, 
 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
 
 Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, 
 And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
 He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; 
 Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper ! 
 Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
 I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. 
 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
 His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
 Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
 And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no ! 
 Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye : 
 He was, could he help it ? — a special attorney. 
 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 
 His manners were gentle, complying and bland ; 
 Still born to improve us in every part, 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : 
 
 * Mr Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, &c 
 
 + Mr William Woodfall, printer of Morning Chronicle. 
 
58 goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
 When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing : 
 When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet, * and only took snuff. 
 
 After the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publisher receive! the 
 following epitaph on Mr Whitefoord,f from a friend of the late Dr Goldsmith. 
 
 Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, 
 Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man : 
 Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
 Who relish 'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ; 
 Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
 A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; 
 Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will ; . 
 Whose daily Ions mots half a column might fill : 
 A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free, 
 A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 
 
 What pity, alas ! that so lib'ral a mind 
 Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! 
 Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
 Yet content " if the table be set in a roar ;" 
 Whose talents to fill any station were fit, 
 Yet happy if Woodfall J confessed him a wit. 
 
 Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! 
 Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; 
 Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
 Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : 
 To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 
 And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
 Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
 Cross-readings, Ship-news, and Mistakes of the Press.§ 
 
 Merry Whitefoord, farewell ; for thy sake I admit 
 That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit : 
 This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, 
 " Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd Muse." 
 
 * Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity ol 
 using an ear-trumpet in company. 
 
 j Mr Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so notorious 
 a punster, that Dr Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep his company $ 
 without being infected with the itch of punning. 
 
 t Mr H. S. Woodfall, printer of the public Advertiser. 
 
 § Mr Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces, undei 
 those titles, in the public Advertiser. 
 
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Secluded from domestic strife, 
 
 Jack Book-worm led a college life ; 
 
 A fellowship at twenty-five 
 
 Made him the happiest man alive ; 
 
 He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, 
 
 And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 
 
 Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, 
 Could any accident impair ? 
 Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
 Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ? 
 O ! had the Archer ne'er come down 
 To ravage in a country town ! 
 Or Flavia been content to stop 
 At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop ! 
 O, had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 
 Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ; 
 
 O ! But let exclamations cease, 
 
 Her presence banish 'd all his peace. 
 So with decorum all things carried, 
 Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then wa3 — married. 
 
 The honey-moon like lightning flew, 
 The second brought its transports too ; 
 A third, a fourth, were not amiss, 
 The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss : 
 But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, 
 Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 
 Found half the charms that deck'd her face 
 Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
 But still the worst remain'd behind, — 
 That very face had robb'd her mind. 
 
60 goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 Skill 'd in no other arts was she, 
 But dressing, patching, repartee : 
 And, just as humour rose or fell, 
 By turns a slattern or a belle. 
 'Tis true she dressed with modern grace, 
 Half-naked, at a ball or race ; 
 But when at home, at board or bed, 
 Five greasy night-caps wrapp'd her head. 
 Could so much beauty condescend 
 To be a dull domestic friend ? 
 Could any curtain lectures bring 
 To decency so fine a thing ? 
 In short, by night 'twas fits or fretting ; 
 By day 'twas gadding or coquetting. 
 Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 
 Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy ; 
 The 'squire and captain took their stations, 
 And twenty other near relations : 
 Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 
 A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 
 "While all the$r hours were pass'd between 
 Insulting repartee and spleen. 
 
 Thus, as her faults each day were known. 
 He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
 He fancies every vice she shows 
 Or thins her lip, or points her nose ! 
 Whenever rage or envy rise, 
 How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes I 
 He knows not how, but so it is, 
 Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; 
 And though her fops are wond'rous civil, 
 He thinks her ugly 
 
 Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, 
 As each a different way pursues, 
 While sullen or loquacious strife 
 Promised to hold them on for life, 
 That dire disease, whose ruthless power 
 Withers the beauty's transient flower, — 
 Lo ! the small-pox, with horrid glare, 
 Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; 
 And, rifling every youthful grace, 
 Left but the remnant of a face. 
 
 The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 
 Reflected now a perfect fright; 
 Each former art she vainly tries 
 
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 To bring back lustre to her eyes ; 
 In vain she tries her paste and creams 
 To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; 
 Her country beaux and city cousins, 
 Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; 
 The 'squire himself was seen to yield, 
 And even the captain quit the field. 
 
 Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack 
 The rest of life with anxious Jack, 
 Perceiving others fairly flown, 
 Attempted pleasing him alone. 
 Jack soon was dazzled to behold 
 Her present face surpass the old : 
 With modesty her cheeks are dyed, 
 Humility displaces pride ; 
 For tawdry finery is seen 
 A person ever neatly clean ; 
 No more presuming on her sway, 
 She learns good-nature every day; 
 Serenely gay, and strict in duty, 
 Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 
 
 John Trott was desired by two witty peers, 
 
 To tell them the reason why asses had ears ; 
 
 * An't please you," quoth John, " I'm not given to letters, 
 
 Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; 
 
 Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, 
 
 without thinking on asses." 
 
 Edinburgh, 1753. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN 
 KNIGHT, WHOM C-ESAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. 
 
 Preserved by Macrobius. 
 
 What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, 
 And save from infamy my sinking age ! 
 Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year, 
 What, in the name of dotage, drives me here ? 
 A time there was, when glory was my guide, 
 Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; 
 Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear, 
 With honest thrift I held my honour dear : 
 But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
 And all my hoard of honour is no more ; 
 For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
 Caesar persuades, submission must be mine : 
 Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, 
 Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. 
 Here then at once I welcome every shame, 
 And cancel at threescore a life of fame : 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 08 
 
 No more my titles shall my children tell ; 
 The old buffoon will fit my name as well : 
 This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
 For life is ended when our honour ends. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE, 
 
 A TRAGEDY WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ. 
 
 Spoken by Mr Quick, in the character of a Sailor. 
 
 In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore 
 
 The distant climate, and the savage shore ; 
 
 When wise astronomers to India steer, 
 
 And quit for Venus many a brighter sphere ; 
 
 While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 
 
 Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling ; 
 
 Our bard into the general spirit enters, 
 
 And fits his little frigate for adventures. 
 
 With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden, 
 
 He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading ; 
 
 Yet e're ho lands he's order'd me before, 
 
 To make an observation on the shore. 
 
 Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost, 
 
 This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. 
 
 , what a sultry climate am I under ! 
 
 Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder: [Upper Gallery, 
 
 There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em — ■ [Pit, 
 
 Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em — [Balconies. 
 
 Here ill-conditioned oranges abound — [Stage. 
 
 And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground. [Tasting them. 
 
 The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : 
 
 I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 
 
 O, there the people are — best keep my distance ; 
 
 Our Captain, gentle natives ! craves assistance ; 
 
 Our ship's well-stored ; — in yonder creek we've laid her, 
 
 His Honour is no mercenary trader. 
 
 This is his first adventure ; lend him aid, 
 
 And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 
 
 His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, 
 
 Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
 
 What ! no reply to promises so ample ? 
 
 I'd best step back — and order up a sample 
 
GOLDSMITH S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 
 
 IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 
 
 Logicians have but ill defined 
 
 As rational the human mind : 
 
 Reason, they say, belongs to man, 
 
 But let them prove it if they can. 
 
 Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, 
 
 By ratiocinations specious, 
 
 Have strove to prove with great precision, 
 
 "With definition and division, 
 
 Homo est ratione prceditum ; 
 
 But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ; 
 
 And must in spite of them maintain, 
 
 That man and all his ways are vain ; 
 
 And that this boasted lord of nature 
 
 Is both a weak and erring creature. 
 
 That instinct is a surer guide 
 
 Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; 
 
 And that brute beasts are far before 'em — 
 
 Deus est anima brutorum. 
 
 Who ever knew an honest brute 
 
 At law his neighbour prosecute, 
 
 Bring action for assault and battery ? 
 
 Or friends beguile with lies and flattery ? 
 
 O'er plains they ramble unconfined, 
 
 No politics disturb their mind ; 
 
 They eat their meals and take their spcrt 
 
 Nor know who's in or out at court : 
 
 They never to the levee go 
 
 To treat as dearest friend a foe ; 
 
 They never importune his Grace, 
 
 Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 
 
 Nor undertake a dirty job ; 
 
 Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.* 
 
 Fraught with invective they ne'er go 
 
 To folks at Paternoster Row : 
 
 No judges, fiddlers, dancing-mast ers, 
 
 No pickpockets or poetasters, 
 
 Are known to honest quadrupeds J 
 
 No single brute his fellow leads. 
 
 Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 
 
 * Sir Robert Walpole. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 65 
 
 Nor cut each other's throats for pay. 
 Of Beasts, it is confess'd, the ape 
 Comes nearest us in human shape : 
 Like man, he imitates each fashion, 
 And malice is his ruling passion : 
 But both in malice and grimaces 
 A courtier any ape surpasses. 
 Behold him humbly cringing wait 
 Upon the minister of state ; 
 View him soon after to inferiors 
 Aping the conduct of superiors : 
 He promises with equal air, 
 And to perform takes equal care. . 
 He in his turn finds imitators ; 
 At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, 
 Their master's manners still contract, 
 And footmen lords and dukes can act. 
 Thus at the court, both great and small, 
 Behave alike, for all ape all. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. 
 
 Sure 'twas by Providence design'd, 
 
 Rather in pity than in hate, 
 That he should be, like Cupid, blind, 
 
 To save him from Narcissus' fate. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GEN. WOLTE, 
 
 Amidst the clamour of exulting joys, 
 
 AYhich triumph forces from the patriot heart, 
 
 Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 
 And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. 
 
 Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 
 
 Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; 
 
 Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
 Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 
 
 Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, 
 And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes. 
 
 Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ! 
 Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 
 
goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Weeping, murmuring, complaining, 
 
 Lost to every gay delight, 
 Myra, too sincere for feigning, 
 
 Tears the approaching bridal night. 
 
 Yet why impair thy bright perfection ? 
 
 Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 
 Had Myra follow'd my direction, 
 
 She long had wanted cause of fear. 
 
 THE GIFT. 
 
 TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 Imitated from the French. 
 
 Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 
 
 Dear mercenary beauty, 
 What annual offering shall I make 
 
 Expressive of my duty ? 
 
 My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 
 
 Should I at once deliver, 
 Say, would the angry fair one prize 
 
 The gift, who slights the giver ? 
 
 A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, 
 
 My rivals give — and let 'em ; 
 If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 
 
 I'll give them — when I get 'em. 
 
 I'll give — but not the full-blown rose, 
 
 Or rose-bud more in fashion : 
 Such short-lived offerings but disclose 
 
 A transitory passion. 
 
 I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 
 
 Not less sincere than civil, — 
 I'll give thee — ah ! too charming maid ! — 
 
 I'll give thee — to the 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 AN ELEGY 
 
 ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS MARY Bt AIZE. 
 
 Good people all, with one accord, 
 
 Lament for Madam Blaize, 
 Who never wanted a good word — 
 
 From those who spoke her praise. 
 
 The needy seldom pass'd her door, 
 
 And always found her kind ; 
 She freely lent to all the poor — 
 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 She strove the neighbourhood to please 
 With manners wond'rous winning ; 
 
 And never follow'd wicked ways — 
 Unless when she was sinning. 
 
 At church, in silks and satins new, 
 
 With hoop of monstrous size, 
 She never slumber'd in her pew — 
 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
 Her love was sought, I do aver, 
 
 By twenty beaux and more ; 
 The king himself has follow'd her — 
 
 When she has walked before. 
 
 But now, her wealth and finery fled, 
 Her hangers-on cut short all ; 
 
 The doctors found, when she was dead — 
 Her last disorder mortal. 
 
 Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 
 For Kent-street well may say, 
 
 That had she lived a twelvemonth more — 
 She had not died to-day. 
 
goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. 
 
 Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
 
 Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
 
 Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne, 
 
 Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury lane ; 
 
 There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 
 
 The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug. 
 
 A window, patch 'd with paper, lent a ray, 
 
 That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; 
 
 The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; 
 
 The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 
 
 The royal game of Goose was there in view, 
 
 And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew ; 
 
 The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 
 
 And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-biack face. 
 
 The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 
 
 The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : 
 
 With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, 
 
 And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board ; 
 
 A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 
 
 A cap by night a stocking all the day. 
 
 A NEW SIMILE. 
 
 IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 
 
 Long had 1 sought in vain to find 
 A likeness for the scribbling kind — 
 The modern scribbling kind, who write 
 In wit, and sense, and nature's spite — 
 Till reading — I forget what day on, 
 A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
 I think I met with something there 
 To suit my purpose to a hair. 
 But let us not proceed too furious, — 
 First please to turn to god Mercurius : 
 You'll find him pictured at full length, 
 In book the second, page the tenth : 
 The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 
 And now proceed we to our simile. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 
 Wings upon either side — mark that. 
 Well ! what is it from thence we gather ? 
 Why, these denote a brain of feather. 
 A brain of feather ! very right, 
 With wit that's flighty, learning light ; 
 Such as to modern bard's decreed : 
 A just comparison — proceed. 
 
 In the next place, his feet peruse, 
 Wings grow again from both his shoes ; 
 Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, 
 And waft his godship through the air : 
 And here my simile unites ; 
 For in a modern poet's flights, 
 I'm sure it may be justly said, 
 His feet are useful as his head. 
 
 Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand, 
 Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand, 
 By classic anthors termed caduceus, 
 And highly famed for several uses : 
 To wit — most wond'rously endued, 
 No poppy-water half so good ; 
 For let folks only get a touch, 
 Its soporific virtue's such, 
 Though ne'er so much awake before, 
 That quickly they begin to snore ; 
 Add too, what certain writers tell, 
 With this he drives men's souls to hell. 
 
 Now to apply, begin we then : — 
 His wand's a modern author's pen ; 
 The serpents round about it twined 
 Denote him of the reptile kind, 
 Denote the rage with which he writes, 
 His frothy slaver, venom 'd bites ; 
 An equal semblance still to keep, 
 Alike, too, both conduce to sleep ; 
 This difference only, as the god 
 Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, 
 With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, 
 Instead of others, himself. 
 
 And here my simile almost tript ; 
 Yet grant a word by way of postscript. 
 Moreover Merc'ry had a failing; 
 Well ! what of that ? out with it — stealing; 
 In which all modern bards agree, 
 
70 goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 Being each as great a thief as he. 
 But even this deity's existence 
 Shall lend my simile assistance : 
 Our modern bards ! why, what a pox 
 Are they— but senseless stones and blocks ? 
 
 STANZAS ON WOMAN. 
 
 When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
 And finds too late that men betray, 
 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 To hide her shame from every eye, 
 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 And wring his bosom, is — to die. 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 ON EDWARD PURDON. 
 
 Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, 
 Who long was a bookseller's hack : 
 
 He led such a life in this world, 
 
 I don't think he'll wish to come back. 
 
 EPITAPH ON DR PARNELL. 
 
 This tomb inscribed to gentle Parnell's name, 
 
 May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 
 
 What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, 
 
 That leads to truth through pleasures flowery way ? 
 
 Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 
 
 And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 
 
 Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 
 
 The transitory breath of fame below : 
 
 More lasting rapture from hfs works shall rise, 
 
 While converts thank their poet in the skies. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 Intended to be spoken by Mrs BulkUy and Miss Catley. 
 
 Enters Mrs Bulkley, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak 
 Then enters Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and curtsies 
 to the Audience, 
 
 MRS bulkley. 
 Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here ? 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 The Epilogue. 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 The Epilogue ? 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 Sure you mistake, ma'am. The Epilogue, I bring it. 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it. 
 Recitative. 
 
 Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, 
 Suspend your conversation while I sing. 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue of singing, 
 A hopeful end, indeed, to such a blest beginning, 
 Besides, a singer in a comic set — 
 Excuse me, ma'am, I know the etiquette. 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 What if we leave it to the house ? 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 The house ! — Agreed. 
 
72 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Agreed ; 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 And she whose party's largest shall proceed. 
 And first, I hope you'll readily agree 
 I've all the critics and the wits for me. 
 They, I am sure, will answer my commands ; 
 Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands, 
 "What ! no return ? I find, too late I fear, 
 That modern judges seldom enter here. 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 I'm for a different set : — Old men, whose trade is 
 Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. 
 
 Recitative, 
 
 Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, 
 Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling. 
 
 Air. — Cotillon. 
 Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever 
 
 Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye. 
 Pity take on your swain so clever, 
 Who without your aid must die. 
 
 Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, ha 
 Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho; ho ! 
 Da Capo. 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; 
 
 Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 
 
 Ye travelPd tribe, ye macaroni train, 
 
 Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, 
 
 Who take a trip to Paris once a year 
 
 To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here, — 
 
 Lend me your hand : O fatal news to tell, 
 
 Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Ay, take your travellers — travellers indeed ! 
 Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. 
 Where are the chiels ! — Ah ! ah, I well discern 
 The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. 
 
 Air. — A honny young Lad is my Jocly. 
 
 I sing to amuse you by night and by day, 
 And be unco merry when you are but gay; 
 When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, 
 My voice shall be ready to carol away 
 
 With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, 
 With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, 
 
 Make but of all your fortune one va-toute — 
 
 Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, 
 
 " I hold the odds : done, done with you, with you"— 
 
 Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 
 
 " My Lord, your Lordship misconceives the case" — 
 
 Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, 
 
 " I wish I ! d been called in a little sooner :" 
 
 Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, 
 
 Come, end the contest here, and aid my party. 
 
 MISS CATLET. 
 Air, — Ballinamony. 
 
 Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, 
 
 Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack; 
 
 Tor — sure I don't wrong you — you seldom are slac?t, 
 
 When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. 
 Tor you're always polite and attentive, 
 Still to amuse us inventive^ 
 And death is your only preventive : 
 Your hands and your voices for me. 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring, 
 We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring ? 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 And that our friendship may remain unbroken, 
 What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? 
 
 Agreed. 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Agreed. 
 
 MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 And now with late repentance, 
 Un-epilogue the Poet waits his sentence. 
 Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit 
 To tnrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
74 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 TO THE COMEDY OF " THE SISTERS." 
 
 What ? five long acts — and all to make us wiser ! 
 Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. 
 Had she consulted me, she would have made 
 Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; 
 Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage 
 Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. 
 My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking, 
 Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking. 
 "Well ! since she thus has shown her want of skill, 
 What if I give a masquerade ? — I will. 
 But how ? ay, there's the rub ! [pausing] I've got my cue : 
 The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, you, you. 
 To Boxes, Pit, and Qalkry, 
 Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! 
 False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses 
 Statesmen with bridles on ; and, close beside 'em, 
 Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em : 
 There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
 To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore ; 
 These in their turn, with appetites as keen, 
 Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. 
 Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
 Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; 
 The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, 
 And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure. 
 Thus 'tis with all — their chief and constant care 
 Is to seem every thing — but what they are. 
 Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, 
 Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; 
 Who frowns and talks and swears, with round parade, 
 
 Looking, as who should say, ! who's afraid ? 
 
 Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am, [Mimicking, 
 
 You'll find his lionship a very lamb. 
 
 Yon politician, famous in debate, 
 
 Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ; 
 
 Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume, . 
 
 He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, 
 
 And seems, to every gazer, all in white, 
 
 If with a bribe his candour you attack, 
 
 He bows, turns round, and whip — the man's in black ! 
 
 Yon critic, too — but whither do I run ? 
 
 If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! 
 
 Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too : 
 
 Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you. 
 
 AN EPILOGUE, 
 
 INTENDED FOR MRS BULKLEY. 
 
 There is a place — so Ariosto sings — 
 
 A treasury for lost and missing thing3 ; 
 
 Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, 
 
 And they who lose their senses, there may find thenL. 
 
 But where's this place, the storehouse of the age ? 
 
 The Moon, says he ; — but I affirm, the Stage — 
 
 At least, in many things, I think I see 
 
 His lunar and our mimic world agree : 
 
 Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, 
 
 We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down ; 
 
 Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, 
 
 And sure the folks of both are lunatics. 
 
 But in this parallel my best pretence is, 
 
 That mortals visit both to find their senses : 
 
 To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, 
 
 Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 
 
 The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
 
 Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
 
 Hither the affected city dame advancing, 
 
 Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, 
 
 Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on, 
 
 Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. 
 
 The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low, 
 
 Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, 
 
 Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 
 
 Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. 
 
 The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored — 
 
 As " , Sir !" and " Sir, I wear a sword !" 
 
 Here lesson'd for awhile, and hence retreating, 
 Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
 
76 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Here come the sons of scandal and of news, 
 But find no sense — for they had none to lose. 
 Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, 
 Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser ; 
 Has he not seen how you your favour place 
 On sentimental queens and lords in lace ? 
 "Without a star, a coronet, or garter, 
 How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? 
 No high-life scenes, no sentiment : — the creature 
 Still stoops among the low to copy nature. 
 Yes, he's far gone : — and yet some pity fix, 
 The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR LEE LEWIS, IN THE CHARACTER OF 
 HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. 
 
 Hold ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your nonsense : 
 
 I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. 
 
 My pride forbids it ever should be said 
 
 My heels eclipsed the honours of my head ; 
 
 That I found humour in a piebald vest, 
 
 Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 
 
 [Takes off his mask, 
 Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth ? 
 Nature disowns, and reason scorns, thy mirth ; 
 In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, 
 The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. 
 How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood 
 Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued ! 
 Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, 
 "Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; 
 "Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, 
 And from above the dangling deities. 
 And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew ? 
 May rosin 'd lightning blast me if I do ! 
 No— I will act — I'll vindicate the stage : 
 Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 
 Off! off! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ; 
 The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme, — 
 
 u Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! — soft — 'twas 
 
 but a dream." 
 Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating, 
 If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 
 'Twas thus that iEsop's stag, a creature blameless, 
 Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, 
 Once on the margin of a fountain stood, 
 And cavill*d at his image in the flood. 
 
 " confound," he cries, " these drumstick shanks, 
 
 They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; 
 They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ; 
 But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head : 
 .How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! 
 My horns ! — I'm told horns are the fashion now." 
 Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view, 
 Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew ; 
 Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thundering from behind, 
 He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : 
 He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 
 He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze : 
 At length, his silly head, so prized before, 
 Is taught his former folly to deplore ; 
 Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 
 And at one bound he saves himself— like me. 
 
 [Taking a jump through tJie stage door. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 "AHME! WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME ?" 
 
 Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of " She Stoops to Con- 
 quer." But it was left out as Mrs Bulkley, who played the part, 
 did not sing. 
 
 Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? 
 
 Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me. 
 He, fond youth, that could carry me, 
 
 Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 
 
 But I will rally, and combat the ruiner : 
 Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. 
 
 She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
 Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 
 
78 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. * 
 
 Ye muses, pour the pitying tear 
 For Pollio snatched away ; 
 
 Oh ! had he lived another year — 
 He had not died to-day. 
 
 Oh ! were he born to bless mankind 
 
 In virtuous times of yore, 
 Heroes themselves had fallen behind — 
 
 "Whene'er he went before. 
 
 How sad the groves and plains appear 
 
 And sympathetic sheep ; 
 Even pitying hills would drop a tear — 
 
 If hills could learn to weep. 
 
 His bounty in exalted strain 
 Each bard might well display, 
 
 Since none implored relief in vain — 
 That went relieved away. 
 
 And hark ! I hear the tuneful throng 
 His obsequies forbid ; 
 
 He still shall live, shall live as long- 
 As ever dead man did. 
 
 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER. 
 
 1 This is a poem. This is a copy of verses 1" 
 
 The Inviter was Dr George Baker— the expected guests were Sir Joshua and Mis« 
 Reynolds, Angelica Kauffman, Mrs Horneck, her son Charles, and her daughters 
 Mary (afterwards the wife of General Gwyn) and Catherine (afterwards Mrs Bun- 
 bar y). 
 
 Your mandate I got — 
 You may all go to pot : 
 Had your senses been right, 
 You'd have sent before night. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 79 
 
 As I hope to be saved, 
 
 I put off being shaved — 
 
 For I could not make bold, 
 
 While the matter was cold, 
 
 To meddle in suds, 
 
 Or to put on my duds ; 
 
 So tell Horneck and Nesbitt, 
 
 And Baker and his bit, 
 
 And Kauffman beside, 
 
 And the jessamy bride, 
 
 With the rest of the crew, 
 
 The Reynolds's two, 
 
 Little comedy's face, 
 
 And the captain in lace. 
 
 — By the by, you may tell him 
 
 I have something to tell him ; 
 
 Of use, I insist, 
 
 When he comes to enlist. 
 
 Your worships must know 
 
 That a few days ago, 
 
 An order went out, 
 
 For the foot-guards so stout 
 
 To wear tails in high taste — 
 
 Twelve inches at least : 
 
 Now I've got him a scale 
 
 To measure each tail ; 
 
 To lengthen a short tail, 
 
 And a long one to curtail. 
 
 Yet how can I, when vex'd, 
 Thus stray from my text ! 
 Tell each other to rue 
 Your Devonshire crew, 
 For sending so late 
 To one of my state. 
 But 'tis Reynolds's way 
 From wisdom to stray, 
 And Angelica's whim 
 To be frolick like him — 
 
 Bat alas ! your good worships, how could they be wiser, 
 When both have been spoil'd in to-day's Advertiser ? 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
80 goldsmith's poetical works. 
 
 ANSWER TO A VERSIFIED INVITATION. 
 
 FROM MRS BUNBURY TO PASS THE CHRISTMAS AT BARTON, 
 AND TO TAKE THE ADVICE OF HER SISTER AND HERSELF 
 IN PLAYING AT LOO. 
 
 First let me suppose, what may shortly be true, 
 
 The company set, and the word to be — loo ; 
 
 All smirking and pleasant, and big with adventure, 
 
 And ogling the stake which is fixed in the centre. 
 
 Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn 
 
 At never once finding a visit from Pam . 
 
 I lay down my stake, apparently cool, 
 
 While the harpies about me all pocket the pool ; 
 
 I fret in my gizzasd — yet cautious and sly, 
 
 I wish all my friends may be bolder than I : 
 
 Yet still they sit snug ; not a creature will aim, 
 
 By losing their money, to venture at fame. 
 
 'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold, 
 
 'Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold, 
 
 All play their own way, and they think me an ass ; 
 
 " What does Mrs Bunbury ?" " I, sir ? I pass." 
 
 " Pray what does Miss Horneck ?" Take courage, come, do." 
 
 u Who — I ? Let me see, sir ; why, I must pass too." 
 
 Mr Bunbury frets, and / fret , 
 
 To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil ; 
 Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on, 
 Till made by my losses as bold as a lion, 
 I venture at all ; while my avarice regards 
 The whole pool as my own. " Come, give me five caids." 
 " Well done," cry the ladies ; "ah! doctor, that's good — 
 The pool's very rich. Ah, the doctor is loo'd." 
 Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplex'd, 
 I ask for advice from the lady that's next. 
 " Pray, ma'am, be so good as to give your advice ; 
 Don't you think the best way is to venture for't twic* SiJ 
 " I advise," cries the lady, " to try it, I own — 
 Ah, the doctor is loo'd : come, doctor, put down." 
 Thus playing and playing, I still grew more eager, 
 And so bold, and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar. 
 Now, ladies, I ask — if law matters you're skilled in, 
 Whether crimes such as yours should not come before 
 Fielding ? 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 61 
 
 For giving advice that is not worth a straw 
 
 May well be called picking of pockets in law. 
 
 And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye. 
 
 Is, by quinto Elizabeth., death without clergy. 
 
 What justice ! When both to the Old Bailey brought ; 
 
 By the gods ! Ill enjoy it, though 'tis but in thought. 
 
 Both are placed at the bar with all proper decorum, 
 
 With bunches of fennel and nosegays before them ; 
 
 Both cov%r their faces with mobs and all that. 
 
 But the judge bids them, angrily, take off their hat. 
 
 When uncovered, a buzz of inquiry runs round ; 
 
 " Pray, what are their crimes ?" " They've been pilfering 
 
 found." 
 " But pray who have they pilfer'd !" " A doctor, I hear." 
 " What, that solemn-faced, odd-looking man that stands near?" 
 " The same." " What a pity ! How does it surprise one, 
 Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on !" 
 Then their friends all came round me with cringing and 
 
 leering, 
 To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing. 
 First Sir Charles advances, with phrases well strung : 
 " Consider, dear doctor, the girls are but young." 
 " The younger the worse," I return him again ; 
 " It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain." 
 " But then they're so handsome ; one's bosom it grieves." 
 " What signifies handsome when people are thieves ?" 
 "But where is your justice ? their cases are hard." 
 " What signifies justice ? I want the reward." 
 There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds — there's the 
 parish of St Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pounds — there's the 
 parish of Tyburn offers forty pounds : I shall have all that if I 
 convict them. 
 
 " But consider their case : it may yet be your own ; 
 And see how they kneel : is your heart made of stone ?" 
 This moves : so, at last, I agree to relent, 
 For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent. 
 I challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you cannot : it 
 cuts deep. But now for the rest of the letter ; and next — but I 
 want room — so I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some 
 day next week.* 
 
 I don't value you all ! 
 
 0. G. 
 
 * Henry. th<» second son of Sir William Bunbury, Bart., was celebrated as an ama- 
 teur artist. His lady was Miss Catherine Horneck. Her sister Mary was after- 
 wards the wife of General Gwyn, one of the equerries of George IIL Barton war 
 the family seat of the Bunburys. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 When I undertook to write a comedy, 1 confess I was strongly 
 prepossessed in favour of the poets of the last age, and strove to 
 imitate them. The term genteel comedy was then unknown 
 amongst us, and little more was desired by an audience, than 
 nature and humour, in whatever walks of life they were most 
 conspicuous. The author of the following scenes never imagined 
 that more would be expected of him. and therefore to delineate 
 character has been his principal aim. Those who know any 
 thing of composition, are sensible, that in pursuing humour, it 
 will sometimes lead us into the recesses of the mean ; I was ever 
 tempted to look for it in the master of a spunging-house : but in 
 deference to the public taste, grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, 
 the scene of the bailiffs was retrenched in the representation. In 
 deference also to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a 
 particular way, the scene is here restored. The author submits 
 it to the reader in his closet; and hopes that too much refinement 
 will not banish humour and character from ours, as it has already 
 done from the French theatre. Indeed the French comedy is now 
 become so very elevated and sentimental, that it has not only 
 banished humour and Moliere from the stage, but it has banished 
 all spectators too. 
 
 Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the public for 
 the favourable reception which the Good-Natured Man has met 
 with : and to Mr Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It 
 may not also be improper to assure any who shall hereafter write 
 for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a suffi- 
 cient passport to his protection. 
 
PROLOGUE, 
 WRITTEN BY DR SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 SPOKEN BY ME BENSLET. 
 
 Press'd by the load of life, the weary mind 
 
 Surveys the general toil of humankind ; 
 
 With cool submission joins the labouring train, 
 
 And social sorrow loses half its pain. 
 
 Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share 
 
 This bustling season's epidemic care ; 
 
 Like Caesar's pilot, dignified by fate, 
 
 Toss'd in one common storm with all the great ; 
 
 Distress'd alike, the stateman and the wit, 
 
 When one a borough courts, and one the pit 
 
 The busy candidates for power and fame 
 
 Have hopes, and fears, and wishes just the same, 
 
 Disabled both to combat, or to fly, 
 
 Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. 
 
 Uncheck'd, on both, loud rabbles vent their rage, 
 
 As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 
 
 Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, 
 
 For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; 
 
 Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
 
 Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 
 
 " This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," 
 
 Says swelling Crispin, " begg'd a cobbler's vote T 
 
 " This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, 
 
 " Lies at my feet : I hiss him, and he dies 1" 
 
 The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe ; 
 
 The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 
 
 Yet, judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold, 
 
 He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 
 
 But, confident of praise, if praise be due, 
 
 Trusts, without fear, to merit, and to you. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 
 MEN. 
 
 
 Mr Honeywood. 
 
 
 
 Jar vis. 
 
 Croaker. 
 Lofty. 
 
 
 
 Butler. 
 Bailiff. 
 
 Sir William Honeywood. 
 
 
 
 Dubardieu. 
 
 Leoxtine. 
 
 
 
 Postboy. 
 
 
 WOMEN 
 
 
 Miss Richland. 
 
 
 
 Garnet. 
 
 Olivia. 
 
 
 
 Landlady. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. 
 
 
 
 
 Scene — London. 
 
THE GOOD-NATUEED MAN. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — An apartment in Young Honeywood's House. 
 
 Enter Sir William Honeywood, and Jarvis. 
 
 Sir WiU. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest blunt- 
 ness. Fidelity like yours is the best excuse for every freedom. 
 
 Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very angry too, 
 when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young 
 gentleman as your nephew, my master. All the world loves him. 
 
 Sir Will. Say rather, that he loves all the world ; that is his 
 fault. 
 
 Jarvis. I'm sure there is no part of it more dear to him than 
 you are, though he has not seen you since he was a child. 
 
 Sir WiU. "What signifies his affection to me ? or how can I be 
 proud of a place in a heart where every sharper and coxcomb 
 finds an easy entrance ? 
 
 Jarvis. I grant that he's rather too good-natured ; that he's too 
 much every man's man ; that he laughs this minute with one, and 
 cries the next with another : but whose instructions may he thank 
 for all this ? 
 
 Sir Will. Not mine, sure ! My letters to him during my employ- 
 ment in Italy, taught him only that philosophy which might pre- 
 vent, not defend, his errors. 
 
 Jarvis. Begging your honour's pardon, I'm sorry they taught 
 him any philosophy at all ; it has only served to spoil him. This 
 same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an errant jade 
 on a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention 
 the name on't, I'm always sure he's going to play the fool. 
 
 Sir Will. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I 
 entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good nature arises rather from his 
 fears of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the 
 deserving happy. 
 
A.CT I.J THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 85 
 
 Jarvis. What it rises from, I don't know. But, to be sure, 
 everybody has it, that asks it. 
 
 Sir Will. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some 
 time a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as bound- 
 less as his dissipation. 
 
 Jarvis. And yet, he has some fine name or other for them all. 
 He calls his extravagance, generosity ; and his trusting everybody, 
 universal benevolence. It was but last week he went security for 
 a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called an act of 
 exalted ma — mu — munificence ; ay, that was :he name he gave it. 
 
 Sir Will. And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, though 
 with very little hopes, to reclaim him. That very fellow has just 
 absconded, and I have taken up the security. Now, my intention 
 is, to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself 
 into real calamity ; to arrest him for that very debt, to clap an 
 officer upon him, and then let him see which of his friends will 
 come to his relief. 
 
 Jarvis. "Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly vexed, 
 every groan of his would be music to me ; yet, I believe it impos- 
 sible. I have tried to fret him myself every morning these three 
 years ; but, instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear m6 
 scold, as he does to his hair-dresser. 
 
 Sir Will. We must try him once more, however, and 1 11 go 
 this instant to put my scheme into execution ; and I don't despair 
 of succeeding, as by your means I can have frequent opportunities 
 of being about him, without being known. What a pity it is, 
 Jarvis, that any man's good-will to others should produce so much 
 neglect of himself, as to require correction ! Yet, we must touch 
 his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some faults so 
 nearly allied to excellence, that we can scarce weed out the vico 
 without eradicating the virtue. {Exit.) 
 
 Jarvis. "Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honeywood. It is not 
 without reason that the world allows thee to be the best of men. 
 But here comes his hopeful nephew ; the strange, good-natured, 
 foolish, open-hearted — And yet, all his faults are such that one 
 loves him still the better for them. 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my friends this 
 morning ? 
 
 Jarvis, You have no friends. 
 
 Honeyw. W f ell ; from my acquaintance then ? 
 
 Jarvis, {Pulling out bills). A few of our usual cards of com- 
 pliment, that's all. This bill from your tailor ; this from your 
 mercer ; and this from the little broker in Crooked lane. He 
 
86 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS, 
 
 says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money 
 you borrowed. 
 
 Honeyw. That I don't know ; but I'm more sure we were at a 
 great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. 
 
 Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 
 
 Honeyw, Then he has lost a very good thing. 
 
 Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor 
 gentleman and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop 
 his mouth, for a while at least. 
 
 Honeyw. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the 
 mean time ? Must I be cruel because he happens to be importu- 
 nate ; and, to relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable dis- 
 tress ? 
 
 Jarvis. Sir, the question now is, how to relieve yourself. Your- 
 self — Haven't I reason to be out of my senses, when I see things 
 going at sixes and sevens ? 
 
 Honeyw. Whatever reason you may have for being out of your 
 senses, I hope you'll allow that I'm not quite unreasonable for 
 continuing in mine. 
 
 Jarvis. You're the only man alive in your present situation that 
 could do so — Everj thing upon the waste. There's Miss Richland 
 and her fine fortune gone already, and upon the point of being 
 given to your rival. 
 
 Honeyw. I'm no man's rival. 
 
 Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit you ; your 
 own fortune almost spent ; and nothing but pressing creditors, 
 false friends, and a pack of drunken servants that your kindness 
 has made unfit for any other family. 
 
 Honeyw. Then they have the more occasion for being in mine. 
 
 Jarvis. So ! What will you have done with him that I caught 
 stealing your plate in the pantry ? In the fact ; I caught him in 
 the fact. 
 
 Honeyw. In the fact ? If so, I really think that we should pay 
 him his wages, and turn him off. 
 
 Jarvis. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog ; we'll hang 
 him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the family. 
 
 Honeyw. No, Jarvis : it's enough that we have lost what he 
 has stolen, let us not add to it the loss of a fellow-creature. 
 
 Jarvis. Very fine ; well, here was the footman just now, to com- 
 plain of the butler ; he says he does most work, and ought to have 
 most wages. 
 
 Honeyw. That's but just : though perhaps here comes the but- 
 ler to complain of the footman. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the scullion to the 
 privy-counsellor. If they have a bad master, they keep quarrel 
 
ACT I.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 87 
 
 ling with him ; if they have a good master, they keep quarrelling 
 with one another. 
 
 Enter Butler, drunk. 
 
 Butler. Sir, 111 not stay in the family with Jonathan : you 
 must part with him, or part with me, that's the ex-ex-position of 
 the matter, sir. 
 
 Honeyw. Full and explicit enough. But what's his fault, good 
 Philip ? 
 
 Butler. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I shall have my 
 morals corrupted, by keeping such company. 
 
 Honeyw, Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way — 
 
 Jarvis. ! quite amusing. 
 
 Butler. I find my wines a-going, sir ; and liquors don't go 
 without mouths, sir ; I hate a drunkard, sir. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon that another 
 time, so go to bed now. 
 
 Jarvis. To bed ! Let him go 
 
 Butler. Begging your honour's pardon, and begging your 
 pardon, master Jarvis, I'll not go to bed. I have enough to do to 
 mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr Croaker is below. 
 I came on purpose to tell you. 
 
 Honeyw. Why didn't you show him up, blockhead ? 
 
 Butler. Show him up, sir ? With all my heart, sir. Up or 
 down, all's one to me. v {Exit) 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this house 
 from morning till night. He comes on the old affair, I suppose ; 
 the match between hi3 son, that's just returned from Paris, and 
 Miss Richland, the young lady he's guardian to. 
 
 Honeyw. Perhaps so, Mr Croaker, knowing my friendship for 
 the young lady, has got it into his head that I can persuade her 
 to what I please. 
 
 Jarvis. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as well as she loves 
 you, we should soon see a marriage that would set all things to 
 rights again. 
 
 Honeyw. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, no ; her 
 intimacy with me never amounted to more than friendship — mere 
 friendship. That she is the most lovely woman that ever warmed 
 the human heart, I own. But never let me harbour a thought of 
 making her unhappy, by a connection with one so unworthy her 
 merits, as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve her, 
 even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure her happiness, though 
 it destroys my own. 
 
 Jarvis. Was ever the like ? I want patience. 
 
 Honeyw. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Richl and'* 
 
88 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 i 
 
 consent, do you think I could succeed with her guardian, or Mrs 
 Croaker his wife ; who, though both very fine in their way, are 
 pet a little opposite in their dispositions, you know ? 
 
 Jarvis. Opposite enough ; the very reverse of each other ; she 
 all laugh and no joke, he always complaining and never sorrow- 
 ful ; a fretful poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour in 
 the four-and-twenty — 
 
 Honey w. Hush, hush, he's coming up ! he'll hear you. 
 
 Jarvis, One whose voice is a passing-bell — 
 
 Honeyw. Well, well, go, do. 
 
 Jarvis, A raven that bodes nothing but mischief ; a coffin and 
 cross bones ; a bundle of rue ; a sprig of deadly nightshade ; a — 
 (Honeywood, stopping his mouth, at last pushes him off.) 
 
 {Eodt Jarvis.) 
 
 Honeyw. I must own, my old monitor is not entirely wrong. 
 There is something in my friend Croaker's conversation that quite 
 depresses me. His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and 
 his appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits than an under- 
 taker's shop.— Mr Croaker, this is such a satisfaction — 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr Honeywood, and many of 
 them. How is this ? You look most shockingly to-day, my dear 
 friend. I hope this weather does not affect your spirits. To be 
 sure, if this weather continues — I say nothing — but may we be all 
 better this day three months. 
 
 Honeyw. I heartily concur in the wish, though I own, not in 
 your apprehensions. 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed what signifies what weather we 
 have, in a country going to ruin like ours ? Taxes rising and trade 
 falling. Money flying out of the kingdom and Jesuits swarming 
 into it. I know at this time no less than a hundred and twenty- 
 seven Jesuits between Charing-cross and Temple-bar. 
 
 Honeyw. The Jesuits will scarcely pervert you or me, I should 
 hope? 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed what signifies whom they per- 
 vert in a country that has scarce any religion to lose ? I'm only 
 afraid of our wives and daughters. 
 
 Honeyw* I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure you. 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed what signifies whether they be 
 perverted or not ? The women in my time were good for something. 
 I have seen a lady dressed from top to toe in her own manufac- 
 tures formerly. But now-a-days there's not a thing of their own 
 manufacture about them, except their faces. 
 
 Honeyw. But. however these faults may be practised abroad. 
 
ACT I.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 89 
 
 you don't find them at home, either with Mrs Croaker, Olivia, or 
 Miss Richland. 
 
 Croaker. The best of them will never be canonized for a saint 
 when she's dead. By the by, my dear friend, I don't find this 
 match between Miss Richland and my son much relished, either 
 by one side or t'other. 
 
 Honey w, I thought otherwise. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, Mr Honeywood, a little of your fine serious advice 
 to the young lady might go far : I know she has a very exalted 
 opinion of your understanding. 
 
 Honeyw, But would not that be usurping an authority that 
 more properly belongs to yourself ? 
 
 Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my authority 
 at home. People think, indeed, because they see me come out in 
 a morning thus, with a pleasant face, and to make my friends 
 merry, that all's well within. But I have cares that would break 
 a heart of stone. My wife has so encroached upon every one of 
 my privileges, that I'm now no more than a mere lodger in my 
 own house. 
 
 Honey w. But a little spirit exerted on your side might perhaps 
 restore your authority. 
 
 Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion. I do rouse 
 sometimes. But what then ? always haggling and haggling. A 
 man is tired of getting the better, before his wife is tired of losing 
 the victory. 
 
 Honeyw. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, that our chief 
 comforts often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an increase 
 of our possessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very words ot 
 poor Dick Doleful to me not a week before he made away with 
 himself. Indeed, Mr Honeywood, I never see you but you put me 
 in mind of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected for you! and 
 so true a friend ; we loved each other for thirty years, and yet he 
 never asked me to lend him a single farthing. 
 
 Honeyw, Pray what could induce him to commit so rash an 
 action at last ? 
 
 Croaker, I don't know, some people were malicious enough to 
 say it was keeping company with me ; because we used to meet, 
 now and then, and open our hearts to each other. To be sure I 
 loved to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk ; poor dear 
 Dick ! He used to say, that Croaker rhymed to joker ; and so we 
 used to laugh — Poor Dick ! {Going to cry) 
 
 Honeyw, His fate affects me. 
 
 Croaker, Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life, where we do 
 nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and undress, get up and 
 
90 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 lie down ; while reason, that should watch like a nurse by our side, 
 falls as fast asleep as we do. 
 
 Honeyw. To say truth, if we compare that part of life which is 
 to come, by that which we have passed, the prospect is hideous. 
 
 Croaker. Life at the greatest and best is but a froward child, 
 that must be humoured and coaxed a little till it falls asleep, and 
 then all the care is over. 
 
 Honeyw. Very true, sir ; nothing can exceed the vanity of our 
 existence, but the folly of our pursuits. We wept when we came 
 into the world, and every day tells us why. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfaction to be 
 miserable with you. My son Leontine shan't lose the benefit of 
 such fine conversation. I'll just step home for him. I am willing 
 to show him so much seriousness in one scarce older than himself 
 — And what if I bring my last letter to the Gazetteer on the in- 
 crease and progress of earthquakes ? It will amuse us, I promise 
 you. I there prove how the late earthquake is coming round to 
 pay us another visit from London to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the 
 Canary Islands, from the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from Pal- 
 myra to Constantinople, and so from Constantinople back to Lon- 
 don again. (Exit.) 
 
 Honeyw. Poor Croaker! His situation deserves the utmost 
 pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits these three days. Sure 
 to live upon such terms is worse than death itself. And yet, wher 
 I consider my own situation, a broken fortune, a hopeless passion, 
 friends in distress ; the wish but not the power to serve them. 
 
 (Pausing and sighing.) 
 
 Enter Butler. 
 
 Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs Croaker and Miss 
 Richland ; shall I show them up ? But they're showing up them- 
 selves. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter Mrs Croaker and Miss Richland. 
 
 Miss Rich. You're always in such spirits. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. We have just come, my dear Honeywood, from 
 the auction. There was the old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding 
 like a fury, against herself. And then so curious in antiques ! 
 herself the most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole collection. 
 
 Honeyw. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness from friendship 
 makes me unfit to share in this good humour : I know you'll par- 
 don me. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. I vow, he seems as melancholy as if he had taken 
 a dose of my husband this morning. Well, if Richland here can 
 pardon you, I must. 
 
ACT I.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 91 
 
 Miss Rich. You would seem to insinuate, madam, that I have 
 particular reasons for being disposed to refuse it. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, don't be so ready 
 to wi?h an explanation. 
 
 Miss Rich. I own I should be sorry Mr Honey wood's long 
 friendship and mine should be misunderstood. 
 
 Honeyw. There's no answering for others, madam ; but I hope 
 you'll never find me presuming to offer more than the most deli- 
 cate friendship may readily allow. 
 
 Miss Rich. And I shall be prouder of such a tribute from you, 
 than the most passionate professions from others. 
 
 Honeyw. My own sentiments, madam : friendship is a disin- 
 terested commerce between equals ; love, an abject intercourse 
 between tyrants and slaves. 
 
 Miss Rich. And, without a compliment, I know none more dis- 
 interested or more capable of friendship than Mr Honeywood. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. And indeed I know nobody that has more friend s, 
 at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, Miss Odbody, and Miss 
 Winterbottom, praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy 
 Bundle, she's his professed admirer. 
 
 Miss Rich. Indeed ! an admirer ! I did not know, sir, you were 
 such a favourite there. But i3 she seriously so handsome ? Is 
 she the mighty thing talked of ? 
 
 Honeyw. The town, madam, seldom begins to praise a lady's 
 beauty, till she's beginning to lose it. {Smiling.) 
 
 Mrs Croaker. But she's resolved never to lose it, it seems ; fur 
 as her natural face decays, her skill improves in making the arti- 
 ficial one. Well, nothing diverts me more than one of those fine 
 old dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age by everywhere 
 exposing her person ; sticking herself up in the front of a side- 
 box ; trailing through a minuet at Almack's ; and then, in the 
 public gardens looking for all the world like one of the painted 
 ruins of the place. 
 
 Honeyw. Every age has its admirers, ladies. While you, per- 
 haps, are trading among the warmer climates of youth, there 
 ought to be some to carry on a useful commerce in the frozen lati- 
 tudes beyond fifty. 
 
 Miss Rich. But then the mortifications they must suffer before 
 they can be fitted out for traffic ! I have seen one of them fret a 
 whole morning at her hair-dresser, when all the fault was her 
 face. 
 
 Honeyw. And yet I'll engage, has carried that face at last to 
 a very good market. This good-natured town, madam, has hus- 
 bands, like spectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Well, you're a dear good-natured creature. But 
 
if 2 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 you know you're engaged with us this morning upon a strolling 
 party. I want to show Olivia the town, and the things ; I believ* 
 I shall have business for you for the whole day. 
 
 Honeyw. I am sorry, madam, I have an appointment with Mr 
 Croaker, which it is impossible to put off. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, What ! with my husband ? Then I'm resolved 
 to take no refusal. Nay, I protest you must. You know I never 
 laugh so much as with you. 
 
 Honeyw. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear, you have put 
 me into such spirits. Well, do you find jest, and I'll find laugh, 
 I promise you. Well wait for the chariot in the next room. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Enter Leontine and Olivia. 
 
 Leont. There they go, thoughtless and happy, my dearest 
 Olivia, what would I give to see you capable of sharing their amuse- 
 ments, and as cheerful as they are ! 
 
 Olivia. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, when I have 
 so many terrors to oppress me ? The fear of being detected by 
 this family, and the apprehensions of a censuring world, when I 
 must be detected 
 
 Leont. The world ! my love, what can it say ? At worst, it 
 can only say that, being compelled by a mercenary guardian to 
 embrace a life you disliked, you formed a resolution of flying with 
 the man of youi choice ; that you confided in his honour, and took 
 refuge in my father's house ; the only one where yours could re- 
 main without censure. 
 
 Olivia. But consider, Leontine, your disobedience and my in 
 discretion : your being sent to France to bring home a sister, and, 
 instead of a sister, bringing home 
 
 Leont. One dearer than a thousand sisters; one that I an 
 convinced will be equally dear to the rest of the family, when she 
 comes to be known. 
 
 Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. 
 
 Leont. Impossible till we ourselves think proper to make the 
 discovery. My sister, you know, has been with her aunt, at Lyons, 
 Bince she was a child ; and you find every creature in the family 
 takes you for her. 
 
 Olivia. But mayn't she write ? mayn't her aunt write ? 
 
 Leont. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister's letter* 
 are directed to me. 
 
 Olivia. But won't your refusing Mis3 Richland, for whom you 
 know the old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion ? 
 
 Leont. There, there's my master-stroke. I have resolved not 
 
ACT I.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 93 
 
 to refuse her : nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my 
 father, to make her an offer of my heart and fortune. 
 
 Olivia. Your heart and fortune ! 
 
 Leont. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia think so 
 meanly of my honour, or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope 
 for happiness from any but her ? No, my Olivia, neither the force, 
 nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion, leave any room 
 to suspect me. I only offer Mis3 Richland a heart I am con- 
 vinced she will refuse : as I am confident that, without knowing 
 it, her affections are fixed upon Mr Honeywood. 
 
 Olivia. Mr Honeywood ! You'll excuse my apprehensions ; but 
 when your merits come to be put in the balance — 
 
 Leont. You view them with too much partiality. However, 
 by making this offer, I show a seeming compliance with my 
 father's commands ; and perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have 
 his consent to choose for myself. 
 
 Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I own I shall 
 envy her even your pretended addresses. I consider every look, 
 every expression of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly 
 perhaps : I allow it : but it is natural to suppose, that merit which 
 has made an impression on one's own heart, may be powerful over 
 that of another. 
 
 Leont. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us make imaginary 
 evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter. 
 At worst, you know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my 
 father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland ; 
 and 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Where have you been, boy ? I have been seeking 
 you. My friend Honeywood here has been saying such comfort- 
 able things. Ah, he's an example indeed. Where is he ? I left 
 him here. 
 
 Leont. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear him too, in 
 the next room : he's preparing to go out with the ladies. 
 
 Croaker. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes or my ears ? 
 I'm struck dumb with his vivacity, and stunned with the loudness 
 of his laugh. Was there ever such a transformation ? (A laugh 
 behind the scenes ,♦ Croaker mimics it.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! there it 
 goes : a plague take their balderdash ; yet I could expect nothing 
 less, when my precious wife was of the party. On my conscience, 
 I believe she could spread a horse-laugh through the pews of a 
 tabernacle. 
 
 Leont. Since you find so many objections to a wife, sir, how 
 can you be so earnest in recommending one to me ? 
 
94 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that Misa 
 Richland's fortune must not go out of the family ; one may find 
 comfort in the money, whatever one does in the wife. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, though in obedience to your desire, I am ready 
 to marry her ; it may be possible, she has no inclination to me. 
 
 Croaker, I'll tell you once for all how it stands. A good pari 
 of Miss Richland's large fortune consists in a claim upon govern- 
 ment, which my good friend, Mr Lofty, assures me the treasury 
 will allow. One half of this she is to forfeit, by her father's will, 
 in case she refuses to marry you. So if she rejects you, we seize 
 half her fortune ; if she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a 
 fine girl into the bargain. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, if you will but listen to reason — 
 
 Croaker. Come, then produce your reasons. I tell you I'm 
 fixed, determined, so now produce your reasons. When I'm de- 
 termined I always listen to reason, because it can then do no 
 harm. 
 
 Leont. You have alleged that a mutual choice was the first 
 requisite in matrimonial happiness — 
 
 Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a mutual choice. 
 She has her choice — to marry you, or lose half her fortune ; and 
 you have your choice — to marry her, or pack out of doors with- 
 out any fortune at all. 
 
 Leont. An only son, sir, might oxpect more indulgence. 
 
 Croaker. An only father, sir, might expect more obedience ; 
 besides, has not your sister here, that never disobliged me in her 
 life, as good a right as you ? He's a sad dog, Livy my dear, and 
 would take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he shan't, for 
 you shall have your share. 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced that I can never 
 be happy in any addition to my fortune, which is taken from his. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, it's a good child; so say no more, but 
 come with me, and we shall see something that will give us a 
 great deal of pleasure, I promise you ; old Ruggins, the curry- 
 comb maker, lying in state : I'm told he makes a very handsome 
 corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an intimate 
 friend of mine, and these are friendly things we ought to do for 
 each other. (Exeunt.) 
 
ACT n.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. »8 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene, Croaker's House. 
 
 Miss Richland, Garnet. 
 
 Miss Rich. Olivia not his sister ? Olivia not Leontine's sister \ 
 Ifou amaze me ? 
 
 Garnet. No more his sister than I am ; I had it all from his 
 own servant ; I can get anything from that quarter. 
 
 Miss Rich. But how ? Tell me again, Garnet. 
 
 Garnet. "Why, madam, as I told you before, instead of going to 
 Lyons to bring home his sister, who has been there with her aunt 
 these ten years, he never w?nt further than Paris ; there he saw 
 and fell in love with this young lady : by the by, of a pro digious 
 family. 
 
 Miss Rich. And brought hor home to my guardian, as his 
 daughter. 
 
 Garnet, Yes, and daughter she will be. If he don't consent 
 to their marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parson can do. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, I own they have deceived me — And so de- 
 murely as Olivia carried it too ! — Would you believe it, Garnet, I 
 told her all my secrets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this 
 from me. 
 
 Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I don't much blame her ; 
 she was loth to trust one with her secrets, that was so very bad at 
 keeping her own. 
 
 Miss Rich. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, 
 it seems, pretends to make me serious proposals. My gu ardian 
 and he are to be here presently, to open the affair in form . You 
 know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. 
 
 Garnet. Yet what can you do ? for being, as you are, in love 
 with Mr Honeywood, madam — 
 
 Miss Rich. How, idiot ! what do you mean ? In love with Mr 
 Honeywood ! Is this to provoke me ? 
 
 Garnet, That is, madam, in friendship with him ; I meant 
 nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be married ; nothing 
 more. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, no more of this. As to my guardian and his 
 son, they shall find me prepared to receive them ; I'm resolved to 
 accept their proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by 
 compliance, and so throw the refusal at last upon them. 
 
96 GOLDSMITH'S PLA1S. 
 
 Garnet, Delicious ! and that will secure your whole fortune to 
 yourself. Well, who could have thought so innocent a face could 
 cover so much cuteness ? 
 
 Miss Rich. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence to their 
 cunning, and practise a lesson they have taught me against them- 
 selves. 
 
 Garnet. Then you're likely not long to want employment ; for 
 here they come, and in close conference, 
 
 Enter Croaker, Leontine. 
 
 Leont. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate upon the point of 
 putting to the lady so important a question. 
 
 Croaker. Good sir ! moderate your fears ; you're so plaguy 
 shy, that one would think you had changed sexes. I tell you, 
 we must have the half or the whole. Come, let me see with what 
 spirit you begin. Well, why don't you ? Eh ? What ? Well 
 then— I must, it seems. Miss Richland, my dear, I believe you 
 guess at our business ; an affair which my son here comes to open, 
 that nearly concerns your happiness. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased with 
 anything that comes recommended by you. 
 
 Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer opportunity ? Why 
 don't you begin, I say ? (To Leont.) 
 
 Leont. 'Tis true, madam, my father, madam, has some inten- 
 tions —hem — of explaining an affair — which — himself — can best 
 explain, madam. 
 
 Croaker. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my son ; it's 
 all a request of his own, madam. And I will permit him to make 
 the best of it. 
 
 Leont. The whole affair is only this, madam ; my father has a 
 proposal to make, which he insists none but himself shall deliver. 
 
 Croaker. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never be 
 brought on. (Aside.) In short, madam, you see before you one 
 that loves you ; one whose whole happiness is all in you. 
 
 Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your regard, sir ; and I 
 hope you can have none of my duty. 
 
 Croaker. That's not the thing, my little sweeting, my love. 
 No, no, another-guess lover than I ; there he stands, madam ; his 
 very looks declare the force of his passion — Call up a look, you 
 dog — But then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping, speaking 
 soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, and some- 
 times absent — 
 
 Miss Rich. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or such a declaration 
 would have come most properly from himself. 
 
 Croaker. Himself, madam ! He would die before he could 
 
ACT II.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 9? 
 
 make such a confession ; and if he had not a channel for his 
 passion through me, it would ere now have drowned his under- 
 standing. 
 
 Miss Rich. I must grant, sir, there are attractions in modest 
 diffidence, above the force of words. A silent address is the 
 genuine eloquence of sincerity. 
 
 Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other language ; 
 silence is become his mother-tongue. 
 
 Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, sir, it speaks very power- 
 fully in his favour. And yet, I shall be thought too forward in 
 making such a confession ; shan't I, Mr Leontine ? 
 
 Leont. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But, if modesty 
 attracts her, impudence may disgust her. I'll try. (Aside.) 
 Don't imagine from my silence, madam, that I want a due sense 
 of the honour and happiness intended me. My father, madam, 
 tells me, your humble servant is not totally indifferent to you. 
 He admires you ; I adore you : and when we come together, 
 upon my soul I believe we shall be the happiest couple in all St 
 James's. 
 
 Miss Rich. If I could flatter myself, you thought as you speak, 
 sir 
 
 LeonU Doubt my sincerity, madam ? By your dear self I 
 swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory, ask cowards if they 
 covet safety 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, no more questions about it. 
 
 Leont. Ask the sick if they long for health, ask misers if they 
 love money, ask 
 
 Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ! What's come 
 over the boy ? What signifies asking, when there's not a soul to 
 give you an answer ? If you would ask to the purpose, ask this 
 lady's consent to make you happy. 
 
 Miss Rich. Why indeed, sir, his uncommon ardour almost com- 
 pels me, forces me, to comply. And yet I'm afraid he'll despise 
 a conquest gained with too much ease ; won't you, Mr Leontine ? 
 
 Leont. Confusion ! (Aside.) O, by no means, madam, by no 
 means. And yet, madam, you talked of force. There is nothing 
 I would avoid so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. 
 ]S T o, madam ; I will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to 
 refuse. 
 
 Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at liberty. It's a 
 match. You see she says nothing. Silence gives consent. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, sir, the cruelty 
 of constraining her inclinations. 
 
 Croaker. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you know, block- 
 head, that girls have always a round-about way of saying Yes be* 
 
goldsmith's plays. 
 
 fore company ? So get you both gone together into the next 
 room, and hang him that interrupts the tender explanation. Get 
 you gone, I say ; I'll not hear a word. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist — 
 
 Croaker. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to insist upon 
 knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! But I don't wonder ; the 
 boy takes entirely after his mother. 
 
 (Exeunt Miss Richland and Leontine.) 
 
 Enter Mrs Croaker. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, Mr Croaker, I bring you something, my dear, 
 that I believe will make you smile. 
 
 Croaker. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. A letter ; and, as I knew the hand, I ventured 
 to open it. 
 
 Croaker. And how can you expect your breaking open my let- 
 ters should give me pleasure ? 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Pooh, it's from your sister at Lyons, and con- 
 tains good news : read it. 
 
 Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That sister of 
 mine has some good qualities, but I could never, teach her to fold 
 a letter. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what it contains. 
 
 Croaker (reading). 
 Dear Nick, 
 
 An English gentleman, of large fortune, has for some time made private, 
 though honourable, proposals to your daughter Olivia, They love each 
 other tenderly, and I find she has consented, without letting any of the 
 family know, to crown his addresses. As such good offers don't come every 
 day, your own good sense, his large fortune, and family considerations, 
 will induce you to forgive her. Yours ever, 
 
 Rachel Croaker. 
 
 My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of large 
 fortune ! This is good news indeed. My heart never foretold me 
 of this. And yet, how slily the little baggage has carried it since 
 she came home ! Not a word on't to the old ones, for the world ! 
 Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to conceal. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Well, if they have concealed their lovemaking, 
 they shan't conceal their wedding ; that shall be public, I'm re- 
 solved. 
 
 Croaker. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most foolish 
 part of the ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of 
 the more serious part of the nuptial engagement. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. What ! would you have me think of their fune- 
 ral? But come, tell me- my dear, don't you owe more to me than 
 you care to confess ? Would you have ever been known to Mr 
 
A.CT II.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 99 
 
 Lofty, who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the treasury, 
 but for me ? Who was it first made him an acquaintance at Lady 
 Shabbaroon's rout ? Who got him to promise us his interest ? Is 
 not he a back-stairs favourite, one that can do what he pleases 
 with those that do what they please ? Isn't he an acquaintance 
 that all your groaning and lamentations could never have 
 got us ? 
 
 Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant you ; and yet, 
 what amazes me is, that while he is giving away places to all the 
 world, he can't get one for himself. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, That perhaps may be owing to his nicety. Great 
 men are not easily satisfied. 
 
 Enter French Servant. 
 
 Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. He vil be vait 
 upon your honours instalment. He be only giving four five in- 
 struction, read two tree memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. 
 He vil be vid you in one tree minutes. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. You see now, my dear, what an extensive de- 
 partment. Well, friend, let your master know that we are ex- 
 tremely honoured by this honour. Was there any thing ever in a 
 higher style of breeding ? All messages among the great are now 
 done by express. 
 
 Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things with more so- 
 lemnity, or claims more respect, than he. But he's in the right 
 on't. In our bad world, respect is given where respect is claimed. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Never mind the world, my dear ; you were never 
 in a pleasanter place in your life. Let us now think of receiving 
 him with proper respect : (a loud rapping at the door) and there 
 he is, by the thundering rap. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is ; as close upon the heels of his 
 own express, as an indorsement upon the back of a bill. Well, 
 I'll leave you to receive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia 
 for intending to steal a marriage without mine or her aunt's con- 
 sent. I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to despise 
 my authority. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter Lofty, speaking to his Servant. 
 
 Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teazing crea- 
 ture the marquis, should call, I'm not at home. I'll be packhorse 
 to none of them. My dear madam, I have just snatched a mo- 
 ment — And if the expresses to his grace be ready, let them be sent 
 off; they're of importance. Madam, I ask a thousand pardons. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Sir, this honour 
 
 Lofty. And, Dubardieu, if the person calls about the commis- 
 
100 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 sion, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumber- 
 court's stale request, it can keep cold : you understand me,. 
 Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Sir, this honour 
 
 Lofty, And, Dubardieu, if the man comes from the Cornish 
 borough, you must do him ; you must do him, I say. Madam, I 
 ask ten thousand pardons. And if the Russian ambassador calls : 
 but he will scarce call to-day, I believe. And now, madam, I 
 have just got time to express my happiness in having the honour 
 of being permitted to profess myself your most obedient humble 
 servant. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine : and 
 yet, I'm only robbing the public while I detain you. 
 
 Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to be at- 
 tended. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly devoted ! Sin- 
 cerely, don't you pity us poor creatures in affairs ? Thus .it is 
 eternally ; solicited for places here, teazed for pensions there, and 
 courted everywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Excuse me, sir. ' Toils of empires pleasures are/ 
 as Waller says. 
 
 Lofty. "Waller, Waller ; is he of the house ? 
 
 Mrs Croaker. The modern poet of that name, sir. 
 
 Lofty. Oh, a modern ! We men of business despise the moderns , 
 and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry 
 is a pretty thing enough for our wives and daughters ; but not 
 for us. Why now, here I stand that know nothing of books. I 
 say, madam, I know nothing of books ; and yet, I believe, upon a 
 land-carriage fishery, a stamp-act, or a jaghire, I can talk my two 
 hours without feeling the want of them. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr Lofty's eminence 
 in every capacity. 
 
 Lofty. I vow, madam, you make me blush. I'm nothing, no* 
 thing, nothing, in the world ; a mere obscure gentleman. To be 
 sure, indeed, one or two of the present ministers are pleased to 
 represent me as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to 
 bespatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, 
 I wonder what they see in me to treat me so. Measures, not men, 
 have always been my mark ; and I vow, by all that's honourable, 
 my resentment has never done the men, as mere mer, any man- 
 ner of harm — that is, as mere men. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. What importance, and yet what modesty ! 
 
 Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam ; there, I own, I'm 
 accessible to praise : modesty is my foible : it was so, the Duke of 
 Brentford used to say of me. I love Jack Lofty, he used to say : 
 eo man has a finer knowledge of things ; quite ? man of informa- 
 
ACT II.] THE 300D-NATURED MAN. 101 
 
 tion ; and when he speaks upon his legs, he's prodigious ; he scouts 
 them : and yet all men have their faults ; too much modesty is 
 his, says his Grace. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don't want assurance 
 when you come to solicit for your friends. 
 
 Lofty. 0, there indeed I'm in bronze. Apropos, I have just 
 been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a certain personage ; we 
 must name no names. When I ask, I am not to be put off, 
 madam. No, no, I take my friend by the button. • A fine girl, 
 sir ; great justice in her case. A friend of mine, Borough-in- 
 terest. Business must be done, Mr Secretary. I say, Mr Secre- 
 tary, her business must be done, sir.' That's my way, madam. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Bless me ! you said all this to the secretary of 
 state, did you ? 
 
 Lofty. I did not say the secretary, did I ? Well, since you have 
 found me out I will not deny it. It was to the secretary. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. This was going to the fountain-head at once ; 
 not applying to the understrappers, as Mr Honeywood would have 
 had us. 
 
 Lofty. Honeywood ! he-he ! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor. 
 I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him ? 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Poor, dear man ! no accident, I hope. 
 
 Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors have taken 
 him into custody. A prisoner in his own house. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. A prisoner in his own house ! How ! At this 
 very time ? I'm quite unhappy for him. 
 
 Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was immensely 
 good-natured ; but then, I could never find that he had any thing 
 in him. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was excessive harmless ; 
 some, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always con- 
 cealed my opinion. 
 
 Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was dull, dull 
 as the last new comedy ! A poor impracticable creature ! I tried 
 once or twice to know if he was fit for business, but he had scarce 
 talents to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. How differently does Miss Richland think of 
 him ! for, I believe, with all his faults, she loves him. 
 
 Lofty. Loves him ! Does she ? You should cure her of that, 
 by all means. Let me see : what if she were sent to him this in- 
 stant, in his present doleful situation ? My life for it, that works 
 her cure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love, Suppose we join 
 her in the next room ? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine 
 fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, 
 I have a regard for Miss Richland ; and, rather than she should 
 
102 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 be thrown away, I should think it no indignity to marry her my- 
 self. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Enter Olivia and Leontine. 
 
 Leont. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason to expect 
 Miss Richland's refusal, as I did every thing in my power to de- 
 serve it. Her indelicacy surprises me. 
 
 Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indelicate m being 
 sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty 
 thing alive. 
 
 Leont. But you mistake, my dear. The same attention I used 
 to advance my merit with you, I practised to lessen it with her. 
 AY hat more could I do ? 
 
 Olivia. Let us now rather consider what's to be done. We 
 have both dissembled too long — I have always been ashamed, I 
 am now quite weary, of it. Sure, I could never have undergone 
 so much for any other but you. 
 
 Leont. And you shall find my gratitude equal to your kindest 
 compliance. Though our friends should totally forsake us, Olivia, 
 we can draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. 
 
 Olivia, Then why should we defer our scheme of humble hap- 
 piness, when it is now in our power ? I may be the favourite of 
 your father, it is true ; but can it ever be thought, that his pre- 
 sent kindness to a supposed child, will continue to a known de- 
 ceiver ? 
 
 Leont. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his attach- 
 ments are but few, they are lasting. His own marriage was a 
 private one, as ours may be. Besides, I have sounded him already 
 at a distance, and find all his answers exactly to our wish. JS T ay 
 by an expression or two that dropp'd from him, I am induced to 
 think he knows of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed ! but that would be a happiness too great to be 
 expected. 
 
 Leont. However it be, I'm certain you have power over him ; 
 and am persuaded, if you informed him of our situation, that he 
 would be disposed to pardon it. 
 
 Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your last 
 scheme with Miss Richland, which you find has succeeded most 
 wretchedly. 
 
 Leont. And that's the best reason for trying another. 
 
 Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. 
 
 Leont. As we could wish, he comes this way. Now, my dearest 
 Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire within hearirag, to come in at 
 a proper time, either to share your danger or confirm your vic- 
 tory. (Exit.) 
 
ACT II.] THE GOOD-XATURED MAN. 103 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Creaker. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not too easily, 
 neither. It will be proper to keep up the decorums of resentment 
 a little, if it be only to impress her with an idea of my authority. 
 
 Olivia. How I tremble to approach him ! — Might I presume, 
 sir, — if I interrupt you — 
 
 Croaker, No, child ; where I have an affection, it is not a little 
 thing can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things. 
 
 Olivia. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how ill I deserve this 
 partiality. Yet there is nothing I would not do to gain it. 
 
 Croaker, And you have but too well succeeded, you little 
 hussy you. "With those endearing ways of yours, on my consci- 
 ence, I could be brought to forgive anything, unless it were a very 
 great offence indeed. 
 
 Olivia. But mine is such an offence — "When you know my 
 guilt— Yes, you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in 
 the confession. 
 
 Croaker. Why then, if it be so very great a pain, you may spare 
 yourself the trouble, for I know every syllable of the matter before 
 you begin. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed ! Then I'm undone. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, without let- 
 ting me know it, did you ? But I'm not worth being consulted, I 
 suppose, when there's to be a marriage in my own family. No, 
 I'm to have no hand in the disposal of my own children. No, 
 I'm nobody. I'm to be a mere article of family lumber ; a piece 
 of crack'd china to be stuck up in a corner. 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your authority could 
 induce us to conceal it from you. 
 
 Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ; I'm as little 
 minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck up with a pipe in 
 his mouth till there comes a thaw — It goes to my heart to vex 
 her. 
 
 Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and despaired of 
 pardon, even while I presumed to ask it. But your severity shall 
 never abate my affection, as my punishment is but justice. 
 
 Croaker. And yet you should not despair neither, Livy. We 
 ought to hope all for the best. 
 
 Olivia, And do you permit me to hope, sir ? Can I ever ex- 
 pect to be forgiven ? But hope has too long deceived me. 
 
 Croaker. "Why then, child, it shan't deceive you now, for I for- 
 give you this very moment ; I forgive you all ; and now you are 
 indeed my daughter. 
 
 Olivia. transport ! This kindness overpowers me. 
 
 Croaker. I was always against severity to our children. We 
 
104 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 have been young and giddy ourselves, and we can't expect "boys 
 and girls to be old before their time. 
 
 Olivia, What generosity ' But can you forget the dissimula- 
 tion — ■ 
 
 Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin you; but 
 where's the girl that won't dissemble for a husband ? My wife 
 and I had never been married, if we had not dissembled a little 
 beforehand. 
 
 Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put such generosity 
 to a second trial. And as for the partner of my offence and folly, 
 from his native honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, I 
 can answer for him that — 
 
 Enter Leontine. 
 
 Leont. Permit him thus to answer for himself. (Kneeling.) 
 Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude for this unmerited forgive- 
 ness. Yes, sir, this even exceeds all your former tenderness : I 
 now can boast the most indulgent of fathers. The life he gave, 
 compared to this, was but a trifling blessing. 
 
 Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that fine tragedy 
 face, and flourishing manner ? I don't know what we have to do 
 with your gratitude upon this occasion. 
 
 Leont. Plow, sir, is it possible to be silent when so much 
 obliged ? Would you refuse me the pleasure of being grateful ? 
 Of adding my thanks to my Olivia's ? Of sharing in the trans- 
 ports that you have thus occasioned ? 
 
 Croaker. Sir, we can be happy enough, without your coming 
 in to make up the party. I don't know what's the matter with 
 the boy all this day ; he has got into such a rhodomontade man- 
 ner all the morning ! 
 
 Leont. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the benefit, is it 
 not my duty to show my joy ? Is the being admitted to your 
 favour so slight an obligation ? Is the happiness of marrying my 
 Olivia so small a blessing ? 
 
 Croaker. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marrying his 
 own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses ! His own sister ! 
 
 Leont. My sister ! 
 
 Olivia. Sister ! How have I been mistaken ! (Aside.) 
 
 Leont. Some mistake in all this, I find. (Aside.) 
 
 Croaker. What does the booby mean, or has he any meaning? 
 Eh, what do you mean, you blockhead you ? 
 
 Leont. Mean, sir — why, sir — only when my sister is to be mar- 
 ried, that I have the pleasure of marrying her, sir ; that is, of 
 giving her away, sir — I have made a point of it. 
 
 Croaker, O, is that all ? Give her away. You have made a 
 
ACT III.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 105 
 
 point of it. Then you had as good make a point of first giving 
 away yourself, as Iin going to prepare the writings between you 
 and Miss Richland this very minute. "What a fuss is here about 
 nothing ! Why, what's the matter now ? I thought I had made 
 you at least as happy as you could wish. 
 
 Olivia. ! yes, sir, very happy. 
 
 Croaker. Do you foresee anything, child ? You look as if you 
 did. I think if anything was to be foreseen, I have as sharp a 
 look-out as another ; and yet I foresee nothing. (Exit.) 
 
 Leontine, Olivia. 
 
 OUvia. What can it mean ? 
 
 Leont. He knows something, and yet for my life I can't tell 
 what. 
 
 Olivia, It can't be the connection between us, I'm pretty cer- 
 tain. 
 
 Leont. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved to put it out 
 of Fortune's power to repeat our mortification. I'll haste, and 
 prepare for our journey to Scotland this very evening. My friend 
 Honeywood has promised me his advice and assistance. I'll go to 
 him, and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom : and I know 
 so much of his honest heart, that if he can't relieve our uneasi- 
 nesses, he will at least share them. (Exeunt.) 
 
 act m. 
 
 Scene— Young Honeywood's House. 
 
 Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. 
 
 Bailiff. Look-ye, sir, I have arrested as good men as you in my 
 time ; no disparagement of you neither. Men that would go forty 
 guineas on a game of cribbage. I challenge the town to show a 
 man in more genteeler practice than myself. 
 
 Honeyw. Without all question, Mr . I forget your name, 
 
 air? 
 
 Bailiff. How can you forget what you never knew ? he, he, he. 
 
 Honeyw. May I beg leave to ask your name ? 
 
 Bailiff. Yes, you may. 
 
 Honeyw. Then, pray, sir, what is your name, sir ? 
 
 Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you ; he, he, he ! A joke 
 breaks no bones, as we say among us that practise the law. 
 
106 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 Honeyw. You may have reason for keeping it a secret perhaps. 
 
 Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. I'm ashamed to 
 tell my name to no man, sir. If you can show cause, as why, upon 
 a special capus, that I should prove my name. — But, come, Timothy 
 Twitch is my name. And, now you know my name, what have 
 you to say to that ? 
 
 Honeyw. Nothing in the world, good Mr Twitch, but that I 
 have a favour to ask, that's all. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked than granted, as we 
 say among us that practise the law. I have taken an oath against 
 granting favours. Would you have me perjure myself ? 
 
 Honeyw. But my request will come recommended in so strong 
 a manner, as, I believe, you'll have no scruple. {Fulling out his 
 purse.) The thing is only this : I believe I shall be able to dis- 
 charge this trifle in two or three days at farthest; but as I would 
 not have the affair known for the world, I have thought of keep- 
 ing you, and your good friend here, about me till the debt is dis- 
 charged ; for which I shall be properly grateful. 
 
 Bailiff. Oh ! that's another maxum, and altogether within my 
 oath. For certain, if an honest man is to get anything by a thing, 
 there's no reason why all things should not be done in civility. 
 
 Honeyw. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr Twitch, and yours 
 i3 a necessary one. (Gives him money.) 
 
 Bailiff. Oh ! your honour ; I hope your honour takes nothing 
 amiss as I does, as I does nothing but my duty in so doing. I'm 
 sure no man can say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentle- 
 man, ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentleman, 1 
 have taken money not to see him for ten weeks together. 
 
 Honeyw. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr Twitch. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to see a gentle- 
 man with a tender heart. I don't know, but I think I have a 
 tender heart myself. If all that I have lost by my heart was put 
 together, it would make a — but no matter for that. 
 
 Honeyw. Don't account it lost, Mr Twitch. The ingratitude 
 of the world can never deprive us of the conscious happiness of 
 having acted with humanity ourselves. 
 
 Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better than gold. I love 
 humanity. People may say that we, in our way, have no humanity ; 
 but I'll show you my humanity this moment. There's my follower 
 here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children, a guinea or 
 two would be more to him, than twice as much to another. Now, 
 as I can't show him any humanity myself, I must beg you'll do it 
 for me. 
 
 Honeyw. I assure you, Mr Twitch, yours is a most powerful 
 recommendation. (Giving money to the Follower.) 
 
Honexw. Two of mv very goocL friends MT Twitch., 
 £.-ii T Ranigan, Eray gentlemen sit -without 
 
 ceieiuoiT 
 
 The Good n attired man f . 107. 
 
ACT III.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 107 
 
 Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know what to do 
 with your money. But to business : we are to be here as your 
 friends, I suppose. But set in case company comes. — Little Flani- 
 gan here, to be sure, has a good face ; a very good face : but then, 
 he is a little seedy, as we say among us that practise the law. Not 
 well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, that shall be remedied without delay. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant, Sir, Miss Richland is below. 
 
 Honeyw, How unlucky ! Detain her a moment. We must im- 
 prove, my good friend, little Mr Flanigan's appearance first. 
 Here, let Mr Flanigan have a suit of my clothes — quick — the 
 brown and silver — Do you hear ? 
 
 Servant. That your honour gave away to the begging gentle- 
 man that makes verses, because it was as good as new. 
 
 Honeyw. The white and gold then. 
 
 Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to sell because it was 
 good for nothing. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, the first that comes to hand then. The blue 
 fcnd gold. I believe Mr Flanigan will look best in blue. 
 
 {Exit Flanigan.) 
 
 Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in any- 
 thing. Ah, if your honour knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, 
 you'd be perfectly in love with him. There's not a prettier scout 
 in the four counties after a shy-cock than he. Scents like a hound ; 
 sticks like a weasel. He was master of the ceremonies to the black 
 queen of Morocco when I took him to follow me. {Re-enter Flani- 
 gan.) Heh, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I have 
 a suit from the same place for myself. 
 
 Honeyw. "Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr Twitch, 
 I beg you'll give your friend directions not to speak. As for your- 
 self, I know you will say nothing without being directed. 
 
 Bailiff. Never you fear me, I'll show the lady that I have 
 something to say for myself as well as another. One man has 
 one way of talking, and another man has another, that's all the 
 difference between them. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland and her Maid. 
 
 Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this visit. But you 
 know I'm yet to thank you for choosing my little library. 
 
 Honeyw. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary, as it was I that 
 was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very 
 good friends, Mr Twitch and Mr Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, 
 sit without ceremony. 
 
108 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men be ? I fear it 13 
 as I was informed. It must be so. (Aside.) 
 
 Bailiff (after a pause.) Pretty weather, very pretty weather, for 
 the time of the year, madam. 
 
 Follower, Very good circuit weather in the country. 
 
 Honey w. You officers are generally favourites among the ladies. 
 My friends, madam, have been upon very disagreeable duty, I a.«- 
 sure you. The fair should, in some measure, recompense the 
 toils of the brave. 
 
 Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The 
 gentlemen are in the marine service, I presume, sir ? 
 
 Honeyw. "Why, madam, they do — occasionally serve in the 
 Fleet, madam. A dangerous service. 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own, it has often surprised me, 
 that, while we have had so many instances of bravery there, we 
 have had so few of wit at home to praise it. 
 
 Honeyw. I grant, madam, that our poets have not written as 
 our soldiers have fought ; but, they have done all they could, and 
 Kawke or Amherst could do no more. 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled . 
 by a dull writer. 
 
 Honeyw. We should not be so severe against dull writers, madam. 
 It is ten to one, but the dullest writer exceeds the most rigid 
 French critic who presumes to despise him. 
 
 Follower. the French, the parle vous, and all that be- 
 longs to them. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir ! 
 
 Honeyw. Ha, ha, ha, honest Mr Flanigan. A true English 
 officer, madam ; he's not contented with beating the French, but 
 he will scold them too. 
 
 Miss. Rich. Yet, Mr Honeywood, this does not convince me 
 but that severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first adopt- 
 ing the severity of French taste, that has brought them in turn 
 to taste us. 
 
 Bailiff. Taste us ! madam, they devour us. Give Monseers but 
 a taste, and they come in for a bellyful. 
 
 Miss Rich. Very extraordinary this. 
 
 Follower. But very true. What makes the bread rising ? the 
 parle vous that devour us. What makes the mutton fivepence 
 a pound ? the parle vous that eat it up. What makes the beer 
 threepence halfpenny a pot — 
 
 Honeyw, Ah ! the vulgar rogues, all will be out (aside). Right, 
 gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and quite to the purpose. 
 They draw a parallel, madam, between the mental taste and 
 that of our senses. We are injured as much by French severity 
 
ACT III.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 109 
 
 in the one, as by Trench rapacity in the other. That's their 
 meaning. 
 
 Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of the parallel, yet, 111 
 own, that we should sometimes pardon books, as we do our friends, 
 that have now and then agreeable absurdities to recommend them. 
 
 Bailiff. That's all my eye. The king only can pardon, as the 
 law says ; for set in case 
 
 Honeyw. I'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see the whole drift 
 of your argument. Yes, certainly our presuming to pardon any 
 work, is arrogating the power that belongs to another. If all have 
 power to condemn, what writer can be free ? 
 
 Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can set him 
 free at any time. For set in case — 
 
 Honeyw. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. If, madam, as 
 my friend observes, our laws are so careful of a gentleman's person, 
 sure we ought to be equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. 
 
 Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabbed, you know — 
 
 Honeyw. Mr Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you could not 
 improve the last observation. For my own part, I think it con- 
 clusive. 
 
 Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap — 
 
 Honeyw. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instance to be positive. 
 For where is the necessity of censuring works without genius, 
 which must shortly sink of themselves : what is it, but aiming our 
 unnecessary blow against a victim already under the hands of 
 justice ! 
 
 Bailiff. Justice ! O, by the elevens, if you talk about justice, 1 
 think I am at home there ; for, in a course of law — 
 
 Honeyw. My dear Mr Twitch, I discern what you'd be at per- 
 fectly, and I believe the lady must be sensible of the art with 
 which it is introduced. I suppose you perceive the meaning, 
 madam, of his course of law ? 
 
 Miss Rich. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive only that you 
 answer one gentleman before he has finished, and the other before 
 he has well begun. 
 
 Bailiff. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make the 
 matter out. This here question is about severity and justice, and 
 pardon, and the like of they. Now, to explain the thing — 
 
 Honeyw, ! your explanations. {Aside.) 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Mr Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak with you 
 upon earnest business. 
 
 Honeyw. That's lucky (aside). Dear madam, you'll excuse me, 
 and my good friends, here, for a few minutes. There are books, 
 
no goldsmith's plays. 
 
 madam, to amuse you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no 
 ceremony with such friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, 
 if I must ; but I know your natural politeness. 
 
 Bailiff. Before and behind, you know. 
 
 Follower. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and behind. 
 
 Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower. 
 
 Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet ? 
 
 Garnet. Mean, madam ? why, what should it mean, but what 
 Mr Lofty sent you here to see ? These people he calls officers, are 
 officers sure enough : sheriff's officers ; bailiffs, madam. 
 
 Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his perplexities 
 are far from giving me pleasure, yet I own there's something very 
 ridiculous in them, and a just punishment for his dissimulation. 
 
 Garnet. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, that the 
 lawyer you just employed to pay his debts and set him free, has 
 not done it by this time. He ought at least to have been here be- 
 fore now. But lawyers are always more ready to get a man into 
 troubles, than out of them. 
 
 Enter Sir William. 
 
 Sir Will. For Miss Richland to undertake setting him free, I 
 own, was quite unexpected. It has totally unhinged my schemes 
 to reclaim him. Yet, it gives me pleasure to find, that, among a 
 number of worthless friendships, he ha3 made one acquisition of 
 real value ; for there must be some softer passion on her side that 
 prompts this generosity. Ha ! here before me : I'll endeavour to 
 sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person that have had 
 some demands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you'll ex- 
 cuse me, if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself. 
 
 Miss Rich. The precaution was very unnecessary, sir. I sup- 
 pose your wants were only such as my agent had power to satisfy. 
 
 Sir Will. Partly, madam. But I wa3 also willing you should 
 be fully apprised of the character of the gentleman you intended 
 to serve. 
 
 Miss Rich. It must come, sir, with a very ill grace from you, 
 To censure it, after what you have done, would look like malice ; 
 and to speak favourably of a character you have oppressed, would 
 be impeaching your own. And sure, his tenderness, his humanity, 
 his universal friendship, may atone for many faults. 
 
 Sir Will. That friendship, madam, which is exerted in too wide 
 a sphere, becomes totally useless. Our bounty, like a drop of 
 water, disappears when diffused too widely. They who pretend 
 most to this universal benevolence, are either deceivers, or dupes 
 —men who desire to cover their private ill-nature by a pretended 
 
ACT III.J THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Ill 
 
 regard for all ; or men who, reasoning themselves into false feel- 
 ings, are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than of useful virtues. 
 
 Miss Rich. I am surprised, sir, to hear one who has probably 
 been a gainer by the folly of others, so severe in his censure of it. 
 
 Sir Will. Whatever I may have gained by folly, madam, you 
 see I am willing to prevent your losing by it. 
 
 Miss Rich. Your cares for me, sir, are unnecessary. I always 
 suspect those services which are denied where they are wanted, 
 and offered, perhaps, in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions 
 have been given, and I insist upon their being complied with. 
 
 Sir Will. Thou amiable woman, I can no longer contain the 
 expressions of my gratitude — my pleasure. You see before you 
 one who has been equally careful of his interest : one who has for 
 Borne time been a concealed spectator of his follies, and only 
 punished, in hopes to reclaim them — His uncle. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir William Honeywood ! You amaze me. How 
 shall I conceal my confusion ? I fear, sir, you'll think I have been 
 too forward in my services. 1 confess I 
 
 Sir Will. Don't make any apologies, madam. I only find my- 
 self unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying 
 my interest of late to serve you. Having learnt, madam, that you 
 had some demands upon government, I have, though unasked, 
 oeen your solicitor there. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, I am infinitely obliged to your intentions ; but 
 my guardian has employed another gentleman, who assures him 
 of success. 
 
 Sir Will. Who, the important little man that visits here ! 
 Trust me, madam, he's quite contemptible among men in power, 
 and utterly unable to serve you. Mr Lofty's promises are much 
 better known to people of fashion, than his person, I assure you. 
 
 Miss Rich. How have we been deceived ! As sure as can be, 
 here he comes. 
 
 Sir Will. Does he ? Remember I'm to continue unknown. My 
 return to England has not as yet been made public. With what 
 impudence he enters ! 
 
 Enter Lofty. 
 
 Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off, I'll visit to 
 his grace's in a chair. Miss Richland here before me ! Punctual, 
 as usual, to the calls of humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things 
 of this kind should happen, especially to a man I have shown 
 everywhere, and carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance. 
 
 Miss Rich. I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfor- 
 tunes of others your own. 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man like me do ! 
 
112 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 One man can't do everything ; and then I do so much in this way 
 every day. Let me see, something considerable might be done for 
 him by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried the list. I'll 
 undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half 
 the lower house, at my own peril. 
 
 Sir Will, And after all, it is more than probable, sir, he might 
 reject the offer of such powerful patronage. 
 
 Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do ? You know I never make 
 promises. In truth, I once or twice tried to do something with him 
 in the way of business ; but as I often told his uncle, Sir "William 
 Honeywood, the man was utterly impracticable. 
 
 Sir Will. His uncle ! Then that gentleman, I suppose, is a 
 particular friend of yours. 
 
 Lofty. Meaning me, sir ? — Yes, madam, as I often said, My 
 dear Sir William, you are sensible I would do anything as far as 
 my poor interest goes, to serve your family ; but what can be done ? 
 there's no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities. 
 
 Miss Rich. I have heard of Sir William Honeywood ; he's 
 abroad in employment ; he confided in your judgment, I suppose? 
 
 Lofty. "Why, yes, madam ; I believe Sir "William had some 
 reason to confide in my judgment ; one little reason, perhaps. 
 
 Miss Rich. Pray, sir, what was it ? 
 
 Lofty. Why, madam — but let it go no further — It was I pro- 
 cured him his place. 
 
 Sir Will. Did you, sir? 
 
 Lofty. Either you or I, sir. 
 
 Miss Rich. This, Mr Lofty, was very kind, indeed. 
 
 Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some amusing 
 qualities ; no man was fitter to be toast-master to a club, or had a 
 better head. 
 
 Miss Rich. A better head. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was as dull as a choice 
 spirit ; but hang it, he was grateful, very grateful ; and gratitude 
 hides a multitude of faults. 
 
 Sir Will. He might have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty 
 considerable, I'm told. 
 
 Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle, among us men of business. The 
 truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater. 
 
 Sir WiU. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir ? I'm told he's 
 much about my size and figure, sir. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; but then he 
 wanted a something — a consequence of form — a kind of a — I 
 believe the lady perceives my meaning. 
 
 Miss Rich. O perfectly ; you courtiers can do anything, I see 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere exchange ; we 
 
ACT III.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 113 
 
 do greater things for one another every day. Why, as thus, now 
 let me suppose you the first lord of the treasury ; you have an 
 employment in you that I want ; I have a place in me that you 
 want ; do me here, do you there : interest of both sides, few words, 
 fiat, done and done, and it's over. 
 
 Sir Will. A thought strikes me {aside). Now you mention Sir 
 William Honeywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance 
 of yours, you'll be glad to hear he's arrived from Italy ; I had it 
 from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may 
 depend on my information. 
 
 Lofty, If I had known that, we should not have been quite so 
 well acquainted (aside). 
 
 Sir Will. He is certainly returned ; and as this gentleman is 
 a friend of yours, he can be of signal service to us, by introducing 
 me to him ; there are some papers relative to your affairs that 
 require despatch and his inspection. 
 
 Miss Rich. This gentleman, Mr Lofty, is a person employed in 
 my affairs : I know you'll serve us. 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William 
 shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it. 
 
 Sir Will. That would be quite unnecessary. 
 
 Lofty. Well, we must introduce you then. Call upon ms — let 
 me see — ay, in two days. 
 
 Sir Will. Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever. 
 
 Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. But , that's 
 
 unfortunate ; my lord Grig's Pensacola business comes on 
 
 this very hour, and I'm engaged to attend — another time — 
 
 Sir Will. A short letter to Sir William will do. 
 
 Lofty. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very 
 bad way of going to work ; face to face, that's my way. 
 
 Sir Will. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds, sir, do you pretend to direct me ? direct me in 
 the business of office ? Do you know me, sir ? who ami? 
 
 Miss Rich. Dear Mr Lofty, this request is not so much his as 
 mine ; if my commands — but you despise my power. 
 
 Lofty. Delicate creature ! ytfur commands could even control 
 a debate at midnight ; to a power so constitutional, I am all 
 obedience and tranquillity. He shall have a letter ; where is my 
 secretary ? Dubardieu ! And yet, I protest, I don't like this way 
 of doing business. I think if I spoke first to Sir William— But 
 you will have it so. (Exit with Miss Rich.) 
 
 Sir William, alone. 
 
 Sir Will Ha, ha, ha ! This too is one of my nephew's hopeful 
 associates. O vanity, thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts 
 
114 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 to exalt serve but to sink us ! thy false colourings, like those 
 employed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend that bloom which 
 they contribute to destroy. I'm not displeased at this interview; 
 exposing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it deserves, may 
 be of use to my design ; at least, if he can reflect, it will be of use 
 to himself. 
 
 Enter Jarvis. 
 
 Sir WiU. How now, Jarvis, where's your master my nephew ? 
 
 Jarvis. At his wit's end, I believe ; he's scarce gotten out of 
 one scrape, but he's running his head into another. 
 Sir Will. How so ? 
 
 Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of the bailiffs, and 
 now he's again engaging tooth and nail in assisting old Croaker's 
 son to patch up a clandestine match with the young lady that 
 passes in the house for his sister. 
 
 Sir Will. Ever busy to serve others. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, any body but himself. The young couple, it seems, 
 are jusfc setting out for Scotland, and he supplies them with money 
 for the journey. 
 
 Sir WiU. Money ! how is he able to supply others, who has 
 scarce any for himself? 
 
 Jarvis. Why, there it is ; he has no money, that's true ; but 
 then, as he never said No to any request in his life, he has given 
 them a bill drawn by a friend of his upon a merchant in the city, 
 which I am to get changed ; for you must know that I am to go 
 with them to Scotland myself. 
 
 Sir Will. How ! 
 
 Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to take a 
 different road from his mistress, as he is to call upon an uncle of 
 his that lives out of the way, in order to prepare a place for their 
 reception when they return ; so they have borrowed me from my 
 master, as the properest person to attend the young lady down. 
 
 Sir Will. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant journey 
 Jarvis. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues on't. 
 
 Sir WiU. Well, it may be shorter, and less fatiguing, than you 
 imagine. I know but too much of the young lady's family and 
 connexions, whom I have seen abroad. I have also discovered 
 that Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thoughtless nephew ; 
 and will endeavour, though, I fear, in vain, to establish that con- 
 nexion. But, come, the letter I wait for must be almost finished ; 
 i ? U let you further into my intentions in the next room. {Exeunt.) 
 
ACT IV.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 11& 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene— Croaker's House. 
 
 Lofty. Well, sure the in me of late, for running my head 
 
 into such denies, as nothing but a genius like my own could draw 
 me from. I was formerly contented to husband out my places and 
 pensions with some degree of frugality ; but of late I have given 
 away the whole Court Register in less time than they could print 
 the title-page ; yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to come at a 
 fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand for nothing ! Ha ! 
 Honeywood here before me. Could Miss Richland have set him 
 at liberty ? 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 
 Mr Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad again. I find my 
 concurrence was not necessary in your unfortunate affairs. I had 
 put things in a train to do your business ; but it is not for me to 
 say what I intended doing. 
 
 Honeyw. It was unfortunate indeed, sir. But what adds to 
 my uneasiness is, that while you seem to be acquainted with my 
 misfortune, I myself continue still a stranger to my benefactor. 
 
 Lofty. How ! not know the friend that served you ? 
 
 Honeyw. Can't guess at the person. 
 
 Lofty. Inquire. 
 
 Honeyw. I have, but all I can learn is, that he chooses to 
 remain concealed, and that all inquiry must be fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Must be fruitless ? 
 
 Honeyw. Absolutely fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Sure of that ? 
 
 Honeyw, Very sure. 
 
 Lofty. Then you shall never know it from me. 
 
 Honeyw. How, sir ! 
 
 Lofty. I suppose now, Mr Honeywood, you think my rent-roll 
 very considerable, and that I have vast sums of money to throw 
 away ; I know you do. The world, to be sure, says such things 
 of me. 
 
 Honeyw. The world, by what I learn, is no stranger to your 
 generosity. But where does this tend ? 
 
 Lofty, To nothing ; nothing in the world. The town, to be 
 sure, when it makes such a thing as me the subject of conversa- 
 tion, has asserted, that I never yet patronized a man of merit. 
 
116 
 
 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 Honeyw. I have heard instances to the contrary ; even from 
 yourself. 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Honeywood, and there are instances to the con- 
 trary that you shall never hear from myself. 
 
 Honey w. Ha, dear sir, permit me to ask you hut one question. 
 
 Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions : I say, sir, ask me no ques- 
 tions ; 111 not answer them. 
 
 Honeyw. I will ask no further. My friend, my benefactor, it 
 is, it must be here, that I am indebted for freedom, for honour. 
 Yes, thou worthiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it, 
 but was afraid to return thanks ; which, if undeserved, might 
 seem reproaches. 
 
 Lofty. I protest I don't understand all this, Mr Honeywood. 
 You treat me very cavalierly, I do assure you, sir. — Blood, sir, 
 can't a man be permitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings 
 without all this parade ? 
 
 Honeyw. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds 
 to your honour. Your looks, your air, your manner, all confess it. 
 
 Lofty. Confess it, sir ? Torture itself, sir, shall never bring 
 me to confess it. Mr Honeywood, I have admitted you upon 
 terms of friendship. Don't let us fall out ; make me happy, and 
 let this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation ; you 
 know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always loved 
 to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this may make no kind 
 of distance between us. Come, come, you and I must be more 
 familiar — indeed we must. 
 
 Honeyw. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such friendship ? Is 
 there any way ? Thou best of men, can I ever return the obliga- 
 tion? 
 
 Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle. But I see your heart is 
 labouring to be grateful. You shall be grateful. It would be 
 cruel to disappoint you. 
 
 Honeyw. How ! teach me the manner. Is there any way ? 
 
 Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yes, my friend, you 
 shall know it— I'm in love. 
 
 Honeyw. And can I assist you ? 
 
 Lofty. Nobody so well. . 
 
 Honeyw. In what manner ? I'm all impatience. 
 
 Lofty. You shall make love for me. 
 
 Honeyw. And to whom shall I speak in your favour ? 
 
 Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great interest, I assure 
 you — Miss Richland. 
 
 Honeyw. Miss Richland ! 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Miss' Richland. She has struck the blow up to 
 the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. 
 
A.CT IV.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 117 
 
 Honeyw. Was ever anything more unfortunate ? It is too 
 much to be endured. 
 
 Lofty. Unfortunate indeed ! and yet I can endure it, till you 
 have opened the affair to her for me. Between ourselves, I think 
 she likes me : I'm not apt to boast, but I think she does. 
 
 Honeyw. Indeed ! But do you know the person you apply to ? 
 
 Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend, and mine : that's 
 enough. To you, therefore, I commit the success of my passion. 
 I'll say no more, let friendship do the rest. I have only to add, 
 that if at any time my little interest can be of service — but, hang 
 it, I'll make no promises — you know my interest is yours at any 
 time. No apologies, my friend ; 111 not be answered ; it shall 
 be so. (Exit.) 
 
 Honeyw. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! He little thinks 
 that I love her too ; and with such an ardent passion ! — But then 
 it was ever but a vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my perse- 
 cution ! What shall I do ? Love, friendship, a hopeless passion, a 
 deserving friend ! Love, that has been my tormentor ; a friend, 
 that has, perhaps, distressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. 
 Yes, I will discard the fondling hope from my bosom, and exert all 
 my influence in his favour. And yet to see her in the possession 
 of another ! — Insupportable. But then to betray a generous, trust- 
 ing friend ! — Worse, worse. Yes, I'm resolved. Let me but be the 
 instrument of their happiness, and then quit a country where I 
 must for ever despair of finding my own. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a milliner's box. 
 
 Olivia. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. No news of 
 Jarvis yet ? I believe the old peevish creature delays purely to 
 vex me. 
 
 Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him say, a little 
 snubbing before marriage would teach you to bear it the better 
 afterwards. 
 
 Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to get a 
 bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! 
 
 Garnet. I'll lay my life Mr Leontine, that had twice as much 
 to do, is setting off by this time from his inn, and here you are 
 left behind. 
 
 Olivia. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, however. Are 
 you sure you have omitted nothing, Garnet ? 
 
 Garnet. Not a stick, madam — all's here. Yet I wish you could 
 take the white and silver to be married in. It's the worst luck in 
 the world, in anything but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of our 
 town, that was married in red, and, as sure as eggs is eggs, the 
 bridegroom and she had a miff before morning. 
 
118 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 Olivia, No matter — I'm all impatience till we are out ef the 
 house. 
 
 Garnet. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the wedding- 
 ring ! — The sweet little thing — I don't think it would go on my 
 little finger. And what if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in 
 case of necessity, madam ? But here's Jarvis. 
 
 Enter Jarvis. 
 
 Olivia. O, Jarvis, are you come at last ? We have "been ready 
 this half hour. Now let's be going — Let us fly ! 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no going to Scotland 
 this bout, I fancy. 
 
 Olivia. How ! What's the matter ? 
 
 Jarvis. Money, money is the matter, madam. We have got 
 no money. What do you send me on your fool's errand for ? My 
 master's bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs 
 Garnet may pin up her hair with it. 
 
 Olivia. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve us so ! Wnat 
 shall we do ? Can't we go without it ? 
 
 Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scotland wit out 
 
 money ! , how some people understand geography ! We 
 
 might as well set sail for Patagonia upon a cork jacket. 
 
 Olivia. Such a disappointment ! What a base insincere man 
 was your master, to serve us in this manner ! Is this his good- 
 nature ? 
 
 Jarvis. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam : I won't 
 bear to hear any body talk ill of him but myself. 
 
 Garnet. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, you need n be 
 under any uneasiness : I saw Mr Leontine receive forty gu eas 
 from his father just before he set out, and he can't yet have left 
 the inn. A short letter will reach him there. 
 
 Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet ; 111 write immedia tely. 
 How's this ? Bless me, my hand trembles so I can't write a word. 
 Do you write, Garnet ; and, upon second thought, it will be after 
 from you. 
 
 Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but poorly : I ne 
 was cute at my laming. But I'll do what I can to pie ase you. 
 Let me see. All out of my own head, I suppose ? 
 
 Olivia. Whatever you please. 
 
 Garnet (writing). Muster Croaker— Twenty guineas, madam ? 
 
 Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. 
 
 Garnet. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. Expedition- 
 will be blown up — All of a flame — Quick, despatch — Cupid, the 
 little God of Love — I conclude it, madam, with Cupid ; I love to 
 eee a love-letter end like poetry. 
 
ACT IV.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 13 9 
 
 Olivia. Well, well, what you please, anything. But how shall 
 we send it ? I can trust none of the servants of this family. 
 
 Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr Honeywood's butler is in the next 
 room ; he's a dear, sweet man ; he'll do anything for me. 
 
 Jarvis. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some blunder. 
 He's drunk and sober ten times a day. 
 
 Olivia. No matter. Fly, Garnet ; any body we can trust will 
 do. (Exit Garnet.) "Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing 
 more to interrupt us. You may take up the things, and carry 
 them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ? 
 
 Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to be 
 married, think things can never be done too fast : but we that are 
 old, and know what we are about, must elope methodically, madam. 
 
 Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done over 
 again — 
 
 Jarvis. My life for it, you would do them ten times over. 
 
 Olivia. Why will you talk so ? If you knew how unhappy 
 they make me — 
 
 Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just as unhappy 
 when I was going to be married myself. I'll tell you a story about 
 that — 
 
 Olivia. A story ! when I'm all impatience to be away. Was 
 there ever such a dilatory creature ? — 
 
 Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why we will march : 
 that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have still forgot one thing we 
 should never travel without — a case of good razors, and a box of 
 shaving-powder. But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty well 
 shaved by the way. (Going.) 
 
 Enter Garnet. 
 
 Garnet. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr Jarvis, you said 
 right enough. As sure as death, Mr Honeywood's rogue of a 
 drunken butler dropped the letter before he went ten yards from 
 the door. There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this 
 moment reading it to himself in the hall. 
 
 Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 
 
 Garnet. No, madam, don't be uneasy, he can make neither 
 head nor tail of it. To be sure, he looks as if he was broke loose 
 from Bedlam about it, but he can't find what it means for all 
 that. , he is coming this way all in the horrors ! 
 
 Olivia. Then let us leave the house this instant, for fear he 
 should ask farther questions. In the mean time, Garnet, do you 
 write and send off just such another. (Exeunt.) 
 
120 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 Croaker. Death and destruction ! Are all the horrors of air, 
 fire, and water, to be levelled only at me ? Am I only to be 
 singled out for gunpowder-plots, combustibles, and conflagration ? 
 Here it is — An incendiary letter dropped at my door. ' To 
 Muster Croaker, these, with speed.' Ay, ay, plain enough the 
 direction : all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp 
 
 as . ' With speed !' O, confound your speed. But let me 
 
 read it once more. (Reads) ' Muster Croakar as sone as yoew 
 see this leve twenty gunnes at the bar of the Talboot tell caled 
 for or yowe and yower experetion will be al blown up.' Ah, but 
 too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown up ! 
 
 murderous dog ! All blown up ! ! what have I and my 
 
 poor family done, to be all blown up ! (Reads.) *' Our pockets 
 are low, and money we must have.' Ay, there's the reason ; 
 they'll blow us up, because they have got low pockets. (Reads.) 
 ' It is but a short time you have to consider ; for if this takes 
 wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame.' Inhuman mon- 
 sters ! blow us up, and then burn us. The earthquake at Lisbon 
 was but a bonfire to it. (Reads.) ' Make quick dispatch, and so 
 no more at present. But may Cupid, the little God of Love, go 
 with you wherever you go.' The little God of Love ! Cupid, the 
 
 little God of Love go with me ! Go you and your little Cupid 
 
 together ; I'm so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, 
 or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, 
 blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are prepar- 
 ing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder ! We shall be all 
 burnt in our beds ; we shall be all burnt in our beds. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, what's the matter ? 
 
 Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown up in 
 our beds before morning. 
 
 Miss Rich. I hope not, sir. 
 
 Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, when I have 
 a certificate of it here in my hand ? Will nothing alarm my fa- 
 mily ? Sleeping and eating, sleeping and eating, is the only work 
 from morning till night in my house. My insensible crew could 
 sleep, though rocked by an earthquake ; and fry beaf-steaks at a 
 volcano. 
 
 Miss Rich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so often already, 
 we have nothing but earthquakes, famines, plagues, and mad 
 dogs, from year's end to year's end. You remember, sir, it is not 
 above a month ago you assured us of a conspiracy among the 
 
ACT IV.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 121 
 
 bakers, to poison us in our bread ; and so kept the whole family 
 a week upon potatoes. 
 
 Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do 
 I stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the 
 enemy without ? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look 
 into the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles below ; and 
 above, in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the 
 windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn 
 cut in the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. 
 
 {Exit,) 
 
 Miss Richland alone. 
 
 Miss Rich. What can he mean by all this ! Yet, why should I 
 inquire, when he alarms us in this manner almost every day ? But 
 Honeywood has desired an interview with me in private. What 
 can he mean ? or, rather, what means this palpitation at his ap- 
 proach ? It is the first time he ever showed anything in his con- 
 duct that seemed particular. Sure he cannot mean to but he's 
 
 here. 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 
 Honeyw. I presumed to solicit this interview, madam, before 
 I left town, to be permitted — 
 
 Miss Rich. Indeed ! Leaving town, sir ? — 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, madam ; perhaps the kingdom. I have presumed, 
 I say, to desire the favour of this interview — in order to dis- 
 close something which our long friendship prompts. And yet my 
 fears — 
 
 Miss Rich. His fears ! what are his fears to mine ? {Aside) — 
 We have indeed been long acquainted, sir ; very long. If I re- 
 member, our first meeting was at the French ambassador's. — Do 
 you recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my com- 
 plexion there ? 
 
 Honeyw. Perfectly, madam ; I presumed to reprove you for 
 painting : but your warmer blushes soon convinced the company, 
 that the colouring was all from nature. 
 
 Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it, in your good-natured 
 way, to make me pay a compliment to myself. In the same man- 
 ner you danced that night with the most awkward woman in 
 company, because you saw nobody else would take her out. 
 
 Honeyw. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night, by dancing 
 with the finest woman in company, whom every body wished to 
 take out. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I fear your judg- 
 ment has since corrected the errors of a first impressioD. W 
 
122 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 generally show to most advantage at first. Our sex are like 
 poor tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen at the 
 windows. 
 
 Honeyw. The first impression, madam, did indeed deceive me. 
 I expected to find a woman with all the faults of conscious flat- 
 tered beauty. I expected to find her vain and insolent. But 
 every day has since taught me that it is possible to possess sense 
 without pride, and beauty without affectation. 
 
 Miss Rich. This, sir, is a style very unusual with Mr Honey- 
 wood ; and I should be glad to know why he thus attempts to in- 
 crease that vanity, which his own lesson hath taught me to despise. 
 Honeyw. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our long friendship, 
 I presumed I might have some right to offer, without offence, 
 what you may refuse without offending. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir! I beg you'd reflect; though, I fear, I shall 
 scarce have any power to refuse a request of yours ; yet you may 
 be precipitate : consider, sir. 
 
 Honeyw. I own my rashness ; but, as I plead the cause of 
 friendship, of one who loves — Don't be alarmed, madam— Who 
 loves you with the most ardent passion ; whose whole happiness 
 is placed in you — 
 
 Miss Rich. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom you mean, by 
 this description of him. 
 
 Honeyw. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him out; 
 though he should be too humble himself to urge his pretensions, 
 or you too modest to understand them. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well ; it would be affectation any longer to pretend 
 ignorance ; and, I will own, sir, I have long been prejudiced in 
 his favour. It was but natural to wish to make his heart mine, 
 as he seemed himself ignorant of its value. 
 
 Honeyw. I see she always loved him (aside). I find, madam, 
 you're already sensible of his worth, his passion. How happy is 
 my friend, to be the favourite of one with such sense to distinguish 
 merit, and such beauty to reward it ! 
 Miss Rich. Your friend ! sir. What friend ? 
 Honeyw. My best friend — My friend Mr Lofty, madam. 
 Miss Rich. He, sir ! 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest 
 wishes might have formed him. And to his other qualities, he 
 adds that of the most passionate regard for you. 
 Miss Rich. Amazement ! — No more of this, I beg you, sir. 
 Honeyw, I see your confusion, madam, and know how to in- 
 terpret it. And since I so plainly read the language of your 
 heart, shall I make my friend happy by communicating your 
 entiments ? 
 
ACT IV.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 123 
 
 Miss Rich, By no means. 
 
 Honeyw, Excuse me ; I must ; I know you desire it. 
 
 Miss Rich, Mr Honeywood, let me tell you, that yon wrong my 
 sentiments and yourself. When I first applied to your friendship, 
 I expected advice and assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is 
 vain to expect happiness from him who has been so bad an eco- 
 nomist of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship, who 
 ceases to be a friend to himself. (Eocit) 
 
 Honeyw, How is this ? she has confessed she loved him, and 
 yet she seemed to part in displeasure. Can I have done anything 
 to reproach myself with ? No, I believe not ; yet, after all, these 
 things should not be done by a third person ; I should have spared 
 her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. 
 
 Enter Croaker, with the letter in his hand, and Mrs Croaker. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, Ha, ha, ha ! And so, my dear, it's your supreme 
 wish that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion ? ha, ha ! 
 
 Croaker (mimicking). Ha, ha, ha ! and so, my dear, it's your 
 supreme pleasure to give me no better consolation ? 
 
 Mrs Croaker, Positively, my dear, what is this incendiary stuff 
 and trumpery to me ? Our house may travel through the air 
 like the house of Loretto, for aught I care, if I'm to be miserable 
 in it. 
 
 Croaker, Would to heaven it were converted into a house of 
 correction for your benefit ! Have we not everything to alarm us ? 
 Perhaps this very moment the tragedy is beginning. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of 
 the curtain, or give them the money they want, and have done 
 with them. 
 
 Croaker, Give them my money !— And pray, what right have 
 they to my money ? 
 
 Mrs Croaker, And pray, what right then have you to my good 
 humour? 
 
 Croaker, And so your good humour advises me to part with my 
 money ? Why then, to tell your good humour a piece of my mind, 
 I'd sooner part with my wife. Here's Mr Honeywood, see what 
 he'll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this incendiary let- 
 ter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror ; and yet 
 lovey here can read it — can read it, and laugh. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr Honeywood. 
 
 Croaker, If he does, 111 suffer to be hanged the next minute 
 in the rogue's place, that's all. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, Speak, Mr Honeywood ; is there anything more 
 foolish than my husband's fright upon this occasion ? 
 
 Honeyw. It would not become me to decide, madam ; but doubt- 
 
124 
 
 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 less, the greatness of his terrors now, will but invite them to re- 
 new their villany another time, 
 
 Mrs Croaker. I told you, he'd he of my opinion. 
 
 Croaker, How, sir ! do you maintain that I should lie down 
 under such an injury, and show, neither by my tears, nor com- 
 plaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me ? 
 
 Honeyw. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the loudest com- 
 plaints, if you desire redress. The surest way to have redress, is 
 to be earnest in the pursuit of it. 
 
 Croaker* Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? 
 
 Mrs Croaker, But don't you think that laughing off our fears 
 is the best way ? 
 
 Honeyw, What is the best, madam, few can say ; but I'll 
 maintain it to be a very wise way. 
 
 Croaker, But we're talking of the best. Surely the best way 
 is to face the enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us 
 in our very bedchamber. 
 
 Honeyw, Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's a very wise way 
 too. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, But can anything be more absurd, than to 
 double our distresses by our apprehensions, and put it in the 
 power of every low fellow, that can scrawl ten words of wretched 
 spelling, to torment us ? 
 
 Honeyw. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 
 
 Croaker, How ! would it not be more absurd to despise the 
 rattle till we are bit by the snake ? 
 
 Honeyw. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 
 
 Croaker, Then you are of my opinion ? 
 
 Honeyw. Entirely. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, And you reject mine ? 
 
 Honeyw. forbid, madam. No, sure no reasoning can 
 
 be more just than yours. We ought certainly to despise malice, 
 if we cannot oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal 
 to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, Oh ! then you think I'm quite right. 
 
 Honeyw, Perfectly right. 
 
 Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't both be right. I 
 ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my 
 head, or my hat must be off. 
 
 Mrs Croaker, Certainly, in two opposite opinions, if one be per- 
 fectly reasonable, the other can't be perfectly right. 
 
 Honeyw, And why may not both be right, madam; Mr Croaker 
 in earnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the event with 
 good humour ? Pray let me see the letter again. I have it. 
 This letter requires twenty guineas to be. left at the bar of the 
 
ACT V.] THE GOOD-NATURED MaN. 125 
 
 Talbot inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, what if you and 
 I, sir, go there ; and when the writer comes to be paid his ex- 
 pected booty, seize him ? 
 
 Croaker. My dear friend, it's the very thing ; the very thing, 
 While I walk by the door, you shall plant yourself in ambush 
 near the bar ; burst out upon the miscreant like a masqued bat- 
 tery ; extort a confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise. 
 
 Honeyw. Yes ; but I would not choose to exercise too much 
 severity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes generally punish 
 themselves. 
 
 Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I suppose 1 
 (Ironically.) 
 
 Honeyw. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own benevolence. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, I do ; but remember that universal benevolence 
 is the first law of nature. 
 
 {Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs Croakee.) 
 
 Croaker. Yes; and my universal benevolence will hang the 
 dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene— An Inn. 
 
 Enter OLIVIA, JARVIS. 
 
 Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. Now, L 
 the post-chaise were ready — 
 
 Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats : and, as they 
 are not going to be married, they choose to take their own time. 
 
 Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives to my impa- 
 tience. 
 
 Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must take their 
 own time ; besides, you don't consider, we have got no answer from 
 our fellow-traveller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr Leontine, 
 we have only one way left us. 
 
 Olivia. What way ? 
 
 Jarvis. The way home again. 
 
 Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and nothing 
 shall induce me to break it. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay ; resolutions are well kept when they jump with 
 inclination. However, 111 go hasten things without. And I'll 
 
126 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 call too at the bar to see if anything should be left for us there. 
 Don't be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the 
 faster, I promise you. (Exit Jarvis.) 
 
 Enter Landlady. 
 
 Landlady. What ! Solomon ; why don't you move ? Pipes 
 and tobacco for the Lamb there. — Will nobody answer ? To the 
 Dolphin ; quick. The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. 
 Did your ladyship call, madam ? 
 
 Olivia. No, madam. 
 
 Landlady. I find, as you're for Scotland, madam — But that's 
 no business of mine ; married, or not married, I ask no questions. 
 To be sure, we had a sweet little couple set off from this two days 
 ago for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be 
 sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth from a full pot. 
 And the young lady so bashful, it was near half an hour before 
 we could get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. 
 
 Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going to be married, 
 I assure you. 
 
 Landlady. May be not. That's no business of mine ; for cer- 
 tain, Scotch marriages seldom turn out well. There was, of my 
 own knowledge, Miss Macfag, that married her father's footman. 
 — Alack-a-day, she and her husband soon parted, and now keep 
 separate cellars in Hedge-lane. 
 
 Olivia. A very pretty picture of what lies before me. (Aside.) 
 
 Enter Leontine. 
 
 LeonU My dear Olivia, my anxiety till you were out of danger, 
 was too great to be resisted. I could not help coming to see you 
 set out, though it exposes us to a discovery. 
 
 Olivia. May everything you do prove as fortunate. Indeed, 
 Leontine, we have been most cruelly disappointed. Mr Honey- 
 wood's bill upon the city has, it seems, been protested, and we 
 have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. 
 
 Leont. How ! An offer of his own too. Sure, he could not 
 mean to deceive us. 
 
 Olivia. Depend upon his. sincerity ; he only mistook the desire 
 for the power of serving us. But let us think no more of it. I 
 believe the post-chaise is ready by this. 
 
 Landlady. Not quite yet : and, begging your ladyship's par- 
 don, I don't think your ladyship quite ready for the post-chaise. 
 The north road is a cold place, madam. I have a drop in the 
 house of as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just 
 a thimble-full, to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure, 
 the last couple we had here, they said, it was a perfect nosegay 
 
ACT V.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 127 
 
 Ecod, I sent them both away as good-natured — Up went the blinds, 
 round went the wheels, and, Drive away, post-boy ! was the word. 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Well, while my friend Honeywood is upon the post 
 of danger at the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about 
 me here. I think I know an incendiary's look ; for, wherever 
 the devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! 
 who have we here ? My son and daughter ! What can they be 
 doing here ? 
 
 Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; I think I 
 know by this time what's good for the north road. It's a raw 
 night, madam. — Sir — 
 
 Leont. Not a drop more, good madam. I should now take it 
 as a greater favour, if you hasten the horses ; for I am afraid to 
 be seen myself. 
 
 Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! are you all 
 dead there ? Wha, Solomon, I say. (Erit, bawling) 
 
 Olivia. Well ; I dread, lest an expedition begun in fear, should 
 end in repentance. — Every moment we stay increases our danger, 
 and adds to my apprehensions. 
 
 Leont. There's no danger, trust me, my dear ; there can be 
 none : if Honeywood has acted with honour, and kept my father, 
 as he promised, in employment, till we are out of danger, nothing 
 can interrupt our journey. 
 
 Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr Honeywood's sincerity, and even 
 his desires to serve us. My fears are from your father's suspi- 
 cions. A mind so disposed to be alarmed without a cause, will be 
 but too ready when there's a reason. 
 
 Leont. Why, let him, when we are out of his power. But, be- 
 lieve me, Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his resent- 
 ment. His repining temper, as it does no manner of injury to 
 himself, so will it never do harm to others. He only frets to keep 
 himself employed, and scolds for his private amusement. 
 
 Olivia. I don't know that ; but I'm sure, on some occasions, it 
 makes him look most shockingly. 
 
 Croaker {discovering himself). How does he look now ? — How 
 does he look now ? 
 
 Olivia. Ah ! 
 
 Leont. Undone. 
 
 Croaker. How do I look now ? Sir, I am your very humble 
 servant. Madam, I am yours. What ! you are going off, are you ? 
 Then, first, if you please, take a word or two from me with you be- 
 fore you go. Tell me first where you are going ; and when you ha^e 
 told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as 1 did before. 
 
128 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Leont. If that be so, our answer might but increase your dis- 
 pleasure, without adding to your information. 
 
 Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy! and you 
 too, madam, what answer have you got ? Eh ! (A cry without, 
 Stop him!) I think I heard a noise. My friend Honeywood 
 without — has he seized the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now I hear 
 no more on't. 
 
 Leont. Honeywood without ? Then, sir, it was Mr Honeywood 
 that directed you hither. 
 
 Croaker. No, sir, it was Mr Honeywood conducted me hither. 
 
 Leont. Is it possible ? 
 
 Croaker. Possible ! Why, he's in the house now, sir. More 
 anxious about me, than my own son, sir. 
 
 Leont. Then, sir, he's a villain. 
 
 Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes most care 
 of your father ? I'll not bear it. I tell you I'll not bear it. 
 Honeywood is a friend to the family, and I'll have him treated as 
 such. 
 
 Leont. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he entered in- 
 to my griefs, and pointed out the means to detect them, you would 
 love him as I do. (A cry without. Stop him /) Fire and fury ! 
 they have seized the incendiary : they have the villain, the in- 
 cendiary in view. Stop him, stop an incendiary, a murderer 1 
 stop him. (Exit.) 
 
 Olivia. Oh, my terrors ! What can this new tumult mean ? 
 
 Leont. Some new mark,. I suppose, of Mr Honey wood's sin- 
 cerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he shall give me instant 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my esteem, 
 or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to 
 our misfortunes. Consider that our innocence w*U shortly be all 
 we have left us. You must forgive him. 
 
 Leont. Forgive him ! Has he not in every instance betrayed 
 us ? Forced me to borrow money from him, which appears a mere 
 trick to delay us : promised to keep my father engaged, till we 
 were out of danger, and here brought him to the very scene of our 
 escape ? 
 
 Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mistaken. 
 
 Enter Postboy, dragging in Jarvis : Honeywood entering 
 soon after. 
 
 Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is the 
 incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the reward ; 111 take my <?ath I 
 saw him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it, 
 
ACT V.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 129 
 
 Honeyw. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him 
 learn to blush for his crimes. {Discovering his mistake^) Death ! 
 what's here? — Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia! "What can all this 
 mean? 
 
 Jarvis. Why, 111 tell you what it means : that I was an old 
 fool, and that you are my master — that's all. 
 
 Honeyw, Confusion. 
 
 Leant. Yes, sir; I find you have kept your word with me. 
 After such baseness, I wonder how you can venture to see the 
 man you have injured. 
 
 Honeyw. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour — 
 
 Lewnt. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not continue to ag- 
 gravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, sir, I know you. 
 
 Honeyw, Why, won't you hear me ? By all that's just, I knew 
 not — 
 
 Leont. Hear you, sir, to what purpose ? I now see through all 
 your low arts ; your ever complying with every opinion ; your 
 never refusing any request ; all these, sir, have long been con- 
 temptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. 
 
 Honeyw. Ha ! contemptible to the world ! That reaches me. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Leont. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now 
 find, were only allurements to betray ; and all your seeming re- 
 gret for their consequences, only calculated to cover the cowardice 
 of your heart. Draw, villain ! 
 
 Enter Croaker out of breath. 
 
 Croaker. Where is the villain ? Where is the incendiary \ 
 (Seizing the Postboy.) Hold him fast, the dog ; he has the gal- 
 lows in his face. Come, you dog, confess ; confess all, and hang 
 yourself. 
 
 Postboy. Zounds, master ! what do you throttle me for ? 
 
 Croaker (beating him). Dog, do you resist ? do you resist ? 
 
 Fostboy. Zounds, master ! I'm not he ; there's the man that we 
 thought was the rogue, and turns out to be one of the company. 
 
 Croaker. How ! 
 
 Honeyw. Mr Croaker, we have all been under a strange mis- 
 take here : I find there is nobody guilty ; it was all an error ; 
 entirely an error of our own. 
 
 Croaker. And I say, sir, that you're in an error : for there's 
 
 guilt, and double guilt ; a plot, a Jesuitical, pestilential 
 
 plot ; and I must have proof of it. 
 
 Honeyw. Do but hear me. 
 
 Croaker. What ! you intend to bring 'em off, I suppose ? I'll 
 hear nothing. 
 
 I 
 
130 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Honeyw. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear reason. 
 
 Olivia, Excuse me. 
 
 Honeyw. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you. 
 
 Jarvis. "What signifies explanation when the thing is done ? 
 
 Honeyw. Will nobody hear me ? "Was there ever such a set, 
 bo blinded by passion and prejudice ! (To the Postboy). — My 
 good friend, I believe you'll be surprised when I assure you 
 
 Postboy. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of nothing but a good 
 beating. 
 
 Croaker. Come then, you, madam ; if you ever hope for any 
 favour of forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you know of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the cause of your 
 suspicions ; you see before you, sir, one that with false pretences 
 has stept into your family, to betray it : not your daughter — 
 
 Croaker. Not my daughter ! 
 
 Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver — who — sup- 
 port me, I cannot — 
 
 Honeyw. Help, she's going ! give her air. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; I would 
 not hurt a hair of her head, whoseever daughter she may be — 
 not so bad as that neither. (Exeunt all but Croaker.) 
 
 Croaker. Yes, yes, all's out ; I now see the whole affair ; my 
 son is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, whom he im- 
 posed upon me as his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don't 
 find it afflicts me so much as one might think. There's the ad- 
 vantage of fretting away our misfortunes beforehand, we never feel 
 them when they come. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. 
 
 Sir Will. But how do you know, madam, that my nephew in- 
 tends setting off from this place ? 
 
 Miss Rich. My maid assured me he was come to this inn, and 
 my own knowledge of his intending to leave the kingdom sug- 
 gested the rest. But what do I see ? my guardian here before us ! 
 Who, my dear sir, could have expected meeting you here ? to 
 what accident do we owe this pleasure ? 
 
 Croaker. To a fool, I believe. 
 
 Miss Rich. But to what purpose did you come ? 
 
 Croaker. To play the fool. 
 
 Miss Rich. But with whom ? 
 
 Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 
 
 Miss Rich. Explain. 
 
 Croaker. Why, Mr Honeywood brought me here, to do nothing 
 now I am here ; and my son is going to be married to I don't know 
 6 ho that is here ; so now you are as wise as I am. 
 
ACT V.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 1S1 
 
 Miss Rich. Married ! to whom, sir ? 
 
 Croaker. To Olivia ; my daughter, as I took her to be : but 
 who she is, or whose daughter she is, I know no more than the 
 man in the moon. 
 
 Sir Will. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and though a stranger, 
 yet you shall find me a friend to your family : it will be enough 
 at present, to assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune, 
 the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her 
 father, Sir James Woodville — 
 
 Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the west ! 
 
 Sir Will. Being left by him, I say, to the care of a mercen- 
 ary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her fortune to him- 
 self, she was sent into France, under pretence of education ; and 
 there every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, contrary 
 to her inclinations. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at 
 Paris ; and as I had been once her father's friend, I did all in my 
 power to frustrate her guardian's base intentions. I had even 
 meditated to rescue her from his authority, when your son stept 
 in with more pleasing violence, gave her liberty, and you a 
 daughter. 
 
 Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my own choosing, 
 sir. A young lady, sir, whose fortune, by my interest with those 
 that have interest, will be double what my son has a right to ey 
 pect. Do you know Mr Lofty, sir ? 
 
 Sir Will. Yes, sir ; and know that you are deceived in him. 
 But step this way and I will convince you. (Croaxer and Sir 
 William seem to confer.) 
 
 Enter HoNEYWOOD. 
 
 Honeyw. Obstinate man, still to persist in his outrage ! In- 
 sulted by him, despised by all, I now begin to grow contemptible 
 even to myself. How have I sunk, by too great an assiduity to 
 please ! How have I overtaxed all my abilities, lest the appro- 
 bation of a single fool should escape me I But all is now over ; I 
 have survived my reputation, my fortune, my friendships ; and 
 nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and repent- 
 ance. 
 
 Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr Honey wood, that you are setting 
 off, without taking leave of your friends ? The report is, that 
 you are quitting England. Can it be ? 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, madam ; and though I am so unhappy as to 
 have fallen under your displeasure, yet, thank Heaven, I leave 
 you to happiness ; to one who loves you, and deserves your love ; 
 to one who has power to procure you afiluence, and generosity to 
 improve your enjoyment of it. 
 
GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Mm Rich. And are you sure, sir, that the gentleman you 
 mean is what you describe him ? 
 
 Honey w. I have the best assurances of it, his serving me. He 
 does, indeed, deserve the highest happiness that is in your power 
 to confer. As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, obliged 
 by all, and incapable of serving any, what happiness can I find, 
 but in solitude ? What hope, but in being forgotten ? 
 
 Miss Rich. A thousand ! to live among friends that esteem 
 you ; whose happiness it will be to be permitted to oblige you. 
 
 Honeyw. No, madam; my resolution is fixed. Inferiority 
 among strangers is easy ; but among those that once were 
 equals, insupportable. Nay, to show you how far my resolution 
 can go, I can now speak with calmness of my former follies, 
 my vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, 
 that, among the number of my other presumptions, I had the 
 insolence to think of loving you. Yes, madam, while I was 
 pleading the passion of another, my heart was tortured with its 
 own. But it is over, it was unworthy our friendship, and let it 
 be forgotten. 
 
 Miss Rich. You amaze me ! 
 
 Honeyw. But you'll forgive it, I know you will ; since the con- 
 fession should not have come from me even now, but to convince 
 
 you of the sincerity of my intention of never mentioning it 
 
 more. (Going.) 
 
 Miss Rich. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha ! he here — 
 
 Enter Lofty. 
 
 Lofty. Is the coast clear ? None but friends. I have followed 
 you here with a trifling piece of intelligence : but it goes no far- 
 ther; things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits 
 working at a certain board : your affair at the treasury will be 
 done in less than — a thousand years. Mum ! 
 
 Miss Rich, Sooner, sir, I should hope. 
 
 Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands, 
 that know where to push and where to parry ; that know how the 
 land lies — eh, Honeywood ? 
 
 Miss Rich, It is fallen into yours. 
 
 Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is 
 done. It is done, I say — that's all. I have just had assurances 
 from Lord Neverout, that the claim has been examined and found 
 admissible. Quietus is the word, madam. 
 
 Honeyw. But how ! his lordship has been at Newmarket these 
 ten days. 
 
 Lofty. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been con- 
 foundedlv mistaken. I had it of him. 
 
ACT V ) THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 133 
 
 Miss Rich. He ! why, Sir Gilbert and his family hare been 
 in the country this month. 
 
 Lofty. This month ! It must certainly be so — Sir Gilbert's 
 letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met 
 his lordship there ; and so it came about. I have his letter about 
 me ; I'll read it to you. {Taking out a large bundle) That's from 
 Paoli of Corsica ; that's from the Marquis of Squilachi. Have 
 you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of 
 
 Poland — Honest Pon {Searching). {To Sir Will.) — O, sir, 
 
 what, are you here too ? I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you 
 have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir William Honeywood 
 you may return it. The thing will do without him. 
 
 Sir Will, Sir, I have delivered it, and must inform you, it was 
 deceived with the most mortifying contempt. 
 
 Croaker. Contempt ! Mr Lofty, what can that mean ? 
 
 Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll find it come 
 to something presently. 
 
 Sir Will. Yes, sir, I believe you'll be amazed, if, after waiting 
 some time in the ante-chamber, after being surveyed with inso- 
 lent curiosity by the passing servants, I was at last assured, that 
 Sir William Honeywood knew no such person, and I must cer- 
 tainly have been imposed upon. 
 
 Lofty. Good ; let me die, very good. Ha ! ha ha ! 
 
 Croaker. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodness 
 of it. 
 
 Lofty. You can't. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croaker* No, for the soul of me : I think it was as confounded 
 a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to 
 another. 
 
 Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the message ? 
 Why, I was in the house at that very time. Ha ! ha ! It was I 
 that sent that very answer to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croaker. Indeed? How! why! 
 
 Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William and me must 
 be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with 
 Lord Buzzard ; I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles 
 the mystery. 
 
 Croaker. And so it does, indeed, and all my suspicions are over. 
 
 Lofty. Your suspicions ? What, then, you have been suspect- 
 ing, have you? Mr Croaker, you and I were friends ; we are 
 friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over ; I say, it's over. 
 
 Croaker. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. 
 It escaped me. Don't be discomposed. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds, sir, but I am discomposed, and will be discom- 
 posed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? Was it for this I have 
 
134 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PLAYS. 
 
 been dreaded both by ins and outs ? Have I been libelled in the 
 Gazetteer, and praiged in the St James's ? Have I been chaired 
 at Wildinan's, and a speaker at Merchant Tailors' Hall ? Have 
 I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print-shops ; 
 and talk to me of suspects ? 
 
 Croaker, My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but 
 asking pardon ? 
 
 Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified. — Suspects ! Who am I ? 
 to be used thus. Have I paid court to men in favour to serve my 
 friends, the lords of the treasury, Sir William Honey wood, and 
 the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects ? Who am I, I 
 say ? who am I ? 
 
 Sir Will. Since, sir, you're so pressing for an answer, I'll tell 
 you who you are — a gentleman as well acquainted with politics 
 as with men in power ; as well acquainted with persons of fashion 
 as with modesty ; with lords of the treasury as with truth ; and 
 with all as you are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir 
 William Honeywood. {Discovering his ensigns of the Bath.) 
 
 Croaker. Sir William Honeywood ! 
 
 Honey w. Astonishment ! my uncle ! (Aside.) 
 
 Lofty. So then, my confounded genius has been all this time 
 only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the 
 window. 
 
 Croaker. What, Mr Importance, and are these your works ? 
 Suspect you ! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs . 
 you, who have had your hand to addresses, and your head stuck 
 up in print-shops. If you were served right, you should hav6 
 your head stuck up in the pillory. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will ; for it cuts but a very poor 
 figure where it sticks at present. 
 
 Sir Will. Well, Mr Croaker, I hope you now see how incapable 
 this gentleman is of serving you, and how little Miss Richland 
 has to expect from his influence. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it, and I can't but say I have 
 had some boding of it these ten days. So I'm resolved, since my 
 son has placed his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be 
 satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr 
 Lofty in helping him to a better. 
 
 Sir Will. I approve your resolution ; and here they come, to 
 receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent. 
 
 Enter Mrs Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. Where's my husband ? Come, come, lovey, you 
 must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole 
 affair ; and, I say, you must forgive them. Our own was a stolen 
 
ACT V.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 15 J 
 
 match., you know, my dear ; and we never had any reason to re- 
 pent of it. 
 
 Croaker. I wish we could both say so : however, this gentle- 
 man, Sir William Honeywood, has been beforehand with you in 
 obtaining their pardon. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to 
 marry, I think we can tack them together without crossing the 
 Tweed for it. {Joining their hands.) 
 
 Leont. How blest and unexpected ! What, what can we say 
 to such goodness ! But our future obedience shall be the best 
 reply. And as for this gentleman, to whom we owe 
 
 Sir WiU. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have 
 here an interest that calls me. {Turning to Honeywood.) Yes, 
 sir, you are surprised to see me ; and I own that a desire of cor- 
 recting your follies led me hither. I saw with indignation the 
 errors of a mind that only sought applause from others; that easi- 
 ness of disposition which, though inclined to the right, had not 
 courage to eondemn the wrong. I saw with regret those splendid 
 errors, that still took name from some neighbouring duty. Your 
 charity, that was but injustice ; your benevolence, that was but 
 weakness ; and your friendship but credulity. I saw, with regret, 
 great talents and extensive learning only employed to add spright- 
 liness to error, and increase your perplexities. I saw your mind 
 with a thousand natural charms, but tk# greatness of its beauty 
 served only to heighten my pity for its prostitution. 
 
 Honeyw. Cease to upbraid me, sir : I have for some time but 
 too strongly felt the justice of your reproaches. But there is OEe 
 way still left me. Yes, sir, I have determined this very hour to 
 quit for ever a place where I have made myself the voluntary 
 slave of all ; and to seek among strangers that fortitude which 
 may give strength to the mind, and marshal all its dissipated 
 virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me to solicit favour for this 
 gentleman; who, notwithstanding what has happened, has laid 
 me under the most signal obligations. Mr Lofty — 
 
 Lofty. Mr Honeywood, I am resolved upon a reformation as 
 well as you. I now begin to find that the man who first invented 
 the art of speaking truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I 
 thought him. And to prove that I design to speak truth for the 
 future, I must now assure you that you owe your late enlargement 
 to another ; as, upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So 
 now, if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may 
 take my place. I'm determined to resign. (Eocit.) 
 
 Honeyw. How have I been deceived ! 
 
 Sir Will. No, sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer 
 friend for that favour — to Miss Richland. Would she complete 
 our joy, and make the man she has honoured by her friendship 
 
CHJLDSMiTH S PLA1S. 
 
 happy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as the 
 welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. 
 
 Miss Rich. After what is past, it would be but affectation to 
 pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment which, 1 
 find, was more than friendship. And if my entreaties cannot alter 
 his resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has 
 not power to detain him. {Giving her hand.) 
 
 Honeyw. How can I have deserved all this ? How express my 
 happiness, my gratitude ? A moment like this overpays an age of 
 apprehension. 
 
 Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face ; but Heaven 
 send we be all better this day three months. 
 
 Sir Will. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He 
 who seeks only for applause from without, has all his happiness 
 in another's keeping. 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors. My 
 vanity, in attempting to please all, by fearing to offend any. My 
 meanness, in approving folly, lest fools should disapprove. Hence- 
 forth, therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real 
 distress ; my friendship for true merit ; and my love for her who 
 first taught me what it is to be happy. 
 
 EPILOGUE* 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS BULKLKY. 
 
 As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure, 
 To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; 
 Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still depend, 
 For Epilogues and Prologues, on some friend, 
 Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 
 And make full many a bitter pill go down. 
 Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, 
 And teazed each rhyming friend to help him out. 
 " An Epilogue, things can't go on without it ; 
 It could not fail, would you but set about it." 
 " Young man," cries one (a bard laid up in clover), 
 " Alas, young man, my writing days are over ; 
 Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; 
 Your brother-doctor there, perhaps, may try." 
 
 * The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred 
 writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered, owes all its sue- 
 •ess to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it. 
 
ACT V.] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 187 
 
 " What, I, dear sir ?" the doctor interposes ; 
 " What ! plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ? 
 No, no ; I've other contests to maintain ; 
 To-night I head our troops at W T arwick Lane. 
 Go, ask your manager." — " Who, me ? your pardon ; 
 Those things are not our fort at Covent Garden.' 5 
 Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance, 
 Give him good words, indeed, but no assistance. 
 As some unhappy wight, at some new play, 
 At the pit door stands elbowing away, 
 While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 
 He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ; 
 His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, 
 Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 
 He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; 
 But not a soul will budge to give him place. 
 Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform, 
 " To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm :" 
 Blame where you must, be candid where you oaa. 
 And be each critio the Good-natured Man, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. 
 
 Dear Sir, — By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do 
 not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me 
 some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years 
 in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also 
 to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a charac- 
 ter, without impairing the most unaffected piety. 
 
 I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to 
 this performance. The undertaking a Comedy not merely senti- 
 mental, was very dangerous ; and Mr Colman, who saw this piece 
 in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured 
 to trust it to the public ; and though it was necessarily delayed 
 till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. — I am, 
 dear sir, your most sincere friend and admirer, 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
PROLOGUE, 
 BY DAVID GARRICK, Esq. 
 
 Enter Mr Woodward, 
 
 Dressed in Hack, and holding a handkerchief to his eyes. 
 
 Excuse me, sirs, I pray — I can't yet speak — 
 I'm crying now — and have been all the week ! 
 "Pis not alone this mourning suit, good masters ; 
 rve that within — for which there are no plasters I 
 Pray, would yon know the reason why I'm crying ? 
 The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! 
 And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
 For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop : 
 I am undone, that's all — shall lose my bread — 
 I'd rather — but that's nothing — lose my head. 
 When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
 Shuter and / shall be chief mourners here. 
 To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, 
 Who deals in sentimentals will succeed ! 
 Poor Ned and / are dead to all intents, 
 We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments ! 
 Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, 
 We now and then take down a hearty cup. 
 What shall we do ? — If Comedy forsake us ! 
 They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us. 
 But why can't I be moral ?- — Let me tiy — 
 My heart thus pressing — fixed my face and ey©~~ 
 With a sententious look, that nothing means 
 (Faces are blocks, in sentimental scenes), 
 Thus I begin — All is not gold that glitters, 
 Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitten 
 When ignorance enters, folly is at hand; 
 Learning is better far than house and land. 
 Let not your virtue trtp, who trips may stumble, 
 And virtue is not virtue, if it tumble. 
 
 I give it up — morals won't do for me ; 
 To make you laugh I must play tragedy. 
 One hope remains : hearing the maid was ill 
 A doctor comes this night to show his ski 11. 
 To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion 
 He in five draughts prepared, presents a potion : 
 A kind of magic charm — for be assured, 
 If you will swallow it, the maid is cured: 
 But desperate the doctor, and her case is, 
 If you reject the dose, and make wry faces ! 
 This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, 
 No poisonous drugs are mixed with what he gives 
 Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree ; 
 If not, within he will receive no fee ! 
 The college you, must his pretensions back, 
 Pronounce him regular, or dub him quack. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Young Marlow (his son). 
 
 Hardcastle. 
 
 Hastings. 
 
 Tony Lumpkin. 
 
 Diggory. 
 
 Mrs Hardcastle. 
 Miss Hardcastle. 
 Miss Neville. 
 Maid. 
 
 Landlord, Servants, <fcc. &«. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene — A scene in an old-fashioned house. 
 
 Enter Mrs Hardcastle and Mr Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs Hard, I vow, Mr Hardcastle, you're very particular. la 
 there a creature in the whole country, but ourselves, that does not 
 take a trip to town now and then to rub off the rust a little ? 
 There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs Grigsby, go 
 to take a month's polishing every winter. 
 
 Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them 
 the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools 
 at home. In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among 
 us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies 
 come down, not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Ay, your times were fine times, indeed ; you have 
 been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an 
 old rambling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but 
 that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs Oddfisl^ 
 the curate's wife, and little Cnppiegate, the lame dancing-master; 
 and all our entertainment, your old stories of Prince Eugene and 
 the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. 
 
 Hard. And I love it. I love everything that's old: old 
 friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine ; and, I believe, 
 Dorothy (taking her hand), you'll own I have been pretty fond of 
 an old wife. * 
 
 Mrs Hard. Mr Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothys, 
 and your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I 
 promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one 
 good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that. 
 
 Hard. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty, makes just fifty 
 and seven. 
 
ACT I.] SHE STOOrS TO CONQUER. 141 
 
 Mrs Hard. It's false, Mr Hardcastle : I was but twenty when 
 Tony, that I had by Mr Lumpkin, my first husband, was born ; 
 and he's not come to years of discretion yet. 
 
 Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have 
 taught him finely. 
 
 Mrs Hard. No matter, Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. 
 My Km is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants 
 much learning to spend fifteen hundred a-year. 
 
 Hard. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition of tricks and 
 mischief. 
 
 Mrs Hard, Humour, my dear : nothing but humour. Come, 
 Mr Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour. 
 
 Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the 
 footman's shoes, frighting the maids, worrying the kittens— be 
 humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig tc 
 the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my 
 bald head in Mrs Frizzle's face. 
 
 Mrs Hard, And am I to blame ? The poor boy was always too 
 sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he 
 comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two'* 
 Latin may do for him ! 
 
 Hard, Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, no, the ale-house 
 and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I be- 
 lieve we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in 
 his face may see he's consumptive. 
 
 Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. 
 
 Mrs Hard. He coughs sometimes. 
 
 Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. 
 
 Mrs Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 
 
 Hard. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes whoops like a 
 speaking trumpet — (Tony hallooing behind the scenes) — 0, there he 
 goes— A very consumptive figure, truly. 
 
 Enter Tony, crossing the stage. 
 
 Mrs Hard, Tony, where are you going, my charmer ? Won't 
 you give papa and me a little of your company, lovee ? 
 
 Tony. I'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay. 
 
 Mrs Hard. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear ; 
 you look most shockingly. 
 
 Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me 
 down every moment. There's some fun going forward. 
 
 Hard. Ay ; the ale-house, the old place : I thought so. 
 
 Mrs Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows. 
 
 Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the excise* 
 
142 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 man, Jack Slang the horse-doctor, little Aminadab that grinds 
 the music-box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at 
 least. 
 
 Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind ; 
 but I can't abide to disappoint myself. 
 
 Mrs Hard, (detaining him). You shan't go. 
 
 Tony, I will, I tell you. 
 
 Mrs Hard. I say you shan't. 
 
 Tony. We'll see which is the strongest, you or I ! 
 
 (Exit, hauling her out,) 
 
 Hardcastle, solus. 
 
 Hard. Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But 
 is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense and discretion 
 out of doors? There's my pretty darling Kate ; the fashions oi 
 the times have almost infected her too. By living a year or two 
 in town, she is as fond of gauze, and French frippery, as the best 
 of them. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! Drest out as usual, 
 my Kate. Goodness ! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast 
 thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this 
 age that the indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings 
 of the vain. 
 
 Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the 
 morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner ; 
 and in the evening, I put on my housewife's dress to please you. 
 
 Hard. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agreement ; 
 and, by the by, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obe- 
 dience this very evening. 
 
 Miss Hard, I protest, sir, I don't comprehend your meaning. 
 
 Hard. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young 
 gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very 
 day. I have his father's letter, in which he informs me his son 
 is set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after. 
 
 Miss Hard. Indeed ! I wish I had known something of this 
 before. Bless me, how shall I behave ? It's a thousand to one I 
 shan't like him ; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing 
 of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. 
 
 Hard. Depend upon it, child, I'll never control your choice ; 
 but Mr Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old 
 friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so 
 often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is de- 
 
ACT I.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 143 
 
 signed for an employment in the service of his country. I am 
 told he's a man of an excellent understanding. 
 
 Miss Hard. Is he ? 
 
 Hard. Very generous. 
 
 Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. 
 
 Hard. Young and brave. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm sure I shall like him. 
 
 Hard. And very handsome. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more (kissing his hand), he's 
 mine, I'll have him ! 
 
 Hard. And to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful and 
 reserved young fellows in all the world. 
 
 Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to death again. That 
 word reserved, has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A 
 reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband. 
 
 Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a brea3t 
 that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature 
 in his character that first struck me. 
 
 Miss Hard. He must have more striking features to catch me, 
 I promise you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so 
 everything, as you mention, I believe hell do still. I think I'll 
 have him. 
 
 Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It's more than 
 an even wager, he may not have you. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so ?— 
 Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indiffer- 
 ence, I'll only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some 
 newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. 
 
 Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the meantime 111 go prepare the 
 servants for his reception ; as we seldom see company, they want 
 as much training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Miss Hardcastle, sola. 
 
 Miss Hard. This news of papa's puts me al-1 in a flutter. Young 
 — handsome : these he put last ; but I put them foremost. Sen- 
 sible — good-natured : I like all that. But then — reserved, and 
 sheepish : that's much against him. Yet, can't he be curd of his 
 timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife ? Yes ; and 
 can't I — But, I vow, I'm disposing of the husband, before I have 
 secured the lover. 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, 
 Constance : how do I look this evening ? Is there anything whim- 
 
144 GOLDSMITH S PLAYS. 
 
 sical about me ? Is it one of my well-looking days, child ? Am 
 I in face to-day ? 
 
 Miss Nev. Perfectly, my dear. Yet, now I look again — bless 
 me ! — sure no accident has happened among the canary birds, or 
 the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling ? Or, 
 has the last novel been too moving ? 
 
 Miss Hard, No ; nothing of all this. I have been threatened 
 — I can scarce get it out — I have been threatened with a lover. 
 
 Miss Nev. And his name 
 
 Miss Hard. Is Marlow. 
 
 Miss Nev. Indeed ! 
 
 Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Miss Nev. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr Hastings, 
 my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have 
 seen him when we lived in town. 
 
 Miss Hard. Never. 
 
 Miss Nev. He's a very singular character, I assure you. Among 
 women of reputation and virtue, he is the modestest man alive ; 
 but his acquaintance give him a very different character among 
 creatures of another stamp : you understand me. 
 
 Miss Hard. An odd character, indeed. I shall never be able 
 to manage him. What shall I do ? Pshaw, think no more of 
 him, but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your 
 own affair, my dear ? Has my mother been courting you for my 
 brother Tony, as usual ? 
 
 Miss Nev. I have j ust come from one of our agreeable tete-a-tetes. 
 She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her 
 pretty monster as the very pink of perfection. 
 
 Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks 
 him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, 
 as she has the sole management of it, I'm not surprised to see her 
 unwilling to let it go out of the family. 
 
 Miss Nev. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, 
 is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate if my dear Hast- 
 ings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at 
 last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son, 
 and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon 
 another. 
 
 Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost 
 love him for hating you so. 
 
 Miss Nev. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I'm 
 sure would wish to see me married to any body but himself. But 
 my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improve- 
 ments. Allons/ Courage is necessary, as our affairs are 
 critical. 
 
At*T I.J SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 145 
 
 Miss Hard. Would it were bed-time, and all were weil. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene — An ale-house room. Several shabby Fellows, with punch 
 and tobacco. Tony at the head of the table, a little higher than 
 the rest : a mallet in his hand. 
 
 Omnes. Hurrea, hurrea, hurrea, bravo ! 
 
 1 Fel. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 'squire is going 
 io knock himself down for a song. 
 
 Omnes. Ay, a song, a song ! 
 
 Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this 
 Ele-house, the Three Pigeons. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Let school-masters puzzle their brain, 
 
 With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; 
 Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 
 
 Give genus a better discerning. 
 Let them brag of their heathenish gods, 
 
 Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians; 
 Their quis, and their quaes, and their quods, 
 
 They're all but a parcel of pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, to- ->iL 
 
 When Methodist preachers come down, 
 
 A preaching that drinking is sinful, 
 I'll wager the rascals a crown, 
 
 They always preach best with a skin-full. 
 But when you come down with your pence, 
 
 For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
 I'll leave it to all men of sense, 
 
 But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, torell. 
 
 Then come, put the jorum about, 
 
 And let us be merry and clever ; 
 Our hearts and our liquors are stout, 
 
 Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever! 
 Let some cry up woodcock or hare, 
 
 Your "Dustards, your duck>, and your widgeons ; 
 But of all the birds in the air, 
 
 Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons ! 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 
 
 Omnes. Bravo ! bravo ! 
 
 1 Fel. The 'squire has got spunk in him. 
 
 2 Fel. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us no- 
 thing that's Ion. 
 
 S Fel. O nothing that's low, I cannot bear it. 
 
U6 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 4 Fel. The genteel thing, is the genteel thing at any time. If 
 so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. 
 
 3 Fel. I like the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What though 
 I am obligated to dance a bear ? a man may be a gentleman for all 
 that. May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the 
 *ery genteelest of tunes ; " Water parted," or " The minuet in 
 Ariadne." 
 
 2 Fel. What a pity it is the 'squire is not come to his own ! It 
 Tould be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd then show 
 what it was to keep choice of company. 
 
 2 Fel. O, he takes after his own father for that. To be sure, 
 old 'squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes 
 on. For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a 
 hare, he never had his fellow. It was a sayiDg in the place, that 
 he kept the best horses and dogs in the whole county. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age I'll be my father's son, I 
 promise you ! I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer, and the 
 miller's gray mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about 
 and be merry, for you pay no reckoning. — Well, Stingo, what's 
 the matter ? 
 
 Enter Landlord. 
 
 Land. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. 
 They have lost their way upo' the forest ; and they are talking 
 something about Mr Hardcastle. 
 
 Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman 
 that's coming down to court my sister. — Do they seem to be 
 Londoners ? 
 
 Land. I believe they may. They look woundily like French- 
 men. 
 
 Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them 
 right in a twinkling. {Exit Landlord.) Gentlemen, as they 
 mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, 
 and I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. {Exeunt mob.) 
 
 Tony, solus. 
 
 Tony. Father-in-law has been calling me whelp, and nound, 
 this half year. Now if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the 
 old grumble tonian. But then I'm afraid — afraid of what ? I shall 
 soon be worth fifteen hundred a-year, and let him frighten me 
 out of that if he can. 
 
 Enter Landlord conducting Marlow and Hastings. 
 Marl. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it ! 
 
ACT I.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 147 
 
 We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we 
 have come above threescore. 
 
 Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve 
 of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the 
 way. 
 
 Marl. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under 
 an obligation to every one I meet : and often stand the chance of 
 an unmannerly answer. 
 
 Hast. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any 
 answer. 
 
 Tony. No offence, gentlemen ; but I'm told you have been in- 
 quiring for one Mr Hardcastle, in those parts. Do you know 
 what part of the country you are in ? 
 
 Hast. Not in the least, sir ; but should thank you for infor- 
 mation. 
 
 Tony. Nor the way you came ? 
 
 Hast. No, sir ; but if you can inform us 
 
 Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are 
 going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing 
 I have to inform you is, that — you have lost your way. 
 
 Marl. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 
 
 Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place 
 from whence you came ? 
 
 Marl. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are 
 to go. 
 
 Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all fair, you 
 know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross- 
 grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow with an ugly face ; a 
 daughter, and a pretty son ? 
 
 Hast. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he has the 
 family you mention. 
 
 Tony. The daughter, a tall trapesing, trolloping, talkative 
 
 May-pole The son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that 
 
 every body is fond of. 
 
 Marl. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said 
 to be well-bred and beautiful ; the son an awkward booby, reared 
 up, and spoiled at his mother's apron-string. 
 
 Tony. He-he-hem — Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, 
 that you won't reach Mr Hardcastle 's house this night, I believe. 
 
 Hast. Unfortunate ! 
 
 Tony. It's a long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, 
 tell the gentlemen the way to Mr Hardcastle's ; (ivinking upon the 
 landlord.) Mr Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh ; you understand 
 me. 
 
 Land. Master Hardcastle's? Lack-a-daisy, my masters, 
 
148 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 you're come a deadly deal wrong ! "When you came to the bottom 
 of the hill, you should hare crossed down Squash-lane. 
 
 Marl, Cross down Squash-lane ? 
 
 Land. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came 
 to four roads. 
 
 Marl. Come to where four roads meet ! 
 
 Tony, Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one of them. 
 
 Marl. O sir, you're facetious. 
 
 Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you 
 come upon Crack-skull common : there you must look sharp for 
 the track of the wheel, and go forward, till you come to farmer 
 Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to 
 the right, and then to the left, and then to the right-about again, 
 till you find out the old mill 
 
 Marl. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the longitude ! 
 
 Hast. What's to be done, Marlow ? 
 
 Marl. This house promises but a poor reception ; though per- 
 haps the landlord can accommodate us. 
 
 Land. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the whole 
 house. 
 
 Tony. And, to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers 
 already. {After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted) I 
 have hit it. Don't you think, Stingo, our landlady would accom- 
 modate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with — three chairs and a 
 bolster ? 
 
 Hast. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 
 
 Marl. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. 
 
 Tony. You do, do you ? — then let me see — what — if you go on 
 a mile further, to the Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head on the 
 hill, one of the best inns in the whole country ? 
 
 Hast. O, ho ! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, 
 however. 
 
 Land, (apart to Tony). Sure, you ben't sending them to your 
 father's as an inn, be you ? 
 
 Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. (To them) 
 — You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a 
 large old house by the road-side. You'll see a pair of large horns 
 over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call 
 stoutly about you. 
 
 Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the 
 way. 
 
 Tony. No, no. But I tell you though, the landlord is rich, 
 and going to leave off business ; so he wants to be thought a 
 gentleman, saving your presence, he ! he ! he ! He'll be for 
 giving you his company, and ecod, if you mind him, hell persuade 
 
ACT II.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 149 
 
 you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of 
 the peace. 
 
 Land. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but a keeps as 
 good wines and beds as any in the whole country. 
 
 Marl. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no 
 further connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say ? 
 
 Tony. No, no ; straight forward. I'll just step myself, and 
 show you a piece of the way. (To the landlord.) Mum. 
 
 Land, Ah, you are a sweet, pleasant — mischievous humbug. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene. — An old-fashioned house. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awkward Servants. 
 
 Hard. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise I have 
 been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts 
 and your places ; and can show that you have been used to good 
 company, without stirring from home. 
 
 Omnes. Ay, ay. 
 
 Hard. When company comes, you are not to pop out and 
 stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. 
 
 Omnes. No, no. 
 
 Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are 
 to make a show at the side-table ; and you, Roger, whom I have 
 I advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. 
 Bu*- vou're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. 
 Take your hands from your pockets, Roger ; and from your head, 
 you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're 
 a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. 
 
 Bigg. Ay ; mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my 
 hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so 
 being upon drill 
 
 Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must be 
 all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think 
 of talking ; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; 
 you must see us eat, and not think of eating. 
 
 Bigg. By the laws, your worship, that's parfectly unpossible. 
 Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he's always 
 wishing for a mouthful himself. 
 
150 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 Hard. Blockhead ! is not a belly-full in the kitchen, as good 
 as a belly-full in the parlour ? Stay your stomach with that re<» 
 flection. 
 
 Bigg. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a shift to stay 
 my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. 
 
 Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then if I happen to 
 say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all 
 burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of the company. 
 
 Bigg. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell the story of Ould 
 Grouse in the gun-room : I can't help laughing at that — he ! he ! 
 he ! — for the soul of me. AVe have laughed at that these twenty 
 years — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. Well, honest 
 Diggory, you may laugh at that — but still remember to be atten« 
 tive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, 
 how will you behave ? A glass of wine, sir, if you please. (To 
 Diggory)— Eh, why don't you move ? 
 
 Bigg. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the 
 eatables and drinkables brought upon the table, and then I'm as 
 oauld as a lion. 
 
 Hard. What, will nobody move ? 
 
 1 Serv. I'm not to leave this place. 
 
 2 Serv. I'm sure it's no pleace of mine. 
 
 3 Serv. Nor mine, for sartain. 
 
 Bigg. Wauns, and I'm sure, it canna be mine. 
 
 Hard. You numsculls ! and so while, like your betters, you 
 are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O you 
 
 dunces ! I find I must begin all over again. But don't I hear 
 
 a coach drive into the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads. I'll 
 go in the meantime, and give my old friend's son a hearty welcome 
 at the gate. (Exit Hardcastle.) 
 
 Bigg. By the elevens, my place is gone quite out of my head. 
 
 Roger. I know that my place is to be everywhere. 
 
 1 Serv. Where is mine ? 
 
 2 Serv. My pleace is to be no where at all ; and so Ize go about 
 my business. 
 
 (Exeunt Servants, running about as if frightened, different ways.) 
 
 Enter Servant ivith candles, showing in Marlow and HASTINGS. 
 
 Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This way. 
 
 Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once 
 more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room, and a good 
 tre. Upon my word, a very well-looking house ; antique, but 
 creditable. 
 
 Marl. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined 
 
ACT II.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 151 
 
 the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contri- 
 butions as an inn. 
 
 Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all 
 these fineries. I hare often seen a good side-board, or a marble 
 chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the 
 bill confoundedly. 
 
 Marl. Travellers, George, must pay in all places. The only 
 difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries ; in 
 bad inns you are fleeced and starved. 
 
 Hast. You have lived pretty much among them. In truth, I 
 have been often surprised, that you, who have seen so much of the 
 world, with your natural good sense, and your many opportunities, 
 could never yet acquire a requisite share of assurance. 
 
 Marl. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, George, where 
 could I have learned that assurance you talk of? My life has 
 been chiefly spent in a college, or an inn ; in seclusion from that 
 lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confidence. 
 I don't know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single 
 modest woman — except my mother — 
 
 Hast. In the company of women of reputation, I never saw 
 such an idiot, such a trembler : you look, for all the world, as if 
 you wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room. 
 
 Marl. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out of the 
 room ! I have often formed a resolution, to break the ice, and 
 rattle away at any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance 
 from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An 
 impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty ; but I'll be hanged if a 
 modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. 
 
 Hast, If you could but say half the fine things to them, that I 
 have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn. 
 
 Marl. Why, George, I can't say fine things to them. They 
 freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning 
 mountain, or some such bagatelle : but to me, a modest woman, 
 drest out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the 
 whole creation. 
 
 Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how can you ever ex- 
 pect to marry ? 
 
 Marl. Never, unless, as among kings and princes, my bride 
 were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an eastern bride- 
 groom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it 
 might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal 
 courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and 
 cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad-star question of — madam, 
 ivill you marry me ? No, no ; that's a strain much above me, I 
 assure you. 
 
152 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Hast. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady 
 you are come down to visit at the request of your father ? 
 
 Marl. As I behave to all other ladies : bow very low ; answer 
 yes, or no, to all her demands — But for the rest, I don't think I 
 shall venture to look in her face, till I see my father's again. 
 
 Hast. I am surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be 
 so cool a lover. 
 
 Marl. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement 
 down, was to be instrumental in forwarding your happiness, not 
 my own. Miss Neville loves you, the family don't know you, as 
 my friend you are sure of a reception, and let honour do the rest. 
 
 Hast. My dear Marlow ! — But I'll suppress the emotion. Were 
 I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be 
 the last man in the world I would apply to for assistance. But 
 Miss Neville's person is all I ask ; and that is mine, both from her 
 deceased father's consent, and her own inclination. 
 
 Marl. Happy man ! You have talents and art to captivate 
 any woman. I am doomed to adore the sex, and yet to converse 
 with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my address, 
 and this awkward prepossessing visage of mine, can never permit 
 me to soar Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us. 
 
 Enter HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. 
 Which i3 Mr Marlow ? Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not 
 my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. 
 I like to give them a hearty reception, in the old style, at my ' 
 gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. 
 
 Marl, (aside). He has got our names from the servants al- 
 ready. (To him) — We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. 
 (To Hastings) — I have been thinking, George, of changing our 
 travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly 
 ashamed of mine. 
 
 Hard. I beg, Mr Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house. 
 
 Hast, I fancy, Charles, you're right : the first blow is half the 
 battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. 
 
 Hard. Mr Marlow — Mr Hastings — gentlemen — pray be under 
 no restraint in this house. This is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You 
 may do just as you please here. 
 
 Marl. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at 
 first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve 
 the embroidery to secure a retreat. 
 
 Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr Marlow, puts me in mind 
 of the Duke of Marlborough, when he went to besiege Denain. 
 He first summoned the garrison. 
 
ACT II.] 
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 158 
 
 Marl. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat will do with 
 the plain brown ? 
 
 Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist 
 of about five thousand men 
 
 Hast. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very poorly. 
 
 Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned 
 the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men 
 
 Marl. The girls like finery. 
 
 Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well 
 appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. 
 Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks that stood 
 next to him — you must have heard of George Brooks ; " I'll pawn 
 my Dukdeom," says he, " but I'll take that garrison, without spill 
 ing a drop of blood. So 
 
 Marl. "What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch 
 in the mean time ? It would help us to carry on the siege with 
 vigour. 
 
 Hard. Punch, sir ! (Aside)— This is the most unaccountable 
 kind of modesty I ever met with. 
 
 Marl Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our jour- 
 ney, will be comfortable. This is Liberty-hall, you know. 
 
 Hard. Here's a cup, sir. 
 
 Marl, (aside). So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only let 
 us have just what he pleases. 
 
 Hard, (taking the cup). I hope you'll find it to your mind. I 
 have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the 
 ingredients are tolerable. "Will you be so good as to pledge me, 
 sk ? Here, Mr Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. 
 
 (Drinks.) 
 
 Marl, (aside). A very impudent fellow this ! but he's a charac- 
 ter, and I'll humour him a little. (To him) — Sir, my service to 
 you. (Drinks.) 
 
 Hast, (aside). I see this fellow wants to give us his company, 
 and forgets that he's an innkeeper, before he has learned to be a 
 gentleman. • 
 
 Marl. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I sup- 
 pose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. 
 Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose. 
 
 Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our 
 betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there's 
 no business for us that sell ale. 
 
 Hast. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I see. 
 
 Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted 
 myself about the mistakes of government, like other people ; but, 
 finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government 
 
154 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more 
 trouble my head about Heyder Alley, or Ally Cawn, than about 
 Ally Croalcer. — Sir, my service to you. 
 
 Hast. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below ; 
 with receiving your friends within, and amusing them without, 
 you lead a good, pleasant, bustling life of it. 
 
 Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the 
 differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour. 
 
 Marl, {after drinking). And you have an argument in your 
 cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster-hall. 
 
 Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. 
 
 Marl, (aside). Well, thi3 is the first time I ever heard of an 
 innkeeper's philosophy ! 
 
 Hast. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them 
 on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you 
 attack it with your philosophy ; if you find they have no reason, 
 you attack them with this. — Here's your health, my philosopher. 
 
 (Drinks.) 
 
 Hard. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! ha ! Your general- 
 ship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks 
 at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. 
 
 Marl. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost 
 time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the 
 house for supper ? 
 
 Hard. For supper, sir ! (Aside) — Was ever such a request to 
 a man in his own house ? 
 
 Marl. Yes, sir ; supper, sir : I begin to feel an appetite. I shall 
 make sad work to-night in the larder, I promise you. 
 
 Hard, (aside). Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. 
 (To him) — Why, really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My 
 Dorothy, and the cook-maid, settle these things between them. I 
 leave these kind of things entirely to them. 
 
 Marl. You do, do you ? 
 
 Hard. Entirely. By-the-by, I believe they are in actual con- 
 sultation, upon what's for supper, this moment in the kitchen. 
 
 Marl. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy coun- 
 cil. It's a way I have got'. When I travel, I always choose to 
 regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence I 
 hippe, sir. 
 
 Hard. O no, sir, none in the least ; yet I don't know how, our 
 Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these oc- 
 casions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of the 
 house. 
 
 Hast. Let's see the list of the larder then. I ask it as a favour 
 I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. 
 
ACT II.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 15* 
 
 Marl, (to Hardcastle, who looks at them ivith surprise). Sir, 
 he's very right, and it's my way too. 
 
 Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Roger, bring 
 us the bill of fare for to-night's supper. I believe it's drawn out. 
 Your manner, Mr Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel 
 Wallop, It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his sup- 
 per till he had eaten it. 
 
 Hast, (aside). All upon the high ropes ! His uncle a colonel ! 
 we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of peace. But 
 let's hear the bill of fare. 
 
 Marl, {perusing). "What's here ? For the first course ; for the 
 second course ; for the dessert. Sir, do you think we have brought 
 down the whole joiner's company, or the corporation of Bedford, 
 to eat up such a supper ? Two or three little things, clean and 
 comfortable, will do. 
 
 Hast. But let's hear it. 
 
 Marl, (reading). For the first course at the top, a pig and 
 pruin sauce. 
 
 Hast. I hate your pig, I say. 
 
 Marl. And I hate your pruin sauce, say I. 
 
 Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with 
 pruin sauce, is very good eating. 
 
 Marl. At the bottom, a calf's tongue and brains. 
 
 Hast. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir ; I don't 
 like them. 
 
 Mark Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves, I do. 
 
 Hard, (aside). Their impudence confounds me. (To them) — 
 Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. 
 Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen ? 
 
 Marl. Item, a pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a floren- 
 tine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff — taff — taffety cream ! 
 
 Hast. Confound your made dishes. I shall be as much at a 
 loss in this house, as at a green and yellow dinner, at the French 
 ambassador's table. I'm for plain eating. 
 
 Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like ; 
 but if there be anything you have a particular fancy to 
 
 Marl. Why, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one 
 part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. 
 So much for supper : and now to see that our beds are aired and 
 properly taken care of. 
 
 Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not 
 stir a step. 
 
 Marl. Leave that to you * I protest, sir, you must excuse 
 me ; I always look to these things myself. 
 
 Hard. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head* 
 
156 GOLDSMITH S PLAYS. 
 
 Marl. You see I'm resolved on it. (Aside) — A very trouble* 
 some fellow this, as ever I met with. 
 
 Hard. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. (Aside) — 
 This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look sc 
 like old-fashioned impudence. (Exeunt Marl, and Hard.) 
 
 Hastings, solus. 
 
 Hast. So I find, this fellow's civilities begin to grow trouble- 
 some. But who can be angry at these assiduities, which are 
 meant to please him ? Ha ! what do I see ? Miss Neville, by all 
 that's happy ! 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Nev. My dear Hastings ! To what unexpected good for- 
 tune, to what accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting ? 
 
 Hast. Rather, let me ask the same question, as I could never 
 have hoped to meet my dear Constance at an inn. 
 
 Miss Nev. An inn ; sure you mistake ! my aunt, my guar- 
 dian, lives here. What could induce you to think this house an 
 inn? 
 
 Hast. My friend, Mr Mariow, with whom I came down, and I, 
 have been sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young fellow, 
 whom we accidentally met at a house hard by, directed us 
 hither. 
 
 Miss Nev. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful cousin's 
 tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Hast. He whom your aunt intends for you ? He of whom I 
 have such just apprehensions ? 
 
 Miss Nev. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. 
 You'd adore him, if you knew how heartily he despises me. My 
 aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him ; and 
 actually begins to think she has made a conquest. 
 
 Hast. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, my Constance, 
 I have just seized this happy opportunity of my friend's visit here, 
 to get admittance into the family. The horses that carried us 
 down, are now fatigued with their journey ; but they'll soon be 
 refreshed ; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful 
 Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France ; where, even among 
 slaves, the laws of marriage are respected. 
 
 Miss Nev. I have often told you, that though ready to obey 
 you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. 
 The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India direc- 
 tor, and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time 
 persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I am very 
 
ACT II.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 157 
 
 near succeeding. The instant they are put into my possession, 
 you shall find me ready to make them and myself yours. 
 
 Hast. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all I desire. In the 
 mean time, my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake : 
 I know the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if abruptly 
 informed of it, he would instantly quit the house, before our plan 
 was ripe for execution. 
 
 Miss Nev. But how shall we keep him in the deception ? Miss 
 Hardcastle is just returned from walking ; what if we still con- 
 tinue to deceive Mm ? This, this way {They confer.) 
 
 Enter Maelow. 
 
 Marl. The assiduities of these good people tease me beyond 
 bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone, 
 and so he clasps not only himself, but his old-fashioned wife on my 
 back. They talk of coming to sup with us too ; and then, I sup- 
 pose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the 
 family. — What have we got here ? — 
 
 Hast. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate you ! — The 
 most fortunate accident ! — Who do you think is just alighted ? 
 
 Marl. Cannot guess. 
 
 Hast. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 
 Give me leave to introduce Miss Constance Xeville to your ac- 
 quaintance. Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, they called, 
 on their return, to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has 
 just stept into the nest room, and will be back in an instant. 
 Wasn't it lucky, eh ? 
 
 Marl, (aside). I have just been mortified enough of all con- 
 science, and here comes something to complete my embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 Hast. W r ell, but wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the 
 world ? 
 
 Marl. Oh . r yes. Very fortunate — a most joyful encounter — 
 But our dresses, George, you know, are in disorder — What if we 
 should postpone the happiness till to-morrow ? — To-morrow, at her 
 own house — it will be every bit as convenient — And rather more 
 respectful — To-morrow let it be. (Offering to go.) 
 
 Miss Nev. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her, 
 The disorder of your dress will show the ardour of your im 
 patience : besides, she knows you are in the house, and will per- 
 mit you to see her. 
 
 Marl. ! how shall I support it ? Hem ! hem ! Hastings, 
 you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I shall be 
 confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it ! I'll take courage. 
 Hem! 
 
158 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Hast. Pshaw, man ! it's "but the first plunge, and all's over, 
 She's but a woman, you know. 
 Marl. And of all women, she that I dread most to encounter. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returning from walking, in a 
 bonnet, &c. 
 
 Hast, {introducing him). Miss Hardcastle — Mr Marlow. I'm 
 proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only 
 want to know, to esteem each other. 
 
 Miss Hard, {aside). Now, for meeting my modest gentleman 
 with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. {After a pause 
 in which he appears very uneasy, and disconcerted) I'm glad of 
 your safe arrival, sir — I'm told you had some accidents by the way. 
 
 Marl. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam, 
 a good many accidents ; but should be sorry — madam — or rather 
 glad of any accidents — that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 
 
 Hast, {to him). You never spoke better in your whole life. 
 Keep it up, and I'll ensure you the victory. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You, that have seen 
 so much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in an . 
 obscure corner of the country. 
 
 Marl, {gathering courage). I have lived, indeed, in the world, 
 madam ; but I have kept very little company. I have been but 
 an observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. 
 
 Miss Nev. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last, 
 
 Hast, {to him). Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you 
 are confirmed in assurance for ever. 
 
 Marl, {to him). Hem ! Stand by me, then, and when I'm down,, 
 throw in a word or two, to set me up again. 
 
 Miss Hard. An observer, like you, upon life, were, I fear, dis- 
 agreeably employed, since you must have had much more to cen- 
 sure than to approve. 
 
 Marl. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing to be amused. 
 The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 Hast, {to him). Bravo, bravo. Never spoke so well in your 
 whole life. Well ! {To Miss Hard.)— Miss Hardcastle, I see 
 that you and Mr Marlow are going to be very good company. I 
 believe our being here will but embarrass the interview. 
 
 Marl. Not in the least, Mr Hastings. We like your company 
 of all things. {To him) — Zounds ! George, sure you won't go 
 how can you leave us ? 
 
 Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so well retire 
 to the next room. {To him) — You don't consider, man, that we 
 are to manage a little tete-a-tete of our own. {Exeunt) 
 
ACT II.] 
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 159 
 
 Miss Hard, (after a pause). But you have not been wholly an 
 observer, I presume, sir : the ladies, I should hope, have employed 
 some part of your addresses. 
 
 Marl, (relapsing into timidity). Pardon me, madam, I — I — I — 
 as yet have studied — only — to — deserve them. 
 
 Miss Hard. And that, some say, is the very worst way to ob- 
 tain them. 
 
 Marl. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with 
 
 the more grave and sensible part of the sex. But I'm afraid I 
 
 grow tiresome. 
 
 Miss Hard, Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I like so much as 
 grave conversation myself ; I could hear it for ever. Indeed — I 
 have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever ad- 
 mire those light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the 
 heart. 
 
 Marl. It's — a disease — of the mind, madam. In the variety 
 of tastes there must be some, who, wanting a relish— for — um-a- 
 um. 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must be some, who, 
 wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what 
 they are incapable of tasting. 
 
 Marl. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. 
 And I can't help observing — a — 
 
 Miss Hard, (aside). "Who could ever suppose this fellow im- 
 pudent upon some occasions ? (To him.) — You were going to ob- 
 serve, sir 
 
 Marl. I was observing, madam — I protest, madam, I forget 
 what I was going to observe. 
 
 Miss Hard, (aside). I vow, and so do I. (To him) — You were 
 observing, sir, that in this age of hypocrisy— something about hy- 
 pocrisy, sir. 
 
 Marl. Yes, madam ; in this age of hypocrisy there are few 
 who, upon strict inquiry, do not — a — a — a — 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. 
 
 Marl, (aside). Indeed ! and that's more than I do myself. 
 
 Miss Hard. You mean that, in this hypocritical age, there are 
 few that do not condemn in public what they practise in private, 
 and think they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. 
 
 Marl. True, madam ; those who have most virtue in their 
 mouths, have least of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, 
 madam. 
 
 Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir ; there's something so agree- 
 able, and spirited, in your manner ; such life and force — praj, 
 Sir, go on. 
 
 Marl. Yes, madam ; I was saying — that there are some occa* 
 
160 . GOLDSMITH'S flays. 
 
 sions — when a total want of courage, madam, destroys all the— 
 and puts us — upon a — a — a — 
 
 Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely ; a want of courage upon 
 some occasions, assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays 
 us when we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. 
 
 Marl. Yes, madam ; morally speaking, madam — But I see 
 Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude 
 for the world. 
 
 Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably enter 
 tained in all my life. Pray go on. 
 
 Marl Yes, madam ; I was — But she beckons us to join her 
 Madam, shall I do myself the honour to attend you ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Well then, 111 follow. 
 
 Marl, (aside). This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Miss Hardcastle, sola. 
 
 Miss Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there ever such a sober senti- 
 mental interview ? I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the 
 whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashful- 
 ness, is pretty well too. He has good sense ; but then, so buried 
 in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could 
 teach him a little confidence, it would be doing somebody, that I 
 know of, a piece of service. But who is that somebody ? — that is 
 a question I can scarce answer. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs Hard- 
 castle and Hastings. 
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con ? I wonder 
 you're not ashamed, to be so very engaging. 
 
 Miss Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, 
 and not be to blame ? 
 
 Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want to make 
 me though ; but it won't do. I tell you, cousin Con, it won't do, 
 so I beg you'll keep your distance ; I want no nearer relation- 
 ship. (She follows, coquetting him to the back-scene.) 
 
 Mrs Hard. Well ! I vow, Mr Hastings, you are very enter- 
 taining. There's nothing in the world I love to talk of so much 
 as London, and the fashions, though I was never there myself. 
 
 Hast. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your air and 
 manlier, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at 
 Raflelagh, St James's, or Tower Wharf. 
 
 Mrs Hard. O ! sir, you're only pleased to say so. We country 
 persons can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the town ; 
 and that selves to raise me above some of our neighbouring rus- 
 
ACT II.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 161 
 
 tics ; but who can have a manner, that has never seen the Pan- 
 theon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places where 
 the nobility chiefly resort? All I can do is to enjoy London at 
 second-hand. I take care to know every tete-a-tete from the 
 Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as they come out, 
 in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked-lane. Pray, how 
 do you like this head, Mr Hastings ? 
 
 Hast. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my word, madam. 
 Your friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose ? 
 
 Mrs Hard. I protest I dressed it myself from a print in the 
 Ladies' Memorandum Book for the last year. 
 
 Hast. Indeed ! such a head in a side-box, at the play-house, 
 would draw as many gazers as my lady Mayoress at a city ball. 
 
 Mrs Hard. I vow, since inoculation began there is no such 
 thing to be seen as a plain woman ; so one must dress a little par- 
 ticular, or one may escape in the crowd. 
 
 Hast. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress. 
 
 (Bowing.) 
 
 Mrs Hard. Yet what signifies my dressing when I have such a 
 piece of antiquity by my side as Mr Hardcastle ? All I can say 
 will not argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often 
 wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was 
 bald, to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder. 
 
 Hast. You are right, madam ; for as among the ladies there 
 are none ugly, so among the men there are none old. 
 
 Mrs Hard. But what do you think his answer was ? "Why, 
 with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said, I only wanted him to throw 
 off his wig, to convert it into a tete for my own wearing. 
 
 Hast. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear what you 
 please, and it must become you. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Pray, Mr Hastings, what do you take to be the 
 most fashionable age about town ? 
 
 Hast. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; but I'm told 
 the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. 
 
 Miss Hard. Seriously ! then I shall be too young for the fashion. 
 
 Hast. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she's past forty. 
 For instance, Miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered 
 as a child, as a mere maker of samplers. 
 
 Mrs Hard. And yet Mrs Niece thinks herself as much a 
 woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all. 
 
 Hast. Your niece, is she ? and that young gentleman a brother 
 of yours, I should presume ? 
 
 Mrs Hard. My son, sir. They are contracted to each other. 
 Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a-day, 
 as if they were man and wife already. (To them) — Well, Tony, 
 
162 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance 
 this evening ? 
 
 Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that it's very 
 hard to be followed about so, Ecod, I've not a place in the house 
 now that's left to myself, but the stable. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear. He's in another 
 story behind your back. 
 
 Miss Nev. There's something generous in my cousin's manner. 
 He falls out before faces to be forgiven in private. 
 
 Tony. That's a confounded — crack. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you think they're like 
 each other about the mouth, Mr Hastings? The Blenkinsop 
 mouth to a T. They're of a size, too. Back to back, my pretties, 
 that Mr Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 
 
 Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. {Measuring) 
 
 Miss Nev. O ! he has almost cracked my head. 
 
 Mrs Hard. O, the monster ! For shame, Tony. You a man, 
 and behave so ! 
 
 Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod, I'll not be 
 made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm to get for the 
 pains I have taken in your education ? I that have rocked you 
 in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon ! Did not 
 I work that waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe 
 for you every day, and weep while the receipt was operating ? 
 
 Tony. Ecod, you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing 
 me ever since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in 
 the complete Huswife ten times over ; and you have thoughts of 
 coursing me through Quincy next spring. But, ecod, I tell you, 
 I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Wasn't it all for your good, viper ? Wasn't it all 
 for your good ? 
 
 Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone then. Snubbing 
 this way, when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, let it 
 come of itself ; not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. 
 
 Mrs Hard. That's false ; I never see you when you're in spirits. 
 No, Tony, you then go to the alehouse, or kennel. I'm never to 
 be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the 
 two. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Was ever the like ! But I see he wants to break my 
 heart, I see he does. 
 
 Hast. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman 
 a little. I'm certain I can persuade him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Well ! I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. 
 
ACT II.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 163 
 
 You see, Mr Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation. Was 
 ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, 
 undutiful boy ? {Exeunt Mrs Hard, and Miss Neville.) 
 
 Hastings. Tony. 
 Tony. (Singing.) 
 
 There was a young man riding by, 
 And fain would have his will. 
 
 Rang do didlo dee. 
 
 Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of her heart. I 
 have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together ; 
 and they said they liked the book the better the more it made 
 them cry. 
 
 Hast. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty 
 young gentleman. 
 
 Tony. That's as I find 'urn, 
 
 Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare answer : 
 and yet she appears to me a pretty well-tempered girl. 
 
 Tony. That's because you don't know her as well as I. Ecod, 
 I know every inch about her ; and there's not a more bitter can- 
 tanckerous toad in all Christendom. 
 
 Hast, (aside). Pretty encouragement this for a lover ! 
 
 Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as 
 many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day's break- 
 ing. 
 
 Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent. 
 
 Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with her playmates, 
 she's as loud as a hog in a gate. 
 
 Hast. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me. 
 
 Tony. Yes ; but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you're 
 flung in a ditch. 
 
 Hast, Well ; but you must allow her a little beauty. — Yes, you 
 must allow her some beauty. 
 
 Tony. Bandbox ! She's all a made up thing, mun. Ah ! could 
 you but see Bet Bouncer, of these parts, you might then talk of 
 beauty. Ecod, she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as 
 broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make two of she. 
 
 Hast. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this bit- 
 ter bargain off your hands ? 
 
 Tony. Anon. 
 
 Hast. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, 
 and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy ? 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend ? for who would 
 take her ? 
 
 Hast. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage to whip her 
 off to France, and you shall Eever hear more of her. 
 
164 GOLDSMITH^ PLAYS. 
 
 Tony. Assist you ! Ecod, I will, to the last drop of my blood. 
 I'll clap a pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle you off 
 in a twinkling ; and may be, get you a part of her fortin beside, 
 in jewels, that you little dream of. 
 
 Hast, My dear 'squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. 
 
 Tony. Come along then, and you shall see more of my spirit 
 before you have done with me. (Singing.) 
 
 We are the boys, 
 
 That fears no noise, 
 
 Where the thundering cannons roar. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, solus. 
 
 Hard. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean, by recom- 
 mending his son as the modestest young man in town ? To me he 
 appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a 
 tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side 
 already. He took off his boots in the parlour, and desired me ta 
 see them taken care of. I'm desirous to know how his impudence 
 affects my daughter. — She will certainly be shocked at it. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. 
 
 Hard. "Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as 
 I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. 
 
 Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your com- 
 mands, that I take care to obey them without ever debating their 
 propriety. 
 
 Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, par- 
 ticularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a 
 lover to-day. 
 
 Miss Hard. You taught me to expect something extraordinary, 
 and I find the original exceeds the description. 
 
 Hard. I was never so surprised in my life ! He has quite 
 confounded all my faculties ! 
 
 Miss Hard. I never saw anything like it : and a man of the 
 world too ! 
 
 Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad, — what a fool was I, to 
 think a young man could learn modesty by travelling ! He might 
 as soon learn wit at a masquerade. 
 
 Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. 
 
ACT III.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 165 
 
 Hard. A good deal assisted by bad company, and a French 
 dancing-master. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure you mistake, papa ! A French dancing- 
 master could never have taught him that timid look — that awk- 
 ward address — that bashful manner — 
 
 Hard. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Mr Marlow's : his mauvaise honte, his timidity, 
 struck me at the first sight. 
 
 Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; for I think him 
 one of the most brazen first-sights that ever astonished my 
 senses. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw any one so 
 modest. 
 
 Hard. And can you be serious ! I never saw such a bouncing, 
 swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a 
 fool to him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Surprising ! He met me with a respectful bow, a 
 stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground. 
 
 Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a fami- 
 liarity that made my blood freeze again. 
 
 Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and respect ; cen- 
 sured the manners of the age ; admired the prudence of girls that 
 never laughed ; tired me with apologies for being tiresome ; then 
 left the room with a bow, and, * Madam, I would not for the world 
 detain you. 5, 
 
 Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before ; 
 asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer ; inter- 
 rupted my best remarks with some silly pun ; and when I was in 
 my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, 
 he asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, 
 he asked your father if he was a maker of punch ! 
 
 Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be mistaken. 
 
 Hard. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm determined he 
 shall never have my consent. 
 
 Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall 
 never have mine. 
 
 Hard. In one thing then we are agreed — to reject him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes. But upon conditions. For if you should 
 find him less impudent, and I more presuming ; if you find him 
 more respectful, and I more importunate — I don't know — the fel- 
 low is well enough for a man — Certainly we don't meet many such 
 at a horse-race in the country. 
 
 Hard. If we should find him so — but that's impossible. The 
 first appearance has done my business. I'm seldom deceived in 
 that. 
 
166 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Miss Hard, And yet there may be many good qualities under 
 that first appearance. 
 
 Hard* Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to her taste, she 
 then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her a 
 smooth face 3tands for good sense, and a genteel figure for every 
 virtue. 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compli- 
 ment to my good sense, won't end with a sneer at my under- 
 standing. 
 
 Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr Brazen can find 
 the art of reconciling contradictions, he may please us both, per- 
 haps. 
 
 Miss Hard. And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we 
 go to make further discoveries ? 
 
 Hard, But depend on't I'm in the right. 
 
 Miss Hard. And depend on't I'm not much in the wrong. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Enter Tony running in with a casket. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, I have got them. Here they are. My cousin 
 Con's necklaces, bobs, and all. My mother shan't cheat the poor 
 souls out of their fortin neither. O ! my genius, is that you ? 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hast. My dear friend, how have you managed with your 
 mother ? I hope you have amused her with pretending love for 
 your cousin ; and that you are willing to be reconciled at last. 
 Our horses will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon be 
 ready to set off. 
 
 Tony. And here's something to bear your charges by the way 
 (giving the casket) your sweetheart's jewels. Keep them ; and 
 hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them. 
 
 Hast. But how have you procured them from your mother ? 
 
 Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs. I pro- 
 cured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every 
 drawer in mother's bureau, how could I go to the alehouse so 
 often as I do ? An honest man may rob of himself his own at 
 any time. 
 
 Hast. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you, 
 Miss Neville is endeavouring to procure them from her aunt 
 this very instant. If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate 
 way at least of obtaining them. 
 
 Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. I know 
 how it will be well enough ; she'd as soon part with the only 
 sound tooth in her head. 
 
ACT III.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 1G7 
 
 Hast, But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she 
 finds she has lost them. 
 
 Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to manage 
 that. I don't value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. 
 Zounds ! here they are. Morrice. Prance. {Exit Hastings.) 
 
 Tony, Mrs Hardcastle, Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as 
 you want jewels ! It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, 
 twenty years hence ; when your beauty begins to want repairs. 
 
 Miss Nev. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly 
 improve it at twenty, madam. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural 
 blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are 
 quite out at present. Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaint- 
 ance, my Lady Kill-day-light, and Mrs Crump, and the rest of 
 them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste 
 and marcasifces back ? 
 
 Miss Nev. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall 
 be nameless would like me best with all my little finery about 
 me? 
 
 Mrs Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see, if, with 
 such a pair of eyes, you want any better sparklers. What do you 
 think, Tony, my dear, does your cousin Con want jewels, in your 
 eyes, to set off her beauty ? 
 
 Tony. That's as thereafter may be. 
 
 Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. 
 
 Mrs Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table-cut things. 
 They would make you look like the court of king Solomon at a 
 puppet-show. Besides, I believe I can't readily come at them. 
 They may be missing for aught I know to the contrary. 
 
 Tony {apart to Mrs Hardcastle). Then why don't you tell 
 her so at once, as she's so longing for them ? Tell her they're lost. 
 It's the only way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to 
 bear witness. 
 
 Mrs Hard, {apart to Tony). You know, my dear, I'm only 
 keeping them for you. So, if I say they're gone, you'll bear me 
 witness, will you ? He ! he ! he ! 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Ecod, I'll say I saw them taken out 
 with mine own eyes. 
 
 Mrs Hard. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I 
 could find them, you should have them. They're missing, I assure 
 you. Lost, for aught I know ; but we must have patience wher- 
 ever they are. 
 
 Miss Nev. I'll not believe it ; this is but a shallow pretence to 
 
168 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 deny me. I know they're too valuable to be so slightly kept, and 
 as you are to answer for the loss. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance ; if they be lost, I 
 must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are missing, 
 and not to be found. 
 
 Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not 
 to be found, I'll take my oath on't. 
 
 Mrs Hard. You must learn resignation, my dear ; for though 
 we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, 
 how calm I am. 
 
 Miss Nev. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of 
 others. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Now, I wonder a girl of your good sense should 
 waste a thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them ; 
 and, in the meantime, you shall make use of my garnets, till your 
 jewels be found. 
 
 Miss Nev. I detest garnets. 
 
 Mrs Hard. The most becoming things in the world, to set off 
 a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look upon 
 me. You shall have them. (Exit.) 
 
 Miss Nev. I dislike them of all things. (To Tony) — You shan't 
 stir. — Was ever anything so provoking ? to mislay my own jewels, 
 and force me to wear her trumpery. 
 
 Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what 
 you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen 
 them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your 
 spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. 
 
 Miss Nev. My dear cousin ! 
 
 Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them already. 
 Zounds ! how she fidgets, and spits about like a Catharine-wheel ! 
 
 Enter Mrs Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! We are cheated, 
 plundered, broken open, undone. 
 
 Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, mamma ? I hope 
 nothing has happened to any of the good family ! 
 
 Mrs Hard. We are robbed. My bureau has been broke open, 
 the jewels taken out, and I'm undone. 
 
 Tony. Oh ! is that all ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! By the laws, I never 
 saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined 
 in earnest ; ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Mrs Hard. Why, boy I am ruined in earnest. My bureau has 
 been broke open, and all taken away. 
 
 Tony. Stick to that ; ha, ha, ha ! stick to that ; I'll bear wit- 
 ness, you know ; call me to bear witness. 
 
ACT III.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 169 
 
 Mrs Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the jewels 
 are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever. 
 
 Tony. Sure, I know they're gone, and I am to say so. 
 
 Mrs Hard, My dearest Tony, but hear me. They're gone, I 
 eay. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh ; ha ! 
 ha ! I know who took them well enough ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can't tell 
 the difference between jest and earnest ? I tell you I'm not in jest, 
 booby ? 
 
 Tony. That's right, that's right. You must be in a bitter pas- 
 sion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I'll bear witness 
 that they are gone. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that 
 won't hear me ! Can you bear witness that you're no better than 
 a fool ? "Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, 
 and thieves on the other ? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I'll 
 turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will be- 
 come of her ! Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you en- 
 joyed my distress ? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Do you insult me, monster ? I'll teach you to vex 
 your mother, I will. 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 (He runs off, she follows him.) 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid. 
 
 Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of 
 mine, to send them to the house as an inn ; ha ! ha ! I don't won- 
 der at his impudence. 
 
 Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman, as you 
 passed by in your present dress, asked me if you were the bar- 
 maid ? He mistook you for the bar-maid, madam. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did he ? Then, as I live, I'm resolved to keep up 
 the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present dress ? 
 Don't you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux' Stra- 
 tagem ? 
 
 Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady wears in the 
 country, but when she visits or receives company. 
 
 Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not remember my face 
 or person ? 
 
 Maid. Certain of it. 
 
 Miss Hard. I vow, I thought so ; for though we spoke for some 
 
170 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 " time together, yet his fears were such, that he never once looked 
 up during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bom: et would 
 have kept him from seeing me. 
 
 Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in his mistake ? 
 
 Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be seen, and that is no 
 small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then 
 I shall, perhaps, make an acquaintance, and that's no small victor} 
 gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest of he* 
 sex. But my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard, 
 and, like an invisible champion of romance, examine the giant's 
 force before I offer to combat. 
 
 Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and disguise 
 your voice, so that he may mistake that, as he has already mis- 
 taken your person ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar 
 cant. — Did your honour call ? — Attend the Lion there. — Pipes and 
 tobacco for the Angel. — The Lamb has been outrageous this half- 
 hour. 
 
 Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. (Exit Maid.) 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marl. What a bawling in every part of the house ! I have 
 scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best room, there I find 
 my host and his story. If I fly to the gallery, there we have my 
 hostess, with her curtesy down to the ground. I have at last got 
 a moment to myself, and now for recollection. 
 
 (Walks and muses.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Did you call, sir ? did your honour call ? 
 
 Marl, (musing). As for Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave and 
 sentimental for me. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did your honour call ? 
 
 (She still places herself before him, he turning away.) 
 
 Marl. No, child. (Musing.) Besides, from the glimpse I had 
 of her, I think she squints. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. 
 
 Marl. No, no. (Musing.) I have pleased my father, however, 
 by coming down, and I'll to-morrow please myself by returning. 
 (Taking out his tablets, and perusing.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir. 
 
 Marl. I tell you, no. 
 
 Miss Hard. I should be glad to knew, sir. We have such a 
 parcel of servants. 
 
 Marl. No, no, I tell you. (Looks fidl in her face) Yes, child, 
 I think I did call. I wanted — I wanted — I vow, child, you are 
 vastly handsome. 
 
ACT III-l SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 171 
 
 Miss Hard. la, sir, you'll make one ashamed. 
 
 Marl. Never saw a more sprightly, malicious eye. Yes, yes, 
 my dear, I did call. Have you got any of your — a — what d'ye 
 call it, in the house ? 
 
 Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days. 
 
 Marl. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. 
 Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar 
 of your lips ; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too. 
 
 Miss Hard. Nectar ! nectar ! that's a liquor there's no call for 
 in these parts. French, I suppose. We keep no French wines 
 here, sir. 
 
 Marl. Of true English growth, I assure you. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not know it. We brew all 
 sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen 
 years. 
 
 Marl. Eighteen years ? Why, one would think, child, you kept 
 the bar before you were born. How old are you ? 
 
 Miss Hard. O ! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women 
 and music should never be dated. 
 
 Marl. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty 
 {Approaching.) Yet nearer, I don't think so much. {Approaching.) 
 By coming close to some women they look younger still ; but when 
 we come very close indeed — {Attempting to kiss her.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think 
 you wanted to know one's age as they do horses, by mark of 
 mouth. 
 
 Marl. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep 
 me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can be ever ac- 
 quainted ? 
 
 Miss Hard. And who wants to be acquainted with you ? T 
 want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat 
 Miss Hardcastle, that was here a while ago, in this obstropalous 
 manner. Ill warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept 
 bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you was 
 before a justice of peace. 
 
 Marl, {aside). Egad ! she has hit it, sure enough. {To her) — 
 In awe of her, child ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! A mere awkward, squint- 
 ing thing ; no, no. I find you don't know me. I laughed, and 
 rallied her a little ; but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I 
 could not be too severe. 
 
 Miss Hard. ! then, sir, you are a favourite, I find, among 
 the ladies. 
 
 Marl. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet, hang me, I 
 don't see what they find in me to follow. At the ladies' club in 
 town, I'm called their agreeable Rattle, Rattle, child, is not my 
 
172 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 real name, but one I'm known by. My name is Solomons. Mr 
 Solomons, my dear, at your service. (Offering to salute her.) 
 
 Miss Hard, Hold, sir ; you were introducing me to your club, 
 not to yourself. And you're so great a favourite there, you say ? 
 
 Marl. Yes, my dear ; there's Mrs Mantrap, lady Betty Black- 
 leg, the countess of Sligo, Mrs Longhorns, old Miss Biddy Buck- 
 skin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it's a very merry place I suppose. 
 
 Marl. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and old women, 
 can make us. 
 
 Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Marl, (aside). Indeed ! I don't quite like this chit. She looks 
 knowing, methinks. (To her)— You laugh, child ! 
 
 Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think what time they all have 
 for minding their work or their family. 
 
 Marl, (aside). All's well, she don't laugh at me. (To her) — 
 Do you ever work, child ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or a quilt in the 
 whole house but what can bear witness to that. 
 
 Marl. Odso ! Then you must show me your embroidery. I 
 embroider, and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a 
 judge of your work you must apply to me. (Seizing her hand.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, but the colours don't look well by candle- 
 light. You shall see all in the morning. (Struggling.) 
 
 Marl. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty fires beyond 
 the power of resistance— Pshaw ! the father here ! My old luck ! 
 I never nicked seven, that I did not throw ames-ace three times 
 following. (Exit Marlow.) 
 
 Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprise. 
 
 Hard. So, madam ! So I find this is your modest lover. This 
 is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, 
 and only adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not 
 ashamed to deceive your father so. 
 
 Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's still the 
 modest man I first took him for ; you'll be convinced of it as well 
 as I. 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is in- 
 fectious ! Didn't I see him seize your hand ? didn't I see him haul 
 you about like a milk maid ? and now you talk of his respect and 
 his modesty, forsooth ! 
 
 Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty ; that 
 he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues 
 that will improve with age ; I hope you'll forgive him. 
 
 Hard. The girl would actually make one run mad ; I tell you, 
 
rSfjrf^ 
 
 ILarl . Pshaw! the father heTe ! My ol~\ 
 JlarcL. So. malani! So I find this is your 
 mo de st love:- . 
 
 Stoops to conquer 3?: 172. 
 
ACT IV.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 173 
 
 1*11 not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarcely been 
 three hours in the house, and he has already encroached on all 
 my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, and call it modesty ; 
 but my son-in-law, madam, must have very different qualifications. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you. 
 
 Hard. You shall not have half the time ; for I have thoughts 
 of turning him out this very hour. 
 
 Miss Hard. Give me that hour, then, and I hope to satisfy you. 
 
 Hard, Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll have no trifling 
 with your father. All fair and open, do you mind me ? 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered 
 your commands as my pride ; for your kindness is such that my 
 duty as yet has been inclination. (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Xeville. 
 
 Hast. You surprise me ! Sir Charles Marlow expected here 
 this night ? "Where have you had this information ? 
 
 Miss Nev. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to 
 Mr Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out a few 
 hours after his son. 
 
 Hast. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he 
 arrives. He knows me ; and should he find me here, would dis- 
 cover my name, and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the 
 family. 
 
 Miss Nev. The jewels, I hope, are safe. 
 
 Hast. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps 
 the keys of our baggage. In the meantime, I'll go to prepare 
 matters for our elopement. I have had the squire's promise of a 
 fresh pair of horses : and, if I should not see him again, will 
 write him further directions. (Exit.) 
 
 Miss Nev. Well ! success attend you. In the mean time, I'll 
 go amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for 
 my cousin. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. 
 
 Marl. I wonder, what Hastings could mean by sending me sc 
 valuable a thing as a casket to keep for him, when he knows the 
 only place I have, is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. — 
 Have you deposited the casket with the landlady , as I ordered 
 you ? Have you put it into her own hands ? 
 
174 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 Serv. Yes, your honour. 
 
 Marl. She said she'd keep it safe, did she ? 
 
 Serv. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough ; she asked me 
 how I came by it, and she said she had a great mind to make me 
 give an account of myself. (JEocit Servant.) 
 
 Marl Ha ! ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. What an unac- 
 countable set of beings have we got amongst ! This little bar- 
 maid, though, runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the 
 absurdities of all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be 
 mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hast. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her, that I intended to 
 prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits 
 too! 
 
 Marl. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow me with 
 laurels ! "Well, George, after all, we modest fellows don't want 
 for success among the women. 
 
 Hast. Some women, you mean. But what success has your 
 honour's modesty been crown'd with now, that it grows so inso- 
 *ent upon us ? 
 
 Marl. Did't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely little thing 
 that runs about the house, with a bunch of keys to its girdle ? 
 
 Hast. Well, and what then ? 
 
 Marl. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, such 
 eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she would not let me kiss them though. 
 
 Hast. But are you so sure, so very sure of her ? 
 
 Marl. "Why man, she talked of showing me her work above 
 stairs, and I'm to improve the pattern. 
 
 Hast. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to 
 lock up ? Is it in safety ? 
 
 Marl. Yes, yes ; it's safe enough. I have taken care of it. 
 But how could you think the seat of a post-coach, at an inn-door, 
 a place of safety ? Ah ! numb-skull ! I have taken better pre- 
 cautions for you, than you did for yourself. — I have — 
 
 Hast. What ? 
 
 Marl. I have sent it to the landlady, to keep for you. 
 
 Hast To the landlady ! 
 
 Marl. The landlady. 
 
 Hast. You did ! 
 
 Marl. I did. She's to be answerable for its forthcoming, you 
 know. 
 
 Hast. Yes, she'll bring it forth, with a witness. 
 
 Marl. Was'nt I right ! I believe you'll allow that I acted 
 prudently upon this occasion. 
 
ACT IV.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 1?5 
 
 Hast, {aside). He must not see my uneasiness. 
 
 Marl. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure 
 nothing has happened. 
 
 Hast. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my 
 life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very 
 readily undertook the charge ? 
 
 Marl. Rather too readily. For she not only kept the casket ; 
 but, through her great precaution, waa going to keep the mes- 
 senger too. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hast. He ! he ! he ! They are safe, however. 
 
 Marl. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 
 
 Hast, (aside). So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and 
 we must set off without it. (To him) — "Well, Charles, I'll leave 
 you to your meditations on the pretty bar-maid. (Exit.) 
 
 Marl, Thank ye, George ! 
 
 Enter Hakdcastle. 
 
 Hard. I no longer know my own house. I'ts turned all topsy- 
 turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I'll bear it no 
 longer ; and yet, for my respect for hi3 father, I'll be calm. (To 
 him) — Mr Mario w, your servant. I'm your very humble servant. 
 
 (Bowing low.) 
 
 Marl. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside) — "What's to be the 
 wonder now ? 
 
 Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man 
 alive ought to be more welcome than your father's son, sir. I 
 hope you think so. 
 
 Marl. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't want much entreaty. 
 I generally make my father's son welcome wherever he goes. 
 
 Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say 
 nothing to your own conduct, that of your servants is insufferable. 
 Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this 
 house, I assure you. 
 
 Marl. I protest, my very good sir, that's no fault of mine. If 
 they don't drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordered 
 them not to spare the cellar: I did, I assure you. (To the side 
 scene) — Here, let one of my servants come up. (To him) — My 
 positive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they 
 should make up for my deficiencies below. 
 
 Hard. Then, they had your orders tor what they do ! I'm 
 satisfied. 
 
 Marl. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of 
 themselves*. 
 
176 goldsmith's plays. 
 
 Enter Servant, drunk. 
 
 Marl. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! What were 
 my orders ? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what 
 you thought fit, for the good of the house ? 
 
 Hard, {aside). I begin to lose my patience. 
 
 Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet-street for ever ! 
 Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good as another man. I'll 
 drink for no man before supper, sir ! Good liquor will sit upon 
 a good supper ; but a good supper will not sit upon — (Hiccu})) — 
 upon my conscience, sir. 
 
 Marl. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he 
 can possibly be. I don't know what you'd have more, unless 
 you'd have the poor fellow soused in a beer-barrel. 
 
 Hard. Zounds ! He'll drive me distracted if I contain myself any 
 longer (aside). Mr Marlow, sir; I have submitted to your insolence 
 for more than four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming 
 to an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, sir ; and I desire 
 that you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly. 
 
 Marl. Leave your house ? — Sure you jest, my good friend ! 
 What, when I'm doing what I can to please you ? 
 
 Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; so I desire you'll 
 leave my house. 
 
 Marl. Sure you cannot be serious ! At this time o' night, and 
 such a night ! You only mean to banter me. 
 
 Hard. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ; and, now that my passion? 
 are roused, I say this house is mine, sir ; this house is mine, and 
 I command you to leave it directly ! 
 
 Marl. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I shan't stir a 
 step, I assure you. (In a serious tone.) This your house, fellow ! 
 It's my house. This is my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. 
 What right have you to bid me leave this house, sir ? I never 
 met with such impudence, never in my whole life before. 
 
 Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. To come to my house, 
 to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult 
 the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell 
 me, This house is mine, sir. By all that's impudent, it makes me 
 laugh. Ha ! ha ! Pray, sir (bantering), as you take the house, 
 what think you of taking the rest of the furniture ? There's a 
 pair of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a 
 pair of brazen-nosed bellows, perhaps you may take a fancy to 
 them. 
 
 Marl. Bring me your bill, sir, bring me your bill, and let's 
 make no more words about it. 
 
 Hard. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the 
 Rake's Progress for your own apartment ? 
 
ACT IV ] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 177 
 
 Marl. Bring me your bill, I say ; and 111 leave you and your 
 house directly. 
 
 Hard. Then there's a mahogany table, that you may see your 
 own face in. 
 
 Marl. My bill, I say. 
 
 Hard. I had forgot the great chair, for your own particular 
 slumbers, after a hearty meal. 
 
 Marl. Zound3 ! bring me my bill, I say ; and let's hear no 
 more on't. 
 
 Hard. Young man, young man, from your father's letter to me, 
 I was taught to expect a well-bred, modest man as a visitor here ; 
 but now I find him no better than a coxcomb, and a bully. But 
 he will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. (Exit.) 
 
 Marl. How's this ? Sure I have not mistaken the house ! 
 Everything looks like an inn. The servants cry, Coming. The 
 attendance is awkward ; the bar-maid too to attend us. But 
 she's here, and will further inform me. Whither so fast, child ! 
 A word with you. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle, 
 
 Miss Hard. Let it be short then. I'm in a hurry. (Aside) — 
 I believe he begins to find out his mistake ; but it's too soon quite 
 to undeceive him. 
 
 Marl. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, 
 and what may your business in this house be ? 
 
 Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. 
 
 Marl What ; a poor relation ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir ; a poor relation, appointed to keep the 
 keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power to 
 give them. 
 
 Marl. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn. 
 
 Miss Hard. O la ! — What brought that in your head ? One 
 of the best families in the county keep an inn ! Ha, ha, ha ! old 
 Mr Hardcastle 's house an inn ! 
 
 Marl. Mr Hardcastle's house ? Is this house Mr Hardcastle 's 
 house, child ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be ? 
 
 Marl. So then all's out, and I have been imposed on. 0, con- 
 found my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. 
 I shall be stuck up in caricatura in all the print-shops : the Dul- 
 lissimo Maccaroni. To mistake this house, of all others, for an 
 inn ; and my father's old friend for an innkeeper ! What a 
 swaggering puppy must he take me for ! What a silly puppy do 
 I find myself ! There again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I 
 mistook you for the bar-maid. 
 
 M 
 
178 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure there's nothing in 
 my behaviour to put me upon a level with one of that stamp. 
 
 Marl. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of 
 blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stu- 
 pidity saw everything the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity 
 for assurance, and your simplicity for allurement. But it's over 
 — This house I no more show my face in. 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to disoblige you. 
 I'm sure I should be sorry to affront any gentleman who has been 
 so polite, and said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I should 
 be sorry (pretending to cry) if he left the family upon my account. 
 I'm sure I should be sorry, people said anything amiss, since I 
 have no fortune but my character. 
 
 Marl, (aside). By heaven, she weeps. This is the first mark 
 of tenderness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches 
 me. (To her) — Excuse me, my lovely girl, you are the only part 
 of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be plain with you, 
 the difference of our birth, fortune, and education, make an hon- 
 ourable connection impossible ; and I can never harbour a thought 
 of bringing ruin upon one, whose only fault was being too lovely. 
 
 Miss Hard, (aside). Generous man ! I now begin to admire him. 
 (To him) — But I'm sure my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's ; 
 and though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented 
 mind ; and until this moment, I never thought that it was bad to 
 want fortune. 
 
 Marl. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Because it puts me a distance from one, that if I 
 had a thousand pound I would give it all too. 
 
 Marl, (aside). This simplicity bewitches me so that if I stay I'm 
 undone. I must make one bold effort, and leave her. (To her) — 
 Your partiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; 
 and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. 
 But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much to the 
 authority of a father, so that — I can scarcely speak it — it affects 
 me. Farewell. (Exit.) 
 
 Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not 
 go, if I have power or art to detain him. I'll still preserve the 
 character in which I stooped to conquer ; but will undeceive my 
 papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his resolution. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter Tony, Miss Neville. 
 
 Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have 
 done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure thing ; 
 but she believes it was all a mistake of the servants. 
 
 Miss Nev. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't forsake us in 
 
A.CT IV.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 178 
 
 this distress. If she in the least suspects that I'm going off, 1 
 shall certainly be locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which 
 is ten times worse. 
 
 Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are bad things ; but what 
 can I do ? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like 
 "Whistle-jacket, and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you 
 nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit or 
 two more, for fear she should suspect us. 
 
 {They retire and seem tofoiwtle) 
 
 Enter Mrs Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure. But my 
 son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I shan't be easy, 
 however, till they are fairly married, and then let her keep her 
 own fortune. But what do I see ? Fondling together, as I'm 
 alive. I never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have I caught 
 you, my pretty doves ? What ! billing, exchanging stolen glances, 
 and broken murmurs ? Ah ! 
 
 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little, now and 
 then, to be sure. But there's no love lost between us. 
 
 Mrs Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to 
 make it burn brighter. 
 
 M%ss Nev. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his com- 
 pany at home. Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It won't 
 leave us, cousin Tony, will it ? 
 
 Tony. ! it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner leave my 
 horse in a pound, than leave you, when you smile upon one so. 
 Your laugh makes you so becoming. 
 
 Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help admiring that 
 natural humour, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless (patting 
 his cheek), ah ! it's a bold face. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Pretty innocence ! 
 
 Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel eyes, and 
 her pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that, over the 
 haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Ah, he would charm the bird from the tree. I was 
 never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr 
 Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours in- 
 continently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my 
 dear? You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the 
 rest of his education, like Mr Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 Enter DlGGORY. 
 
 Bigg. Where's the 'squire ? I have got a letter for your wor- 
 ship. 
 
180 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Tony, Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first. 
 
 Digg. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands. 
 
 Tony. Who does it come from ? 
 
 Digg. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter itself. 
 
 Tony. I could wish to know, though (turning the letter and gaz- 
 ing on it). 
 
 Miss Nev. (aside). Undone, undone ! A letter to him from 
 Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined 
 for ever. I'll keep her employed a little if I can. (To Mrs 
 Hardcastle) — But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's 
 smart answer just now to Mr Marlow. "We so laughed — You must 
 know, madam — this way a little ; for he must not hear us. 
 
 (They confer.) 
 
 Tony (stiU gazing), A cramp piece of penmanship as 
 
 ever I saw in my life. I can read your print-band very well. But 
 here there are such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can 
 scarce tell the head from the tail. To Anthony Lumpkin, Esq. 
 It's very odd, I can read the outside of my letters, where my own 
 name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it is all — buzz. 
 That's hard, very hard ; for the inside of the letter is always the 
 cream of the correspondence. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very well. And so my son 
 was too hard for the philosopher. 
 
 Miss Nev. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the rest, madam. 
 A little more this way, or he may hear us. You'll hear how he 
 puzzled him again. 
 
 Mrs Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, me- 
 thinks. 
 
 Tony (stiU gazing). An up and down hand, as if it was disguised 
 in liquor. (Reading) — Dear Sir. Ay, that's that. Then there's 
 an My and a T, and S ; but whether the next be izzard or an E, 
 confound me, I cannot tell. 
 
 Mrs Hard. What's that, my dear. Can I give you any assist- 
 ance ? 
 
 Miss Nev. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp 
 hand better than I. (Twitching the letter from her.) Do you know 
 who it is from ? 
 
 Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder. 
 
 Miss Nev. Ay, so it is. (Pretending to read) — Dear 'Squire, 
 Hoping that you're in health, as I am at this present. The gen- 
 tlemen of the Shake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose- 
 green quite out of feather. The odds — um — odd battle— urn— -long 
 fighting — um— Here, here ; it's all about cocks and fighting : it's 
 of no consequence ; here, put it up, put it up. 
 
 (Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.) 
 
ACT IV.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 181 
 
 Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the consequence in the 
 world. I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, 
 do you make it out. Of no consequence ! 
 
 (Giving Mrs HARDCASTLE the Utter) 
 
 Mrs Hard. How's this ? (Reads) — 
 
 Dear 'Squire, — I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and 
 paii*, at the "bottom of the garden, but I find my horses yet unable to per- 
 form the journey. I expect you'll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as 
 you promised. Dispatch is necessary, as the hag (ay the hag), your 
 mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, Hastings. 
 
 Grant me patience. I shall run distracted. My rage chokes me. 
 
 Miss Nev. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your resentment for 
 a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinis- 
 ter design that belongs to another. 
 
 Mrs Hard, (curtseying very low). Fine-spoken madam, you are 
 most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink of 
 courtesy and circumspection, madam. (Changing her tone) — And 
 you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep 
 your mouth shut. Were you, too, joined against me ? But I'll 
 defeat all your plots in a moment. As for you, madam, since you 
 have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it would be cruel to disap- 
 point them. So, if you please, instead of running away with your 
 spark, prepare, this very moment, to run off with me. Your old 
 aunt Pedigree will keep you secure, I'll warrant me. You too, sir, 
 may mount your horse and guard us upon the way. Here, Thomas, 
 Roger, Diggory, I'll show you that I wish you better than you do 
 yourselves. (Exit.) 
 
 Miss Nev. So, now I'm completely ruined. 
 
 Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 
 
 Miss Nev. What better could be expected, from being con- 
 nected with such a stupid fool, and after all the nods and signs 1 
 made him ? 
 
 Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, and not 
 my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice, and so 
 busy, with your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you 
 could never be making believe. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hast. So, sir, I find by my servant, that you have shown my 
 letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman ? 
 
 Tony. Here's another. Ask miss, there, who betrayed you. 
 Ecod, it was her doing, not mine. 
 
 Enter MaRLOW. 
 Marl. So, I have been finely used here among you. Rendered 
 
L82 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 contemptible, driven into ill-manners, despised, insulted, laughed 
 at. 
 
 Tony, Here's another. We shall have old Bedlam broke loose 
 presently. 
 
 Miss Nev. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe 
 every obligation. 
 
 Marl. What can I say to him, a mere boy, an idiot, whose ig- 
 norance and age are a protection ? 
 
 Hast* A poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace cor- 
 rection. 
 
 Miss Nev. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make him- 
 self merry with all our embarrassments. 
 
 Hast. An insensible cub. 
 
 Marl. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
 
 Tony. Baw ! but I'll fight you both, one after the 
 
 other, with baskets. 
 
 Marl. As for him, he's below resentment. But your conduct, 
 Mr Hastings, requires an explanation. You knew of my mistakes, 
 yet would not undeceive me. 
 
 Hast. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is this 
 a time for explanations ? It is not friendly, Mr Marlow. 
 
 Marl. But, sir 
 
 Miss Nev. Mr Marlow, we never kept on your mistake, till it 
 was too late to undeceive you. Be pacified. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. My mistress desires you'll get ready immediately, madam. 
 The horses are putting to. Your hat and things are in the next 
 room. We are to go thirty mile3 before morning. 
 
 (Exit Servant.) 
 
 Miss Nev. Well, well ; I'll come presently. 
 
 Marl. (To Hastings). Was it well done, sir, to assist in ren« 
 dering me ridiculous ? To hang me out for the scorn of all my 
 acquaintance ? Depend upon it, sir, I shall expect an explana- 
 tion. 
 
 Hast. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that subject, to de- 
 liver what I intrusted to yourself, to the care of another, sir ? 
 
 Miss Nev. Mr Hastings, Mr Marlow, why will you increase my 
 distress by this groundless dispute ? I implore, I entreat you 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impatient. 
 Miss Nev. I come. Pray be pacified. If I leave you thus, I 
 shall die with apprehension. 
 
ACT V.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 18S 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The horses are 
 waiting. 
 
 Miss Nev. 0, Mr Marlow ! if you knew what a scene of con- 
 straint and ill-nature lies before me, I'm sure it would convert 
 jour resentment into pity. 
 
 Marl. I'm so distracted with a variety of passions, that I don't 
 know what I do. Forgive, me, madam. George, forgive me. 
 You know my hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. 
 
 Hast. The torture of my situation is my only excuse. 
 
 Miss Nev. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for 
 me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for 
 three years will but increase the happiness of our future con- 
 nexion. If — 
 
 Mrs Hard, {within). Miss Neville. Constance, why Constance, 
 I say. 
 
 Miss Nev. I'm coming. Well, constancy. Remember, con- 
 stancy is the word. {Exit.) 
 
 Hast. My heart, how-can I support this ! To be so near hap- 
 piness, and such happiness. 
 
 Marl, (to Tony). You see now, young gentleman, the effects 
 of your folly. What might be amusement to you, is here disap- 
 pointment, and even distress. 
 
 Tony, (from a reverie). Ecod, I have hit it. It's here. Your 
 hands. Yours and yours, my poor sulky. My boots there, ho ! 
 Meet me two hours hence at the bottom of the garden ; and if you 
 don't find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than you 
 thought for, 111 give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet 
 Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! 
 
 {Exeunt) 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene continues. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS and SERVANT. 
 
 Hast. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you 
 say? 
 
 Serv. Yes, your honour ; they went off in a post-coach, and 
 the young 'squire went on horseback. They're thirty miles off by 
 this time. 
 
 Hast. Then all my hopes are over. 
 
184 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Sew. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the old 
 gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr Marlow's mis- 
 take this half-hour. They are coming this way. 
 
 Hast. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless ap- 
 pointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the time. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Enter Sir Charles and Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone in which he sent 
 forth his sublime commands ! , 
 
 Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated 
 all your advances ! 
 
 Hard. And yet he might have seen something in me above a 
 common innkeeper too. 
 
 Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an uncommon 
 innkeeper, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hard. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of anything but 
 joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make 
 our personal friendships hereditary ; and though my daughter's 
 fortune is but small 
 
 Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to me ? My 
 son is possessed of more than a competence already, and can want 
 nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his happiness and 
 increase it. If they like each other, as you say they do — 
 
 Hard. If, man ! I tell you they do like each other. My 
 daughter as good as told me so. 
 
 Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know. 
 
 Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner my- 
 self ; and here he comes to put you out of your ifs, I warrant him. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marl. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange 
 conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion. 
 
 Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too gravely. An hour 
 or two's laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. — 
 She'll never like you the worse for it. 
 
 Marl. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. 
 
 Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr Marlow: if I am 
 not deceived, you have something more than approbation there- 
 abouts. You take me. 
 
 Marl. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. 
 
 Hard. Come boy, I'm an old fellow, and know what's what, 
 as well as you that are younger. I know what has passed between 
 you ; but mum. 
 
 Marl. Sure, sir, nothing has passed between us, but the mos\ 
 
ACT V.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 185 
 
 profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on hers. 
 You don't think, sir, that my impudence has been passed upon all 
 the rest of the family ? 
 
 Hard. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — Not quite im- 
 pudence — Though girls like to be played with, and rumpled a 
 little too, sometimes. But she has told no tales, I assure you. 
 
 Marl. I never gave her the slightest cause. 
 
 Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But 
 this is over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open. Your 
 father and I will like you the better for it. 
 
 Marl. May I die, sir, if I ever 
 
 Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and as I'm sure you 
 like her 
 
 Marl. Dear sir — I protest, sir 
 
 Hard. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as 
 the parson can tie you. 
 
 Marl. But hear me, sir 
 
 Hard. Your father approves the match, I admire it, every 
 moment's delay will be doing mischief, so 
 
 Marl, But why won't you hear me ? By all that's just and true, 
 I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attach- 
 ment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We 
 had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, and uninte- 
 resting. 
 
 Hard, (aside). This fellow's formal, modest impudence is be- 
 yond bearing. 
 
 Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or made any 
 protestations ? 
 
 Marl. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to 
 your commands. I saw the lady without emotion, and parted 
 without reluctance. I hope you'll exact no further proofs of my 
 duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so 
 many mortifications. {Exit) 
 
 Sir Charles. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity with whic.i 
 he parted. 
 
 Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his 
 assurance. 
 
 Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth. 
 
 Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my hap- 
 piness upon her veracity. 
 
 Enter MlSS Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely, and 
 without reserve : has Mr Marlow made you any professions of 
 love and affection ? 
 
186 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, sir ? But since you 
 require unreserved sincerity, I think he has. 
 
 Hard, (to Sir Charles). You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and my son had 
 more than one interview ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. 
 
 Hard, (to Sir Charles). You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. But did he profess any attachment ? 
 
 Miss Hard. A lasting one. 
 
 Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Much, sir. 
 
 Sir Charles. Amazing ! and all this formally ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Formally. 
 
 Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied ? 
 
 Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? 
 
 Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do. Said some civil 
 things of my face ; talked much of his want of merit, and the 
 greatness of mine ; mentioned his heart ; gave a short tragedy 
 speech, and ended with pretended rapture. 
 
 Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed. I know his 
 conversation among women to be modest and submissive. This 
 forward, canting, ranting manner by no means describes him, 
 and I am confident he never sat for the picture. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should convince you to your 
 face of my sincerity ? If you and my papa, in about half an 
 hour will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him 
 declare his passion to me in person. 
 
 Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all 
 my happiness in him must have an end. (Eocit.) 
 
 Miss Hard. And if you don't find him what I describe — I fear 
 my happiness must never have a beginning. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene changes to the back of the Garden. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 Hast. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow who pro- 
 bably takes a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be 
 punctual, and I'll wait no longer. What do I see ? It is he, and 
 perhaps with news of my Constance. 
 
 Enter Tony, booted and spattered. 
 Hast. My honest 'squire ! I now find you a man of your word. 
 This looks like friendship. 
 
 Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you have in 
 
ACT V.J SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 1 g ? 
 
 the world, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by the by, 
 is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a 
 stage-coach. 
 
 Hast. But how ? Where did you leave your fellow-travellers ? 
 Are they in safety ? Are they housed ? 
 
 Tony. Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a half is no 
 such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it. Rabbet 
 me, but I'd rather ride forty miles after a fox, than ten with such 
 varment. 
 
 Hast, Well, but where have you left the ladies ? I die with 
 impatience. 
 
 Tony. Left them? Why where should I leave them, but 
 where I found them ? 
 
 Hast. This is a riddle. 
 
 Tony. Riddle me this then. What's that goes round the 
 house, and round the house, and never touches the house ? 
 
 Hast. I'm still astray. 
 
 Tony. Why that's it, mon. I have led them astray. By jingo, 
 there's not a pond or slough within five miles of the place, but 
 they can tell the taste of. 
 
 Hast. Ha, ha, ha ! I understand : you took them in a round, 
 while they supposed themselves going forward. And so you have 
 at last brought them home again. 
 
 Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed- 
 lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them crack 
 over the stones of Up-and-down hill — I then introduced them to 
 the gibbet, on Heavy-tree-Heath ; and from that with a circum- 
 bendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of 
 the garden. 
 
 Hast. But no accident, I hope. 
 
 Tony. No, no. Only mother is confoundedly frightened. She 
 thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey, and the 
 cattle can scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you may 
 whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge 
 a foot to follow you. 
 
 Hast. My dear friend, how can I be grateful ? 
 
 Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'squire. Just now, it was 
 all idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Confound your way 
 of fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part of the 
 country, we kiss and be friends. But, if you had run me through 
 the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hang- 
 man. 
 
 Hast. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss 
 Neville ; if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take 
 care of the young one. (Exit Hastings.) 
 
188 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish. She's got 
 from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. 
 
 Enter Mrs Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs Hard, Oh, Tony, I'm killed — shook — battered to death. 
 I shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the 
 quickset hedge, has done my business. 
 
 Tony, Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. You would 
 be for running away by night, without knowing one inch of the 
 way. 
 
 Mrs Hard. I wish we were at home again. I never met so 
 many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, 
 overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and 
 at last to lose our way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony ? 
 
 Tony. By my guess we should be upon Crackskull Common, 
 about forty miles from home. 
 
 Mrs Hard. O lud ! O lud ! the most notorious spot in all the 
 country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on ? t. 
 
 Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the 
 five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find 
 us. Don't be afraid. Is that a man that's galloping behind us ? 
 No ; it's only a tree. Don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs Hard. The fright will certainly kill me. 
 
 Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat moving behind the 
 .hicket ? 
 
 Mrs Hard. O death ! 
 
 Tony. No, it's only a cow. Don't be afraid mamma: don't 
 be afraid. 
 
 Mrs Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards 
 us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If he perceives us we are undone. 
 
 Tony, (aside). Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come to 
 take one of his night walks. (To her) — Ah ! it's a highwayman, 
 with pistols as long as my arm. An ill-looking fellow. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Good Heaven defend us ! He approaches. 
 
 Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to 
 manage him. If there be any danger I'll cough, and cry — hem ! 
 When I cough, be sure to keep close. 
 
 (Mrs Hardcastle hides behind a tree, in the back scene.) 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of 
 help. O, Tony, is that you ? I did not expect you so soon back. 
 Are your mother and her charge in safety ? 
 
 Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem ! 
 
 Mrs Hard, (from behind). Ah, death ! I find there's danger. 
 
ACT V.j SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. lhU 
 
 Hard. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's too much, my 
 youngster. 
 
 Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as 
 they say. Hem ! 
 
 Mrs Hard, (from behind). Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm. 
 
 Hard. But I heard a voice here ; I should be glad to know 
 from whence it came. 
 
 Tony. It was I, sir ; talking to myself, sir. I was saying, that 
 forty miles in three hours, was very good going — hem ! As, to 
 be sure, it was — hem ! I have got a sort of cold by being out in 
 the air. Well go in, if you please — hem ! 
 
 Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer your- 
 self. I am certain I heard two voices, and am resolved (raising 
 his voice) to find the other out. 
 
 Mrs Hard, (from behind). Oh ! he's coming to find me out. Oh ! 
 
 Tony. "What need you go, sir, if I tell you — hem ! I'll lay 
 down my life for the truth — hem ! I'll tell you all, sir. 
 
 (Detaining him,) 
 
 Hard. I tell you, I will not be detained. I insist on seeing 
 It's in vain to expect I'll believe you. 
 
 Mrs Hard, (running forward from behind). lud, he'll murder 
 my poor boy, my darling. Here, good gentleman, whet your 
 rage upon me. Take my money, my life ; but spare that young 
 gentleman, spare my child, if you have any mercy. 
 
 Hard. My wife ! as I'm a Christian. From whence can she 
 come, or what does she mean ? 
 
 Mrs Hard, (kneeling). Take compassion on us, good Mr High- 
 wayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have ; but spare 
 our lives. "We will never bring you to justice ; indeed we won't, 
 good Mr Highwayman. 
 
 Hard. I believe the woman's out of her senses. "What, Dorothy, 
 don't you know me ? 
 
 Mrs Hard. Mr Hardcastle, as I'm alive ! My fears blinded 
 me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here, 
 in this frightful place, so far from home ? What has brought 
 you to follow us ? 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits ? So far 
 from home, when you are within forty yards of your own door ? 
 (To him)— This is one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue 
 you. (To her) — Don't you know the gate, and the mulberry-tree ? 
 and don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear ? 
 
 Mrs Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long as I 
 live : I have caught my death in it. (To Tony) — And is it to 
 you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this ? I'll teach you to abuse 
 your mother, I will.* 
 
190 GOLDSMITH S PLAYS. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, 
 and so you may take the fruits on't. 
 Mrs Hard. I'll spoil you, I will. 
 
 {Follows him off the stage. Exit) 
 Hard. There's morality, however, in his reply. {Exit.) 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hast. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus ? If 
 we delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolu- 
 tion, and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity. 
 
 Miss Nev. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with 
 the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new 
 danger. Two or three years' patience will at last crown us with 
 happiness. 
 
 Hast. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us 
 fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very 
 moment. Perish fortune. Love and content will increase what 
 we possess, beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail. 
 
 Miss Nev. No, Mr Hastings ; no. Prudence once more comes 
 to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of pas- 
 sion, fortune may be despised ; but it ever produces a lasting re- 
 pentance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr Hardcastle's compassion 
 and justice for redress. 
 
 Hast. But though he had the will, he has not the power to re- 
 lieve you. 
 
 Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved 
 to rely. 
 
 Hast. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluc- 
 tantly obey you. {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene changes. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles and Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what you say ap- 
 pears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I 
 shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 Miss Hard. I am proud of your approbation, and to show I 
 merit it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his 
 explicit declaration. But he comes. 
 
 Sir Charles. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appoint- 
 ment. {Exit Sir Charles.) 
 
ACT V.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 191 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marl. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to 
 take leave ; nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in 
 the separation. 
 
 Miss Hard, (in Tier own natural manner). I believe these suffer- 
 ings cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. 
 A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by 
 showing the little value of what you now think proper to regret. 
 
 Marl, (aside). This girl every moment improves upon me. 
 (To her) — It must not be, madam. I have already trifled too 
 long with my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my pas- 
 sion. The disparity of education and fortune, the anger of a 
 parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight,, 
 and nothing can restore me to myself, but this painful effort of 
 resolution. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then go, sir. I'll urge nothing more to detain 
 you. Though my family be as good as hers you came down to 
 visit ; and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these ad- 
 vantages, without equal affluence ? I must remain contented 
 with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have only 
 the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are 
 fixed on fortune. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles from behind. 
 
 Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 
 
 Hard. Ay, ay, make no noise. Ill engage my Kate covers him 
 with confusion at last. 
 
 Marl. By heavens, madam, fortune was ever my smallest con- 
 sideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye ; for who could 
 see that without emotion ? But every moment that I converse 
 with you, steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and 
 gives it stronger expression. "What at first seemed rustic plain- 
 ness, now appears refined simplicity. "What seemed forward as- 
 surance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and 
 conscious virtue. 
 
 Sir Charles. What can it mean ? He amazes me ! 
 
 Hard, I told you how it would be. Hush ! 
 
 Marl. I am now determined to stay, madam ; and I have too 
 good an opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to 
 doubt his approbation. 
 
 Miss Hard. No, Mr Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. 
 Do you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the 
 smallest room for repentance ? Do you think I would take the 
 mean advantage of a transient passion, to load you with confusion ? 
 
592 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS. 
 
 Do you think I could ever relish that happiness which was ac- 
 quired by lessening yours ? 
 
 Marl, By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's 
 in your power to grant me. Nor shall I ever feel repentance, but 
 in not having seen your merits before. I will stay, even contrary 
 to your wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I will 
 make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past 
 conduct. 
 
 Miss Hard, Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As our ac- 
 quaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have 
 given an hour or two to levity ; but seriously, Mr Marlow, do you 
 think I could ever submit to a connexion where / must appear 
 mercenary, and you imprudent ? Do you think I could ever catch 
 at the confident addresses of a secure admirer ? 
 
 Marl, {kneeling.) Does this look like security ? Does this look 
 like confidence ? No, madam ; every moment that shows me 
 your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. 
 Here let me continue 
 
 Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how 
 hast thou deceived me ! Is this your indifference, your uninter- 
 esting conversation ? 
 
 Hard. Your cold contempt; your formal interview? What 
 have you to say now ? 
 
 Marl. That I'm all amazement ! AVhat can it mean ? 
 
 Hard. It means, that you can say and unsay things at plea- 
 sure. That you can address a lady in private, and deny it in pub- 
 lic ; that you have one story for us, and another for my daughter. 
 
 Marl. Daughter ! — this lady your daughter ! 
 
 Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter. My Kate, whose else 
 should she be ? 
 
 Marl. Oh, ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, squinting lady 
 you were pleased to take me for. {Curtseying) She that you ad- 
 dressed as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the 
 bold, forward, agreeable rattle of the ladies' club ; ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Marl. Zounds, there's no bearing this ; it's worse than death. 
 
 Miss Hard, In which of your characters, sir, will you give us 
 leave to address you ? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on 
 the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or 
 the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs Mantrap, 
 and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning ? ha, ha, 
 ha! 
 
 Marl, O, my noisy head ! I never attempted to be im- 
 pudent yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone. 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it 
 
ACT V.] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 193 
 
 was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, 
 sir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, 
 Kate? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. 
 
 {They retire, she tormenting him, to the bach scene.) 
 
 Enter Mrs Hardcastle. Tony. 
 
 Mrs Hard. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not. 
 
 Hard. Who gone ? 
 . Mrs Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr Hastings, 
 from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here. 
 
 Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As worthy a 
 fellow as lives ; and the girl could not have made a more prudent 
 choice. 
 
 Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the con« 
 nexion. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not 
 taken her fortune ; that remains in this family, to console us for 
 her loss. 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. But you know, if 
 your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole for- 
 tune is then at her own disposal. 
 
 Hard. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought proper 
 to wait for his refusal. 
 
 Enter Ha£ tings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs Hard, (aside). What, returned so soon ? I begin not to 
 like it. 
 
 Hast, (to Hardcastle). For my late attempt to fly off with 
 your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are 
 now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. 
 By her father's consent, I first paid her my addresses, and our pas- 
 sions were first founded on duty. 
 
 Miss Nev. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dis- 
 simulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready 
 even to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I am now 
 recovered from the delusion, and hope, from your tenderness, what 
 is denied me from a nearer connexion. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Pshaw, pshaw ! this is all but the whining end of 
 a modern novel. 
 
 Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they are come back to re- 
 claim their due. Come hither, Tony boy. Do you refuse this 
 lady's hand whom I now offer you ? 
 
 Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know I can't refuse 
 her till I'm of age, father. 
 
194 GOLDSMITH S PLAYS. 
 
 Hard. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely 
 to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's 
 desire, to keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong 
 use, I must now declare you have been of age these three months. 
 
 Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? 
 
 Hard. Above three months. 
 
 Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. 
 (Taking Miss Seville's hand) — Witness all men by these pre- 
 sents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of blank place, refuse 
 you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true 
 and lawful wife. So Constantia Neville may marry whom she 
 pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. 
 
 Sir Charles. O brave 'squire ! 
 
 Hast. My worthy friend ! 
 
 Mrs Hard, My undutiful offspring ! 
 
 Marl. Joy, my dear George ; I give you joy sincerely. And 
 could I prevail upon my little tyrant here, to be less arbitrary, 
 I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the 
 favour. 
 
 Hast, (to Miss Hardcastle). Come, madam, you are now 
 driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know 
 you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall have 
 him. 
 
 Hard, (joining their hands). And I say so too. And, Mr Mar- 
 low, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't be- 
 lieve you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To- 
 morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us ; and 
 the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morn- 
 ing. So, boy, take her ; and as you have been mistaken in the 
 mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife. 
 
ACT V.] SHE STOOrS TO CONQUER. 195 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS BULKXEY IN THE CHARACTER OP 
 MISS HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Well, having stoop 'd to conquer with success, 
 
 And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, 
 
 Still as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, 
 
 As I have conquer*d him, to conquer you : 
 
 And let me say, for all your resolution, 
 
 That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
 
 Our life is all a play, composed to please, 
 
 " We have our exits and our entrances." 
 
 The first act shows the simple country maid, 
 
 Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ; 
 
 Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action, 
 
 / hopes as how to give you satisfaction. 
 
 Her second act displays a livelier scene, — 
 
 Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn : 
 
 Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 
 
 Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters, 
 
 Next, the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 
 
 The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs. 
 
 On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts, 
 
 And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts — 
 
 And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 
 
 Even common-councilmen forget to eat. 
 
 The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire, 
 
 And madam now begins to hold it higher ; 
 
 Pretends to taste, at operas cries Caro, 
 
 And quits her Nancy Dawson, for Che Faro ; 
 
 Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride, 
 
 Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside : 
 
 Ogles and leers with artificial skill, 
 
 Till, having lost in age the power to kill, 
 
 She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille* 
 
 Such, through our lives, the eventful history — 
 
 The fifth and last act still remains for me. 
 
 The bar-maid now for your protection prays, 
 
 Turns female barrister, and pleads for Bayes. 
 
THE 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A KINDRED 
 LIKENESS PREVAILS AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF PERSONS. 
 
 I WAS ever of opinion that the honest man, who married and 
 brought up a large family, did more service than he who con- 
 tinued single, and only talked of population. From this motive, 
 I had scarcely taken orders a year, before I began to think 
 seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did her wedding 
 gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities as would 
 wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured, notable 
 woman ; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who 
 could show more. She could read any English book without 
 much spelling ; but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none 
 could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent 
 contriver in housekeeping, though I could never find that we grew 
 richer with all her contrivances. 
 
 However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness in- 
 creased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that could 
 make us angry with the world or each other. We had an ele- 
 gant house, situated in a fine country and a good neighbourhood. 
 The year was spent in moral or rural amusement ; in visiting our 
 rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no re- 
 volutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all our adventures were 
 by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the 
 brown. 
 
 As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stran- 
 ger visit us to taste our gooseberry-wine, for which we had great 
 reputation ; and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, that 
 I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins too, 
 even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, with- 
 out any help from the herald's office, and came very frequently 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 197 
 
 to see us. Some of them did us no great honour by these claima 
 of kindred; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst 
 the number. However, my wife always insisted that, as they 
 were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same 
 table : so that if we had not very rich, we generally had very 
 happy friends about us ; for this remark will hold good through 
 life, that the poorer the guest the better pleased he ever is with 
 being treated; and as some men gaze with admiration at the 
 colours of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature 
 an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one of 
 our relations was found to be a person of a very bad character, a 
 troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leav- 
 ing my house I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair 
 of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value, and I always had 
 the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. 
 By this the house was cleared of such as we did not like ; but 
 never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or 
 the poor dependent out of doors. 
 
 Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness ; not 
 but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence 
 sends to enhance the value of its favours. My orchard was often 
 robbed by school-boys, and my wife's custards plundered by the 
 cats or the children. The squire would sometimes fall asleep in the 
 most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's 
 civilities at church with a mutilated curtsey. But we soon got 
 over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three 
 or four days began to wonder how they vexed us. 
 
 My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated 
 without softness, so they were at once well-formed and healthy ; 
 my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and blooiuing. 
 When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to 
 be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating 
 the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry the Second's 
 progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with their 
 treasures, brought his thirty-two children, and presented them to 
 his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In 
 this manner, though I had but six, I considered them as a very 
 valuable present made to my country, and consequently looked 
 upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after 
 his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a 
 girl, I intended to call her after aunt Grissel ; but my wife, who 
 during her pregnancy had been reading romances, insisted upon 
 her being called Olivia. In less than another year we had another 
 daughter, and now I was determined that Grissel should be her 
 oame ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the 
 
198 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S THOSE WORKS. 
 
 girl was by her directions called Sophia ; so that we had two 
 romantic names in the family ; but I solemnly protest I had no 
 hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve 
 years we had two sons more. 
 
 It would be fruitless to deny exultation when I saw my little 
 ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife 
 were even greater than mine. "When our visitors would say " Well, 
 upon my word, Mrs Primrose, you have the finest children in the 
 whole country." — " Ay, neighbour," she would answer, " they are 
 as Heaven made them — handsome enough, if they be good enough; 
 for handsome is, that handsome does." And then she would bid 
 the girls hold up their heads ; who to conceal nothing, were cer- 
 tainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circum- 
 stance with me, that I should scarcely have remembered to men- 
 tion it, had it not been a general topic of conversation in the 
 country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty 
 with which painters generally draw Hebe ; open, sprightly, and 
 commanding. Sophia's features were not so striking at first, but 
 often did more certain execution ; for they were soft, modest, and 
 alluring. The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by 
 efforts successively repeated. 
 
 The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of hei 
 features ; at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for 
 many lovers; Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected, 
 from too great a desire to please ; Sophia even repressed excel- 
 lence, from her fear to offend. The one entertained me with her 
 vivacity when I was gay, the other with her sense when I was 
 serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either, 
 and I have often seen them exchange characters for a whole day 
 together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquette into 
 a prude, and a new set of ribbons has given her younger sister 
 more than natural vivacity. My eldest son, George, was bred at 
 Oxford, as I intended him for one of the learned professions. My 
 second boy, Moses, whom I designed for business, received a sort 
 of miscellaneous education at home. But it is needless to attempt 
 describing the particular characters of young people that had 
 seen but very little of the world. In short, a family likeness pre- 
 vailed through all ; and, properly speaking, they had but one 
 character — that of being all equally generous, credulous, simple 
 and inoffensive. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 199 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 f AMILT MISFORTUNES — THE LOSS OF FORTUNE ONLY SERVES TO INCEEASB 
 THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY. 
 
 The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to 
 my wife's management ; as to the spiritual, I took them entirely 
 under my own direction. The profits of my living, which 
 amounted to about thirty-five pounds a-year, I made over to the 
 orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for, having a 
 sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless of temporalities and 
 felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set 
 a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with 
 ever}' man in the parish, exhorting the married men to temper- 
 ance, and the bachelors to matrimony ; so that in a few years it 
 was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at 
 Wakefield — a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, 
 and alehouses wanting customers. 
 
 Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote 
 several sermons to prove its happiness ; but there was a peculiar 
 tenet which I made a point of supporting : for I maintained, with 
 Winston, that it is unlawful for a priest of the church of England, 
 after the death of his first wife, to take a second : or, to express 
 it in one word, I valued myself upon being a strict monogamist. 
 
 I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which so 
 many laborious volumes have been written. I published some 
 tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never sold, I have 
 .he consolation of thinking were read only by the happy few. 
 Some of my friends called this my weak side ; but, alas! they had 
 not, like me, made it the subject of long contemplation. The more 
 I reflected upon it, the more important it appeared. I even went 
 a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles : as he had 
 engraven upon his wife's tomb that she was the only wife of Wil- 
 liam Whiston ; s*o I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife though 
 still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obe- 
 dience till death ; and, having got it copied fair, with an elegant 
 frame it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it answered 
 several very useful purposes. It admonished my wife of her duty 
 to me, and my fidelity to her; it inspired her with a passion for 
 fame, and constantly put her in mind of her end. 
 
 It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage sc often recom 
 mended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his 
 affections upon the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who 
 was & dignitary in the church, and in circumstances to give her a 
 
200 goldsmith's those works. 
 
 large fortune; but fortune was her smallest accomplishment. 
 Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two 
 daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and inno- 
 cence, were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and 
 such a happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on 
 with indifference. As Mr Wilmot knew that I could make a very 
 handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match ; 
 so both families lived together in all that harmony which gene- 
 rally precedes an expected alliance. Being convinced, by expe- 
 rience, that the days of courtship are the most happy of our lives, 
 I was willing enough to lengthen the period ; and the various 
 amusements which the young couple every day shared in each 
 other's company, seemed to increase their passion. We were 
 generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode 
 a-hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies 
 devoted to dress and study : they usually read a page, and then 
 gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers might 
 own often presented the page ofgreatest beauty. At dinner my wife 
 took the lead ; for, as she always insisted upon carving everything 
 herself, it being her mother's way, she gave us, upon these occa- 
 sions, the history of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent 
 the ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be removed ; 
 and sometimes, with the music-master's assistance, the girls would 
 give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea, 
 country dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, with- 
 out the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, ex- 
 cept backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took 
 a two-penny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circum- 
 stance that happened the last time we played together ; I only 
 wanted to fling a quartre, and yet I threw deuce-ace five timet: 
 running. 
 
 Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was 
 thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young 
 couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the prepara- 
 tions for the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance 
 of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters : in fact, my atten- 
 tion was fixed on another object — the completing a tract which I 
 intended shortly to publish in defence of my favourite principle. 
 As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, both for argument and 
 style, I could not, in the pride of my heart, avoid showing it to 
 my old friend, Mr Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his 
 approbation : but not till too late I discovered that he was most 
 violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason: 
 for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. This, 
 as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some acri- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 201 
 
 mony, which threatened to interrupt our intended alliance ; but 
 on the day before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to 
 discuss the subject at large. 
 
 It was managed with proper spirit on both sides ; he asserted 
 that I was heterodox ; I retorted the charge : he replied, and I 
 rejoined. In the meantime, while the controversy was hottest, 
 I was called out by one of my relations, who, with a face of con- 
 cern, advised me to give up the dispute, at least till my son's wed- 
 ding was over. " How," cried I, " relinquish the cause of truth, 
 and let him be a husband, already driven to the very verge of 
 absurdity ? You might as well advise me to give up my fortune 
 as my argument." — " STonr fortune," returned my friend, ** I am 
 now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in 
 town, in whose hands your money was lodged, ha3 gone off, to 
 avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a 
 shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the family 
 with the account till after the wedding ; but now it may serve 
 to moderate your warmth in the argument ; for I suppose your 
 own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at least 
 till your son has the young lady's fortune secure."—" Well," re- 
 turned I, " if what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, 
 it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to disavow my prin- 
 ciples. I'll go this moment, and inform the company of my cir- 
 cumstances: and as for the argument, I even here retract my 
 former concessions in the old gentleman's favour, nor will I allow 
 him now to be a husband in any sense of the expression." 
 
 It would be useless to describe the different sensations of both 
 families, when I divulged the news of our misfortune ; but what 
 others felt was slight, to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr 
 YVimiot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the 
 match, was by this blow soon determined : one virtue he had in 
 perfection, which was prudence — too often the only one that ia 
 left us at seventy-two. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ▲ MIGRATION— THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR LIVES ABB 
 GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR OWN PROCURING. 
 
 The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our mis- 
 fortune might be malicious or premature : but a letter from my 
 agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every particular. 
 The loss of fortune to myself alone would have been trifling ; the 
 
202 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 only uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were to be humbled, 
 without an education to render them callous to contempt. 
 
 Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their 
 affliction ; for premature consolation is but the remembrancer of 
 sorrow. During this interval, my thoughts were employed on 
 some future means of supporting them ; and at last a small cure 
 of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a distant neighbourhood, 
 where I could still enjoy my principles without molestation. 
 "With this proposal I joyfully closed, having determined to in- 
 crease my salary by managing a little farm. 
 
 Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together 
 the wrecks of my fortune ; and, all debts collected and paid, out 
 of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four hundred remain- 
 ing. My chief attention, therefore, was now to bring down the 
 pride of my family to their circumstances ; for I well knew that 
 aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. " You cannot be igno- 
 rant, my children," cried I, " that no prudence of ours could have 
 prevented our late misfortune ; but prudence may do much in 
 disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and 
 wisdom bids us to conform to our humble situation. Let us then, 
 without repining, give up those splendours with which numbers 
 are wretched, and seek, in humbler circumstances, that peace, with 
 which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our 
 help ; why then should not we learn to live without theirs ? No, 
 my children, let us from this moment give up all pretensions to 
 gentility ; we have still enough left for happiness if we are wise, 
 and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune." 
 
 As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send 
 him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our sup- 
 port and his own. The separation of friends and families is 
 perhaps one of the most distressful circumstances attendant on 
 penury. The day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for 
 the first time. My son, after taking leave of his mother and the 
 rest, who mingled their tears with their kisses, came to ask a 
 blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, 
 added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to 
 bestow. " You are going, my boy," cried I, " to London on 
 foot, in the manner Hooker your great ancestor travelled there 
 before you. Take from me the same horse that was given him by 
 the good Bishop Jewel, this staff; and take this book too, it will 
 be your comfort on the way ; these two lines in it are worth a 
 million — / have been young, and now am old ; yet never saw 1 the 
 righteous man forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread. Let this 
 be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy, whatever be 
 thy fortune let me see thee once a year ; still keep a good heart, 
 
f HE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 203 
 
 and farewell." As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I 
 was under no apprehensions from throwing him naked into the 
 amphitheatre of life : for I knew he would act a good part whether 
 vanquished or victorious. 
 
 His departure only prepared the way for our own, which 
 arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in 
 which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity, was not with- 
 out a tear, which scarcely fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, 
 a journey of seventy miles, to a family that had hitherto never 
 been above ten from home, filled us with apprehension ; and the 
 cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, contributed to 
 increase it. The first day's journey brought us in safety within 
 thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the night at 
 an obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were shown vi 
 room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have his 
 company, with which he complied, as what he drank would in- 
 crease the bill next morning. He knew, however, the whole neigh- 
 bourhood to which I was removing, particularly Squire Thorn- 
 hill, who was to be my landlord, and who lived within a few 
 miles of the place. This gentleman he described as one who 
 desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures, being 
 particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He 
 observed, that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, 
 and that there was scarcely a farmer's daughter within ten miles 
 round, but what had found him successful a»nd faithless. Though 
 this account gave me some pain, it had a very different effect 
 upon my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the 
 expectation of an approaching triumph ; nor was my life less 
 pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue. "While 
 our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room 
 to inform her husband, that the strange gentlemen, who had been 
 two days in the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them 
 for his reckoning. " Want money !" replied the host, " that must 
 be impossible ; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three 
 guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to 
 be whipped through the town for dog-stealing." The hostess, 
 however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing 
 to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way or 
 or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce me to a 
 stranger of so much charity as he described. With thi3 he com- 
 plied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, 
 dressed in clothes that once were laced. His person was well-formed, 
 and his face marked with the lines of thinking. He had some- 
 thing short and dry in his address, and seemed not to understand 
 ceremony, or to despise it. Upon the landlord's leaving the room, 
 
204 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 I could not avoid expressing my concern to the stranger, at seeing 
 a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered him my purse to 
 satisfy the present demand. ' I take it with all my heart, sir,' 
 replied he, ' and am glad that a late oversight, in giving what 
 money I had about- me, has shown me that there are still some 
 men like you. I must, however, previously entreat being informed 
 of the name and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him 
 as soon as possible/ In this I satisfied him fully, not only men- 
 tioning my name and late misfortune, but the place to which I 
 was going to remove. ' This/ cried he, ' happens still more luckily 
 then I hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, having been 
 detained here two days by the floods, which I hope by to-morrow 
 will be found passable.' I testified the pleasure I should have in his 
 company, and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was 
 prevailed upon to stay to supper. The stranger's conversation, 
 which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish 
 for a continuance of it ; but it was now high time to retire and 
 take refreshment against the fatigues of the following day. 
 
 The next morning we all set forward together : my family on 
 horseback, while Mr BurcheH, our new companion, walked along 
 the foot-path by the road-sido, observing, with a smile, that as we 
 were ill mounted he would be too generous to attempt leaving us 
 behind. As the floods were not yet subsided, we were obliged to 
 hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr Burchell and I bringing 
 up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with philoso- 
 phical disputes, which he seemed to understand perfectly. But 
 what surprised me most was, that though he was a money-bor- 
 rower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he 
 had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to 
 whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we 
 travelled the road. * That,' cried he, pointing to a very magni- 
 ficent house which stood at some distance, ■ belongs to Mr Thorn- 
 hill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though 
 entirely dependent on the will of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, 
 a gentleman who, content with a little himself, permits his nephew 
 to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.' — ' What!' cried I, 
 * is my young landlord then the nephew of a man whose virtues, 
 generosity, and singularities are so universally known ? I have 
 heard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most 
 generous, yet whimsical men in the kingdom ; a man of consum- 
 mate benevolence.' — * Something, perhaps, too much so,' replied 
 Mr Burchell ; ' at least, he carried benevolence to an excess when 
 young, for his passions were then strong, and as they were all 
 upon the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. 
 He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and the 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 205 
 
 scholar ; was soon distinguished in the army, and had some repu- 
 tation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows the am- 
 bitious ; for such alone receive most pleasure from flattery. He 
 was surrounded with crowds, who showed him only one side of 
 their character ; so that he began to lose a regard for private 
 interest in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; for 
 fortune prevented him from knowing that there were rascals. 
 Physicians tell us of a disorder in which the whole body is so ex- 
 quisitely sensible, that the slightest touch gives pain : what some 
 have thus suffered in their persons, this gentleman felt in his 
 mind. The slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, touched 
 him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility 
 of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will be 
 easily conjectured he found numbers disposed to solicit : his pro" 
 fusion began to impair his fortune, but not his good nature ; that, 
 indeed, was seen to increase, as the other seemed to decay ; he 
 grew improvident as he grew poor ; and though he talked like a 
 man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, 
 being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy 
 every request that was made him, instead of money he gave pro- 
 mises. They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution 
 enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew 
 round him crowds of dependents, whom he was sure to disappoint, 
 yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left 
 him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as 
 he became contemptible to others, he became despicable to himself. 
 His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and, that support 
 f aken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of his 
 heart, which he had never learned to reverence. The world now 
 began to wear a different aspect ; the flattery of his friends began 
 to dwindle into simple approbation. Approbation soon took the 
 more friendly form of advice ; and advice, when rejected, pro- 
 duced their reproaches. He now, therefore, found that such 
 friends as benefits had gathered round him, were little estimable ; 
 he now found that a man's own heart must be ever given to gain 
 that of another. I now found, that — that — I forget what I was 
 going to observe ; in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and 
 laid down a plan of restoring his falling fortune. For this pur- 
 pose, in his own whimsical manner, he travelled through Europe 
 on foot, and now, though he has scarcely attained the age of 
 thirty, his circumstances are more afiluent than ever. At pre- 
 sent his bounties are more rational and moderate than before ; 
 but he still preserves the character of a humourist, and finds most 
 pleasure in eccentric virtues.' 
 My attention was so much taken up by Mr Burchell's account, 
 
206 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 that I scarcely looked forward a3 we went along, till we were 
 alarmed by the cries of my family ; when, turning, I perceived 
 my youngest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown 
 from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. She had sunk 
 twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring 
 her relief. My sensations were even too violent to permit my 
 attempting her rescue : she must have certainly perished, had not 
 my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her 
 relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the op- 
 posite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest 
 j of the family got safely over ; where we had an opportunity of 
 joining our acknowledgments to hers. Her gratitude may be more 
 readily imagined than described : she thanked her deliverer more 
 with looks than words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if 
 still willing to receive assistance. My wife also hoped one day 
 to have the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. 
 Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined to- 
 gether, as Mr Burchell was going to a different part of the 
 country, he took leave ; and we pursued our journey, my wife ob- 
 serving, as he went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting 
 that, if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into 
 such a family as ours, she knew no man she would sooner fix 
 upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain ; 
 but I was never much displeased with those harmless delusions that 
 lend to make us more happy. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAT GRANT HAPPINESS, 
 WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCES, BUT CONSTITUTION. 
 
 The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting 
 of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers 
 to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences 
 of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in 
 search of superfluities. Remote from the polite, they still re- 
 tained the primaeval simplicity of manners ; and, frugal by habit, 
 they scarcely knew that temperance was a virtue. They 
 wrought with cheerfulness on days of labour ; but observed 
 festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the 
 Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine morning, ate 
 pancakes on Shrovetide, showed their wit on the first of April, and 
 religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas-eve. Being apprised of 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 207 
 
 our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their 
 minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by a pipe 
 and tabor ; a feast also was provided for our reception, at which we 
 sat cheerfully down ; and what the conversation wanted in wit 
 was made up in laughter. 
 
 Our little habitation wa3 situated at the foot of a sloping hill, 
 sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling 
 river before ; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My 
 farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having 
 given a hundred pounds for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing 
 could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures, the elms and 
 hedge-row3 appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house con- 
 sisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave 
 it an air of great snugness : the walls on the inside were nicely 
 whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with 
 pictures of their own designing. Though the same room served 
 us for parlour and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. 
 Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, 
 plates, and coppers being well scoured, and all disposed in bright 
 rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not 
 want richer furniture. There were three other apartments — one 
 for my wife and me, another for our two daughters within our 
 own, and the third with two beds for the rest of our children. 
 
 The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the 
 following manner : by sun-rise we were all assembled in our com- 
 mon apartment, the fire being previously kindled by the servant ; 
 after we had saluted each other with proper ceremony, for I 
 always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good 
 breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we all 
 bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. This 
 duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual in- 
 dustry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves 
 in providing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain 
 time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for din- 
 ner ; which time was taken up in innocent mirth between my 
 wife and daughters, and philosophical arguments between my son 
 and me. 
 
 As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours after 
 it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting family ; 
 where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire, were pre- 
 pared for our reception. Nor were we without guests ; sometimes 
 Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and often the 
 blind piper, would pay as a visit, and taste our gooseberry-wine ; 
 for the making of which we had lost neither the recipe nor the 
 reputation. These harmless people had several ways of being 
 
208 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 good company ; for while one played, the other would sing some 
 soothing ballad — Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or the 
 Cruelty of Barbara Allan. The night was concluded in the man- 
 ner we began the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to 
 read the lessons of the day ; and he that read loudest, distinctest, 
 and best, was to have a halfpenny on Sunday to put into the 
 poor's box. 
 
 "When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all 
 my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever I 
 fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of my 
 daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached to all their 
 former finery ; they still loved laces, ribands, bugles, and catgut ; 
 my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, be- 
 cause I formerly happened to say it became her. 
 
 The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour served to mortify 
 me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed 
 early the next day ; for I always loved to be at church a good 
 while before the rest of the congregation. They punctually 
 obeyed my directions ; but, when we were to assemble in the 
 morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters, dressed 
 out in all their former splendour : their hair plastered up with 
 pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up 
 into a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not 
 help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from 
 whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, 
 my only resource was to order my son, with an important air, to 
 call our coach. The girls were amazed at the command : but I 
 repeated it with more solemnity than before. ' Surely, my dear, 
 you jest,' cried my wife, ■ we can walk it perfectly well : we want 
 no coach to carry us now.' — * You mistake, child,' returned I, 
 1 we do want a coach : for if we walk to church in this trim, the 
 very children in the parish will hoot after us.' — ' Indeed,' replied 
 my wife, ' I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing 
 his children neat and handsome about him.' — ' You may be as 
 neat as you please,' interrupted I, * and I shall love you the better 
 for it ; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These runnings, 
 and pinkings, and patchings, will only make us hated by all the 
 wives of our neighbours. No, my children,' continued I, more 
 gravely, * those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer 
 cut ; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means 
 of decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding 
 is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate 
 calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world may be 
 clothed from the trimmings of the vain.' 
 
 This remonstrance had the proper effect ; they went with great 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 209 
 
 composure, that very instant, to change their dress ; and the 
 next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their 
 own request, employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday 
 waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones ; and, what was 
 still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this cur- 
 tailing. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED— WHAT WE PLACE MOST 
 HOPES UPON GENERALLY PROVES MOST FATAL. 
 
 At a small distance from the house, my predecessor had made a 
 seat overshaded by a hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, 
 when the weather was fine, and our labour soon finished, we 
 usually sat together to enjoy an extensive landscape, in the calm 
 of the evening. Here too we drank tea, which was now become 
 an occasional banquet ; and as we had it but seldom, it diffused 
 a new joy, the preparation for it being made with no small share 
 of bustle and cereroony. On these occasions our two little ones 
 always read for us, and they were regularly served after we had 
 done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls 
 sung to the guitar : and, while they thus formed a little conctrt 
 my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that was em- 
 bellished with blue-bells and centaury, talk of our children with 
 rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and har- 
 mony. 
 
 In this manner we began to find that every situation in life 
 may bring its own peculiar pleasures : every morning waked us 
 to a repetition of toil ; but the evening repaid it with vacant 
 hilarity. 
 
 It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I 
 kept such as intervals of relaxation from labour, that I had drawn 
 out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our young 
 musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, 
 we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty paces of 
 where we were sitting, and by its panting it seemed pressed 
 by the hunters. "VVe had not much time to reflect upon the poor 
 animal's distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come 
 sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very 
 path it had taken. I was instantly for returning in with my 
 family ; but either curiosity or surprise, or some more hidden 
 motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The huntsman 
 
210 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 who rode foremost passed us with great swiftness, followed by four 
 or five persons more, who seemed in equal haste. At last a young 
 gentleman, of a more genteel appearance than the rest, came for- 
 ward, and for a while regarding us, instead of pursuing the chase, 
 stopped short, and, giving his horse to a servant who attended, ap- 
 proached us with a careless superior air. He seemed to want no 
 introduction, but was going to salute my daughters as one certain 
 of a kind reception ; but they had early learned the lesson of look- 
 ing presumption out of countenance. Upon which he let us know 
 that his name was Thornhill, and that he was the owner of the 
 estate which lay for some extent around us. He again, therefore, 
 offered to salute the female part of the family ; and such was the 
 power of fortune and fine clothes, that he found no second repulse. 
 As his address, though confident, was easy, we soon became more 
 familiar; and perceiving musical instruments lying near, he 
 begged to be favoured with a song. As I did not approve of such 
 disproportioned acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters in 
 order to prevent their compliance ; but my hint was counteracted 
 by one from their mother, so that with a cheerful air, they gave 
 us a favourite song of Dryden's. Mr Thornhill seemed highly 
 delighted with their performance and choice, and then took up 
 the guitar himself. He played but very indifferently ; however, 
 my eldest daughter repaid his former applause with interest, and 
 assured him, that his tones were louder that even those of her 
 master. At this compliment he bowed, which she returned with 
 a curtsey. He praised her taste, and she commended his under- 
 standing : an age could not have made them better acquainted : 
 while the fond mother too, equally happy, insisted upon her land- 
 lord's stepping in, and taking a glass of her gooseberry. The 
 whole family seemed earnest to please him : my girls attempted to 
 entertain him with topics they thought most modern; while Moses, 
 on the contrary, gave him a question or two from the ancients, 
 for which he had the satisfaction of being laughed at ; my little 
 ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. 
 All my endeavours could scarcely keep their dirty fingers from 
 handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and lifting up 
 the flaps of his pocket holes, to see what was there. At the ap- 
 proach of evening he took leave ; but not till he had requested 
 permission to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we 
 most readily agreed to. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct 
 of the day. She was of opinion that it was a most fortunate hit ; 
 for she had known even stranger things than that brought to bear. 
 She hoped again to see the day in which we might hold up our 
 heads with the best of them ; and concluded, she protested she 
 
1C 7 Thornmll seemed Hghbr BehghxedL -with their 
 performance, an 3. then took up the Guitar himself 
 
 "Vicar of Wakefield I 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 211 
 
 could see no ieason why the two Miss "Wrinkles should marry 
 great fortunes, and her children get none. As this last argument 
 was directed to me, I protested I could see no reason for it neither ; 
 nor why Mr Simkins got the ten thousand pound prize in the lot- 
 tery, and we sat down with a blank. * I protest, Charles,' cried 
 my wife, ■ this is the way you always damp my girls and me 
 when we are in spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you 
 think of our new visitor ? Don't you think he seems to be good- 
 natured ?' — ' Immensely so, indeed, mamma,' replied she ; ' I 
 think he has a great deal to say upon everything, and is never at 
 a loss ; and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say.' 
 — * Yes,' cried Olivia, * he is well enough for a man ; but, for my 
 part, I don't much like him, he is so extremely impudent and fa- 
 miliar ; but on the guitar he is shocking.' These two last 
 speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by this, that Sophia 
 internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly admired him. 
 ' Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children,' cried I, 
 ' to confess the truth, he has not prepossessed me in his favour. 
 Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust ; and I 
 thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly 
 sensible of the distance between us. Let us keep to companions 
 of our own rank. There is no character more contemptible than 
 a man that is a fortune-hunter ; and I can see no reason why for- 
 tune-hunting women should not be contemptible too. Thus, at 
 best, we shall be contemptible if his views be honourable ; but if 
 they be otherwise ! I should shudder but to think of that ! It is 
 true, I have no apprehensions from the conduct of my children, 
 but I think tnere are some from his character.' I would have 
 proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the squire, 
 who, with his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a pro- 
 mise to dine with us some days after. This well-timed present 
 pleaded more powerfully in his favour than anything I had to say 
 could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just hav- 
 ing pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to 
 avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarcely 
 worth the sentinel. 
 
212 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE. 
 
 As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, 
 in order to accommodate matters it was universally agreed that 
 we should have a part of the venison for supper, and the girls un- 
 dertook the task with alacrity. ' I am sorry,' cried I, ' that we 
 have no neighbour or stranger to take part in this good cheer : 
 feasts of this kind acquire a double relish from hospitality.' — 
 * Bless me !' cried my wife, ' here comes our good friend, Mr 
 Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run you down fairly in 
 the argument.' — • Confute me in argument, child !' cried I, ' you 
 mistake there, my dear ; I believe there are but few that can do 
 that : I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pie, and I 
 beg you'll leave argument to me.' As I spoke, poor Mr Burchell 
 entered the house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook 
 him heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him 
 a chair. 
 
 I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons : 
 because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly 
 a3 far as he was able. He was known in our neighbourhood by 
 the character of the poor gentleman that would do no good when 
 he was young, though he was not yet thirty. He would at inter- 
 vals talk with great good sense ; but in general he was fondest oi 
 the company of children, whom he used to call harmless little men 
 He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and telling 
 them stories; and seldom went out without something in his 
 pockets for them — a piece of gingerbread, or a halfpenny whistle. 
 He generally came for a few days into our neighbourhood once a 
 year, and lived upon the neighbours' hospitality. He sat down 
 to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of her goose- 
 berry-wine. The tale went round ; he sung us old songs, and gave 
 the children the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the History 
 of Patient Grizzel, the Adventures of Catskin, and then Fair Rosa- 
 mond's Bower. Our cock, which always crew at eleven, now told 
 us it was time for repose ; but an unforeseen difficulty started 
 about lodging the stranger : all our beds were already taken up, 
 and it was too late to send him to the next ale-house. In this 
 dilemma, little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother 
 Moses would let him lie with him. 'And I,' cried Bill, 'will 
 give Mr Burchell my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs.' 
 — ' Well done, my good children,' cried I, ' hospitality is one of 
 the first Christian duties. The beast retires to its shelter, and 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 213 
 
 the bird flies to its nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge 
 from his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this world was 
 He that came to save it : He never had a house, as if willing to 
 see what hospitality was left remaining amongst us. — Deborah, 
 my dear/ cried I to my wife, * give those boys a lump of sugar 
 each ; and let Dick's be the largest, because he spoke first.' 
 
 In the morning early, I called out my whole family to help at 
 saving an after-growth of hay, and our guest offering his assist- 
 ance, he was accepted among the number. Our labours went on 
 lightly ; we turned the swath to the wind ; I went foremost, and 
 the rest followed in due succession. I could not avoid, however, 
 observing the assiduity of Mr Burchell in aiding my daughter 
 Sophia in her part of the task. When he had finished his own, 
 he would join in hers, and enter into a close conversation : but I 
 had too good an opinion of Sophia's understanding, and was too 
 well convinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness from 
 a man of broken fortune. When we were finished for the day, 
 Mr Burchell was invited as on the night before, but he refused, 
 as he was to lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose ehild he was 
 carrying a whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper turned 
 upon our late unfortunate guest. ' What a strong instance,' said 
 I, ' is that poor man of the miseries attending a youth of levity 
 and extravagance ! He by no means wants sense, which only 
 serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor forlorn creature ! where 
 are now the revellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and 
 command ? Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pander, grown 
 rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and now they 
 applaud the pander : their former raptures at his wit are now con- 
 verted into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, and perhaps deserves 
 poverty ; for he has neither the ambition to be independent, nor 
 the skill to be useful.' Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, 
 I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my 
 Sophia gently reproved. • Whatsoever his former conduct may 
 have been, papa, his circumstances should exempt him from cen- 
 sure now. His present indigence is a sufficient punishment for 
 former folly : and I have heard my papa himself say, that we 
 should never strike one unnecessary blow at a victim over whom 
 Providence holds the scourge of its resentment.' — * You are right, 
 Sophy,' cried my son Moses, ■ and one of the ancients finely re- 
 presents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay 
 Marsyas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stripped 
 off by another ; besides, I don't know if this poor man's situation 
 be so bad as my father would represent it. We are not to judge 
 of the feelings of others by what we might feel if in their place. 
 However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the ani- 
 
214 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 mal itself finds the apartments sufficiently lightsome. And, to 
 confess the truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his station ; for 
 I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, when 
 he conversed with you.' This was said without the least design : 
 however, it excited a blush, which she strove to cover by an af- 
 fected laugh ; assuring him that she scarcely took any notice of 
 what he said to her, but that she believed he might once have 
 been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she un- 
 dertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I 
 did not internally approve ; but I repressed my suspicions. 
 
 As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to 
 make the venison-pasty ; Moses sat reading, while I taught the 
 little ones : my daughters seemed equally busy with the rest ; 
 and I observed them for a good while cooking something over the 
 fire. I at first supposed they were assisting their mother ; but 
 little Dick informed me, in a whisper, that they were making a 
 wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy 
 to ; for I knew that, instead of mending the complexion, they 
 spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair by slow degrees to 
 the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seem- 
 ingly by accident overturned the whole composition, and it was 
 too late to begin another. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED — THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEARN TO BE 
 COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO. 
 
 When the morning arrived on which we were to entertain oui 
 young landlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions were 
 exhausted to make an appearance. It may be also conjectured, 
 that my wife and daughters expanded their gayest plumage on 
 this occasion. Mr Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his 
 chaplain and feeder. The servants, who were numerous, he polite- 
 ly ordered to the next ale-house : but my wife, in the triumph of 
 her heart, insisted on entertaining them all; for which, by the bye, 
 our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr Burchell 
 had hinted to us, the day before, that he was making some pro- 
 posals of marriage to Miss Wilmot, my son George's former mis- 
 tress, this a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception : 
 but accident, in some measure, relieved our embarrassment; 
 for one of the company happening to mention her name, Mr 
 Thornhill observed with an oath, that he never knew anything 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty : * For, strike me 
 ugly,' continued he, ' if I should not find as much pleasure in 
 choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under the 
 clock of St Dunstan's.' At this he laughed, and so did we : the 
 jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia, too, could not avoid 
 whispering, loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund 
 of humour. 
 
 After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church ; for 
 this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church was 
 the only mistress of his affections. ' Come, tell us honestly, 
 Frank,' said the squire, with his usual archness, ' suppose the 
 Church, your present mistress, dressed in lawn sleeves, on one 
 hand, and Miss Sophia on the other, which would you be for V — 
 1 For both, to be sure,' cried the chaplain. ' Right, Frank,' cried 
 the squire : ' for may this glass suffocate me, but a fine girl is 
 worth all the priestcraft in the creation ; for what are tithes and 
 tricks but an imposition, all a confounded imposture ? and I can 
 prove it.' — * I wish you would,' cried my son Moses ; ' and I think, 5 
 continued he, • that I should be able to answer you.' — c Very well, 
 sir,' cried the squire, who immediately smoked him, and winked 
 on the rest of the company to prepare us for the sport : ' if you 
 are for a cool argument upon the subject, I am ready to accept 
 the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it ana- 
 logically or dialogically ?' — * I am for managing it rationally,' 
 cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. * Good 
 again,' cried the squire : ■ and, firstly, of the first, I hope you'll 
 not deny that whatever is, is : if you don't grant me that, I can 
 go no further.' — ' Why,' returned Moses, ' I think I may grant 
 that, and make the best of it.' — * I hope, too,' returned the other, 
 1 you will grant that a part is less than the whole.' — 'I grant 
 that too,' cried Moses : ' it is but just and reasonable.' — ' I hope,' 
 cried the squire, ' you will not deny, that the three angles of a 
 triangle are equal to two right ones.' — ' Nothing can be plainer,' 
 returned t'other, and looked round him with his usual importance. 
 1 Very well,' cried the squire, speaking very quick ; ■ the premises 
 being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the contatenation of 
 self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, natu- 
 rally produce a problematical dialogism, which, in some measure, 
 proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the 
 second predicable.' — ' Hold, hold,' cried the other, * I deny that. 
 Do you think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doc- 
 trines ?' — ' What,' replied the squire, as if in a passion, * not sub- 
 mit ! Answer me one plain question. Do you think Aristotle 
 right when he says, that relatives are related ?' — • Undoubtedly,' 
 eplied the other. — ' If so, then,' cried the squire, ' answer me 
 
216 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 directly to what I propose : "Whether do you judge the analytical 
 investigation of the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum 
 quoad, or quoad minus ? and give me your reasons, I say, direct* 
 ly.' — * I protest,' cried Moses, ' I don't rightly comprehend the 
 force of your reasoning ; but if it be reduced to one single pro- 
 position, I fancy it may then have an answer.' — f 0, sir,' cried 
 the squire, ' I am your most humble servant ; I find you want me 
 to furnish you with argument and htellect too. No, sir ! there, 
 I protest, you are too hard for me.' This effectually raised the 
 laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only dismal figure in a 
 group of merry faces ; nor did he offer a single syllable more dur- 
 ing the whole entertainment. 
 
 But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very different 
 effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for humour, though but a 
 mere act of the memory. She thought him, therefore, a very fine 
 gentleman : and such as consider what powerful ingredients a 
 good figure, fine clothes, and fortune, are in that character, will 
 easily forgive her. Mr Thornhill, notwithstanding his real igno- 
 rance, talked with ease, and could expatiate upon the common 
 topics of conversation with fluency. It is not surprising, then, 
 that such talents should win the affections of a girl who, by edu- 
 cation, was taught to value an appearance in herself, and, conse- 
 quently, to set a value upon it in another. 
 
 Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the 
 merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks and con- 
 versation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that she was the 
 object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be 
 much displeased at the innocent raillery of her brother and sister 
 upon this occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to share the 
 glory of the day, and exulted in her daughter's victory, as if it 
 were her own. ■ And now, my dear,' cried she to me, ■ I'll fairly 
 own that it was I that instructed my girls to encourage our land- 
 lord's addresses. I had always some ambition, and you now see 
 that I was right ; for who knows how this may end ?' — ' Ay, who 
 knows that, indeed !' answered I, with a groan : * for my part, I 
 don't much like it : and I could have been better pleased with 
 one that was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his 
 fortune and infidelity ; for depend on't, if he be what I suspect 
 him, no freethinker shall ever have a child of mine.' 
 
 * Sure, father,' cried Moses, * you are too severe in this ; for 
 Heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but for what 
 he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which 
 arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion 
 may be involuntary with this gentleman ; so that allowing his 
 sentiments to be wrong, yet, as he is purely passive in his assent, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 217 
 
 he is no more to be blamed for his errors, than the governor of a 
 city without walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invad- 
 ing enemy/ 
 
 ' True, my son,' cried I : ' but if the governor invites the enemy 
 there, he is justly culpable ; and such is always the case with 
 those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting to 
 the proofs they see, but in being blind to many of the proofs that 
 offer. So that, though our erroneous opinions be involuntary 
 when formed, yet, as we have been wilfully corrupt, or very 
 negligent, in forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, 
 or contempt for our folly.' 
 
 My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argu- 
 ment ; she observed, that several very prudent men of our ac- 
 quaintance were freethinkers, and made very good husbands; 
 and she knew some sensible girls that had had skill enough to make 
 converts of their spouses : * And who knows, my dear/ continued 
 she, ■ what Olivia may be able to do ? The girl has a great deal 
 to say upon every subject, and to my knowledge, is very well 
 skilled in controversy/ 
 
 * Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?' cried I. 
 'It does not occur to me that I ever put such books into her 
 hands; you certainly overrate her merit/ — 'Indeed, papa,' re- 
 plied Olivia, ■ she doe3 not ; I have read a great deal of contro- 
 versy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum and Square ; 
 the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage ; 
 and I am now employed in reading the controversy in Religious 
 Courtship/ — ' Very well/ cried I, ' that's a good girl ; I find you 
 are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your 
 mother to make the gooseberry-pie.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A LOVE AFFAIR, WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET ilAY BE 
 PRODUCTIVE OF ilUCH. 
 
 The next morning we were again visited by Mr Burchell, though 
 I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency 
 of his return ; but I could not refuse him my company and my 
 fireside. It is true, his labour more than requited his entertain- 
 ment ; for he wrought among us with vigour and, either in the 
 meadow or at the hay-rick, put himself foremost. Besides he had 
 always something amusing to say, that lessened our toil, and was 
 
218 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed 
 at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he 
 discovered to my daughter : he would, in a jesting manner, call 
 her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a set 
 of ribands, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day 
 seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his sim- 
 plicity to assume the superior airs of wisdom. 
 
 Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined, 
 round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while 
 Mr Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our 
 satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other from the oppo- 
 site hedges, the familiar red-breast came and pecked the 
 crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of 
 tranquillity. ■ I never sit thus/ says Sophia, * but I think of the 
 two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr Gay, who were struck dead 
 in each other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the de- 
 scription, that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture.'— 
 1 In my opinion,' cried my son, ' the finest strokes in that descrip- 
 tion are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The 
 Roman poet understands the use of contrast better, and upon 
 that figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic de- 
 pends.' — ' It is remarkable,' cried Mr Burchell, ' that both the 
 poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false 
 taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines 
 with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily imi- 
 tated in their defects ; and English poetry, like that in the latter 
 empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxu- 
 riant images, without plot or connection ; a string of epithets that 
 improve the sound without carrying on the sense. But, perhaps, 
 madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I 
 should give them an opportunity to retaliate ; and, indeed, I have 
 made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to 
 the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, 1 
 think, at least free from those I have mentioned.' 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, 
 
 And guide my lonely way 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 4 For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
 
 With fainting steps and slow; 
 Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
 
 Seem lengthening as I go.' 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 219 
 
 1 Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 
 
 4 To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 Here to the houseless child of want 
 My door is open still ; 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 I give it with good will. 
 
 4 Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 
 Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 • No flocks that range the valley free 
 
 To slaughter I condemn ; 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 
 I learn to pity them. 
 
 1 But from the mountain's grassy side 
 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 4 Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego 
 
 All earth-born cares are wrong ; 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long.' 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 
 
 His gentle accents fell ; 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the celL 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay ; 
 A refuge to the neighbouring poor, 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 
 Required a master's care ; 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire, 
 
 To take their evening rest, 
 The hermit trimmed his little fire 
 
 And cheered his pensive guest; 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 
 And gaily pressed, and smiled ; 
 And, skilled in legendary lore, 
 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
*20 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 Around, in sympathetic mirth, 
 Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
 
 The cricket chirrnps in the hearth, 
 The crackling faggot flies. 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart 
 To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 His rising cares the hermit spied, 
 With answering care opprest : 
 And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried 
 1 The sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 4 From better habitations spurned, 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturned, 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
 1 Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
 
 Are trifling and decay ; 
 And those who prize the paltry things, 
 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 And what is friendship but a name, 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
 But leaves the wretch to weep ? 
 
 1 And love is still an emptier sound, 
 The modem fair-one's jest ; 
 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 1 For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hue % 
 And spurn the sex,' he said: 
 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 His love-lorn guest betrayed. 
 
 Surprised he sees new beauties rise, 
 Swift mantling to the view ; 
 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confest 
 
 A maid in all her charms I 
 
 And, ■ Ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 A wretch forlorn,' she cried; 
 
 4 Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 
 Where heaven and you reside. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 221 
 
 4 But let a maid thy pity share, 
 
 "Whom love has taught to stray ; 
 Who seeks for rest, hut finds despair 
 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 4 My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he : 
 And all his wealth was marked as mine ; 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 1 To win me from his tender arms, 
 
 Unnumbered suitors came ; 
 Who praised me for imputed chamis, 
 
 And felt or feigned a flame. 
 
 * Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 
 With richest proffers strove ; 
 Among the rest young Edwin bowed, 
 But never talked of love. 
 
 4 In humble, simplest habit clad, 
 
 No wealth nor power had he ; 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 4 The blossom opening to the day, 
 
 The dews of heaven refined, 
 Could nought of purity display, 
 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 * The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 
 With charms inconstant shine ; 
 Their charms were his, but woe is me, 
 Their constancy was mine ! 
 
 4 For still I tried each fickle art, 
 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touched my hesife 
 
 I triumphed in his pain. 
 
 * Till quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret where he died. 
 
 * But mine the sorrow, mine the fault 
 
 And well my life shall pay ; 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 4 And there forlorn, despairing, hid. 
 
 IT1 lay me down and die ; 
 Twas so for me that Edwin did, 
 
 And so for him will I.' — 
 
222 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 ' Forbid it, Heaven !' the hermit cried. 
 
 And clasped her to his breast; 
 The wond'ring fair one turned to chide, 
 
 'Twas Edwin's self that prest 
 
 4 Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here* 
 
 Restored to love and thee ! 
 
 1 Thus let me hold thee to my hearty 
 
 And every care resign ; 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 
 My life— my all that's mine ? 
 
 4 No, never from this hour to part, 
 
 We'll live and love so true ; 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too.' 
 
 While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of 
 tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon 
 disturbed by the report of a gun just by us ; and, immediately 
 after, a man was seen bursting through the hedge to take up the 
 game he had killed. This sportsman was the squire's chaplain, 
 who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained 
 us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters ; and I 
 could perceive that Sophia, in the fright, had thrown herself into 
 Mr Burchell's arms for protection. The gentleman came up, and 
 asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant 
 of our being so near. He therefore sat down by my youngest daugh- 
 ter, and, sportsman-like, offered what he had killed that morning. 
 She was going to refuse, but a private look from her mother soon 
 induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, 
 though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her 
 pride in a whisper ; observing, that Sophy had made a conquest 
 of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of the squire. I sus- 
 pected, however, with more probability, that her affections were 
 placed upon a different object. The chaplain's errand was to in- 
 form us, that Mr Thornhill had provided music and refreshments, 
 and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by moon- 
 light on the grass-plot before our door. * Nor can I deny,' con- 
 tinued he, * but I have an interest in being first to deliver this 
 message, as I expect for my reward to be honoured with Miss 
 Sophia's hand as a partner.' To this my girl replied, that she 
 should have no objection, 4 if she could do it with honour. But 
 here,' continued she, * is a gentleman,' looking at Mr Burchell, 
 who has been my companion in the task "for the day, and it is 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 22 J 
 
 fit he should share in its amusements.' Mr Burchell returned her 
 a compliment for her intentions, but resigning her up to the chap- 
 lain, adding, that he was to go that night five miles, being invited 
 to a harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a little extra- 
 ordinary, nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my 
 youngest could thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one whose 
 expectations were much greater. But as men are most capable of 
 distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest 
 judgment of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each 
 other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted for 
 mutual inspection. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED — SUPERIOR FINERT 
 EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING. 
 
 Mr Burchell had scarcely taken leave, and Sophia consented 
 to dance with the chaplain, when my little ones came running 
 out to tell us, that the squire was come with a crowd of company. 
 Upon our return, we found our landlord with a couple of under- 
 gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed, whom he intro- 
 duced as women of very great distinction and fashion from town. 
 We happened not to have chairs enough for the whole company ; 
 but Mr Thornhill immediately proposed that every gentleman 
 should sit in a lady's lap. This I positively objected to, notwith- 
 standing a look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was there- 
 fore despatched to borrow a couple of chairs ; and, as we were in 
 want of ladies to make up a set at country-dances, the two gentle- 
 men went with him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and 
 partners were soon provided. The gentlemen returned with my 
 neighbour Flamborough's rosy daughters, flaunting with red top- 
 knots. But an unlucky circumstance was not adverted to : though 
 the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in 
 the parish, and understood the jig and the roundabout to perfection, 
 yet they were totally unacquainted with country-dances. This 
 at first discomposed us ; however, after a little shoving and drag- 
 ging, they at last went merrily on. Our music consisted of two 
 fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon shone bright ; Mr 
 Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to the great 
 delight of spectators ; for the neighbours, hearing what was going 
 forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with so much 
 grace and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid discovering the 
 pride of her heart, by assuring me that, though the little chit 
 
224 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 did it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen from herself. The 
 ladies of the town strove hard to be equally easy, but without 
 success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and frisked ; but all 
 would not do : the gazers, indeed, owned that it was fine ; but neigh- 
 bour Flamborough observed, that Miss Livy's feet seemed as pat 
 to the music as its echo. After the dance had continued about 
 an hour, the two ladies, who were apprehensive of catching 
 cold, moved to break up the ball. One of them, I thought, ex- 
 pressed her sentiments on this occasion in a very coarse manner, 
 when she observed, that, by the living jingo, she ivas all of a muck 
 of sweat. Upon our return to the house, we found a very elegant 
 cold supper, which Mr Thornhill had ordered to be brought with 
 hiin. The conversation, at this time, was more reserved than be- 
 fore. The two ladies threw my girls quite into the shade ; for 
 they would talk of nothing but high life, and high-lived company ; 
 with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shake- 
 speare, and the musical glasses. 'Tis true, they once or twice 
 mortified us sensibly by slipping out an oath ; but that appeared 
 to me as the surest symptom of their distinction (though I am 
 since informed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable). Their 
 finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in their conversa- 
 tion. My daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplish- 
 ments with envy ; and whatever appeared amiss was ascribed to 
 tip-top quality breeding. But the condescension of the ladies was 
 still superior to their other accomplishments. One of them ob- 
 served, that, had Miss Olivia seen a little more of the world, it 
 would greatly improve her. To which the other added, that a 
 single winter in town would make her little Sophia quite another 
 thing. My wife warmly assented to both ; adding, that there was 
 nothing she more ardently wished than to give her girls a single 
 winter's polishing. To this I could not help replying, that their 
 breeding was already superior to their fortune ; and that greater 
 refinement would only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and 
 give them a taste for pleasures they had no right to possess. 
 ' And what pleasures,' cried Mr Thornhill, ' do they not deserve 
 to possess, who have so much in their power to bestow ? As for 
 my part,' continued he, ' my fortune is pretty large ; love, liberty, 
 and pleasure, are my maxims ; but curse me, if a settlement of 
 half my estate could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it should 
 be hers, and the only favour I would ask in return would be to 
 add myself to the benefit/ I was not such a stranger to the 
 world, as to be ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to dis- 
 guise the insolence of the basest proposal ; but I made an effort to 
 suppress my resentment. ' Sir,' cried I, ' the family which you 
 now condescend to favour with your company has been bred with 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 &s nice a sense of honour as you. Any attempts to injure that ; 
 may be attended with very dangerous consequences. Honour, 
 air, is our only possession at present, and of that last treasure we ' 
 must be particularly careful.' I was soon sorry for the warmth | 
 with which I had spoken thi3, when the young gentleman, | 
 grasping my hand, swore he commended my spirit, though he 
 disapproved my suspicions. ' As to your present hint/ continued 
 he, ■ I protest nothing was further from my heart than such a i 
 thought. No, by all that's tempting, the virtue that will stand a ; 
 regular siege was never to my taste ; for all my amours are carried 
 by a coup-de-wain.'' 
 
 The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed 
 highly displeased with this last stroke of freedom, and began a 
 very discreet and serious dialogue upon virtue ; in this my wife, 
 the chaplain, and I soon joined ; and the squire himself was at 
 at last brought to confess a sense of sorrow for his former excesses. 
 We talked of the pleasures of temperance, and of the sunshine in 
 the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well pleased, that my 
 little ones were kept up beyond the usual time to be edified by so 
 much good conversation. Mr Thornhill even went beyond me, 
 and demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. I joy- 
 fully embraced the proposal : and, in this manner, the night was 
 passed in a most comfortable way, till at length the company be- 
 gan to think of returning. The ladies seemed very unwilling to 
 part with my daughters, for whom they had conceived a particular 
 affection, and joined in a request to have the pleasure of their 
 company home. The squire seconded the proposal, and my wife 
 added her entreaties ; the girls, too, looked upon me as if they 
 wished to go. In this perplexity I made two or three excuses, 
 which my daughters as readily removed ; so that at last I was ob- 
 liged to give a peremptory refusal ; for which we had nothing but 
 sullen looks and short answers for the whole day ensuing. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FAMILY ENDEAVOUR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS— THE MISERIES 
 OP THE POOR WHEN THET ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUM- 
 STANCES. 
 
 I NOW began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon 
 temperance, simplicity, and contentment, were entirely disre- 
 garded. The distinctions lately paid us by our betters awakened 
 that pride which I had laid asleep, but not removed. Our win- 
 
226 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 dows again, as formerly, were filled with washes for the neck and 
 face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without 
 doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My 
 wife observed that rising too early would hurt her daughters' 
 eyes, that working after dinner would redden their noses, and she 
 convinced me that the hands never looked so white as when they 
 did nothing. Instead, therefore, of finishing George's shirts, we 
 now had them new-modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon 
 catgut. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay compan- 
 ions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole conversa- 
 tion now ran upon high life and high-lived company, with pictures, 
 taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. 
 
 But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling 
 gipsy come to raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny sibyl 
 no sooner appeared, than my girls came running to me for a shil- 
 ling a-piece to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth, I 
 was tired of being always wise, and could not help gratifying 
 their request, because I loved to see them happy. I gave each 
 of them a shilling ; though, for the honour of the family, it must 
 be observed, that they never went without money themselves, as 
 my wife always generously let them have a guinea each, to keep 
 in their pockets ; but with strict injunctions never to change it. 
 After they had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for some 
 time, I knew by their looks, upon their returning, that they had 
 been promised something great. ■ Well, my girls, how have you 
 sped ? Tell me, I*ivy, has the fortune-teller given thee a penny- 
 worth ?' — ' I protest, papa,' says the girl, ' I believe she deals 
 with somebody that's not right ; for she positively declared, that 
 I am to be married to a squire in less than a twelvemonth !' — 
 * Well, now, Sophy, my child,' said I, ' and what sort of a husband 
 are you to have ?' — ' Sir,' replied she, * I am to have a lord soon 
 after my sister has married the squire.' — ' How,' cried I, ■ is that 
 all you are to have for your two shillings ? Only a lord and a 
 squire for two shillings ! — You fools, I could have promised you 
 a prince and a nabob for half the money.' 
 
 This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious 
 effects : we now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to 
 something exalted, and already anticipated our future grandeur. 
 
 It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it once 
 more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view are more 
 pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In the first case, we 
 cook the dish to our own appetite ; in the latter, nature cooks it for 
 us. It is impossible to repeat the train of agreeable reveries we 
 called up for our entertainment. We looked upon our fortunes as 
 once more rising ; and as the whole parish asserted that the squiro 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 227 
 
 was in love with my daughter, she was actually so with him ; for 
 tbey persuaded her into the passion. In this agreeable interval, my 
 wife had the most lucky dreams in the world, which she took 
 care to tell us every morning with great solemnity and exactness. 
 It was one night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an approach- 
 ing wedding ; at another time she imagined her daughters' 
 pockets filled with farthings, a certain sign that they would 
 shortly be stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had their 
 omens : they felt strange kisses on their lips ; they saw rings in 
 the candle ; purses bounced from the fire ; and true-love knots 
 lurked in the bottom of every tea-cup. 
 
 Towards the end of the week, we received a card from the town 
 ladies ; in which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all 
 our family at church the Sunday following. All Saturday morn- 
 ing I could perceive, in consequence of this, my wife and daugh- 
 ters in close conference together, and now and then glancing at 
 me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. To be sincere, I had 
 strong suspicions that some absurd proposal was preparing for 
 appearing with splendour the next day. In the evening, they 
 began their operations in a very regular manner, and my wife 
 undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in 
 spirits, she began thus : ' I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have 
 a great deal of good company at our church to-morrow.' — ' Per- 
 haps we may, my dear,' returned I ; ' though you need be under 
 no uneasiness about that — you shall have a sermon, whether there 
 be or not.' — ' That is what I expect,' returned she ; ' but I think, 
 my dear, we ought to appear there as decently as possible, for 
 who knows what may happen ?' — * Your precautions,' replied I, 
 ' are highly commendable. A decent behaviour and appearance 
 at church is what charms me. We should be devout and humble, 
 cheerful and serene.' — ■ Yes,' cried she, ' I know that ; but I 
 mean we should go there in as proper a manner as possible ; not 
 altogether like the scrubs about us.' — ■ You are quite right, my 
 dear,' returned I, ' and I was going to make the very same pro- 
 posal. The proper manner of going is, to go there as early as 
 possible, to have time for meditation before the service begins.' — 
 1 Phoo, Charles,' interrupted she, ■ all that is very true ; but not 
 what I would be at. I mean, we should go there genteelly. You 
 know the church is two miles off, and I protest I don't like to see 
 my daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed and red with 
 walking, and looking for all the world as if they had been winners 
 at a smock-race. Now, my dear, my proposal is this — there are 
 our two plough-horses, the colt that has been in our family these 
 nine years, and his companion Blackberry, that has scarcely done 
 an earthly thing for this month past ; they are both grown fat 
 
228 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 and lazy : why should they not do something as well as we ? And 
 lot me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little, they will 
 cut a very tolerable figure.' 
 
 To this proposal I objected, that walking would be twenty times 
 more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was 
 wall-eyed, and the colt wanted a tail ; that they had never been 
 oroke to the rein, but had a hundred vicious tricks ; and that we 
 had but one saddle and pillion in the whole house. All these ob- 
 jections, however, were overruled ; so that I was obliged to com- 
 ply. The next morning I perceived them not a little busy in col- 
 lecting such materials as might be necessary for the expedition ; 
 but, as I found it would be a work of time, I walked on to the 
 church before, and they promised speedily to follow. I waited 
 near an hour in the reading desk for their arrival ; but, not find- 
 ing them come as was expected, I was obliged to begin, and went 
 through the service, not without some uneasiness at finding them 
 absent. This was increased when all was finished, and no ap- 
 pearance of the family. I therefore walked back by the horse- 
 way, which was five miles round, though the foot-way was but 
 two, and when got about half way home, perceived the procession 
 marching slowly towards the church — my son, my wife, and the 
 two little ones, exalted upon one horse, and my two daughters up- 
 on the other. I demanded the cause of their delay ; but I soon 
 found by their looks they had met with a thousand misfortunes on 
 the road. The horses had at first refused to move from the door, 
 till Mr Burchell was kind enough to beat them forward for about 
 two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next the straps of my wife's 
 pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair them 
 before they could proceed. After that, one of the horses took it 
 into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties could 
 prevail with him to proceed. It was just recovering from this 
 dismal situation that I found them ; but perceiving everything 
 safe, I own their present mortification did not much displease me, 
 as it would give me many opportunities of future triumph, and 
 teach my daughters more humility. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 
 
 Michaelmas-eve happening on the next day, we were invited to 
 burn nuts and play tricks at neighbour Flamborough's. Our late 
 mortifications had humbled us a little, or it is probable we might 
 have rejected such an invitation with contempt: however, wo 
 
iiiJ£ VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 229 
 
 Buffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest neighbour's goose and 
 dumplings were fine ; and the lamb's wool, even in the opinion of 
 my wife, who was a connoisseur, was excellent. It is true, his 
 manner of telling stories was not quite so well. They were very 
 long, and very dull, and all about himself, and we had laughed at 
 them ten times before : however, we were kind enough to laugh 
 at them once more. 
 
 Mr Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of seeing 
 some innocent amusement going forward, and set the boys and 
 girls to blind-man's-buff. My wife too was persuaded to join in 
 the diversion, and it gave me pleasure to think she was not yet 
 too old. In the mean time, my neighbour and I looked on, laughed 
 at every feat, and praised our own dexterity when we were young. 
 Hot cockles succeeded next, questions and commands followed 
 that, and, last of all, they sat down to hunt the slipper. As every 
 person may not be acquainted with this primaeval pastime, it may 
 be necessary to observe, that the company at this play plant them- 
 selves in a ring upon the ground, all except one who stands in the 
 middle, whose business it is to catch a shoe, which the company 
 shove about under their hams from one to another, something like 
 a weaver's shuttle. As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady 
 who is up to face all the company at once, the great beauty of the 
 play lies in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on that 
 side least capable of making a defence. It was in this manner 
 that my eldest daughter was hemmed in, and thumped about, all 
 blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair play, with a voice that 
 might deafen a ballad-singer, when, confusion on confusion, who 
 should enter the room but our two great acquaintances from town, 
 Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs ! 
 Description would but beggar, therefore it is unnecessary to de- 
 scribe, this new mortification. — Death ! to be seen by ladies of such 
 high breeding in such vulgar attitudes ! Nothing better could 
 ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr Flamborough's proposing. 
 We seemed struck to the ground for some time, as if actually 
 petrified with amazement. 
 
 The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and finding us 
 from home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to know 
 what accident could have kept us from church the day before. 
 Olivia undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered the whole in 
 a summary way, only saying — * We were thrown from our horses.' 
 At which account the ladies were greatly concerned ; but being 
 told the family received no hurt, they were extremely glad ; but 
 being informed that we were almost killed with fright, they were 
 vastly sorry ; but hearing that we had a very good night, they 
 were extremely glad again. Nothing could exceed their com* 
 
230 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 plaisance to rny daughters ; their professions the last evening were 
 warm, but now they were ardent. They protested a desire of 
 having a more lasting acquaintance. Lady Blarney was parti- 
 cularly attached to Olivia ; Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia 
 Skeggs (I love to give the whole name) took a greater fancy to 
 her sister. They supported the conversation between themselves, 
 while my daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted breeding. 
 But as every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high- 
 lived dialogues, with anecdotes of lords, ladies, and knights of the 
 garter, I must beg leave to give him the concluding part of the 
 present conversation. 
 
 * All that I know of the matter,' cried Miss Skeggs, * is this, 
 that it may be true, or it may not be true : but this I can assure 
 your ladyship, that the whole rout was in amaze ; his lordship 
 turned all manner of colours, my lady fell into a swoon ; but Sir 
 Tomkyn, drawing his sword, swore he was hers to the last drop of 
 his blood.' 
 
 ' Well,' replied our peeress, ' this I can say, that the duchess 
 never told me a syllable of the matter, and I believe her grace 
 would keep nothing a secret from me. This you may depend up- 
 on as fact, that the next morning my lord duke cried out three 
 times to his valet-de-chambre, Jernigan ! Jernigan ! Jernigan ! 
 bring me my garters.' 
 
 But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite be- 
 haviour of Mr Burchell, who, during this discourse, sat with his 
 face turned to the fire, and at the conclusion of every sentence 
 would cry out Fudge I an expression which displeased us all, and 
 in some measure damped the rising spirit of the conversation. 
 
 1 Besides, my dear Skeggs,' continued our peeress, * there is no- 
 thing of this in the copy of verses that Dr Burdock made upon 
 the occasion.' Fudge t 
 
 1 I am surprised at that,' cried Miss Skeggs ; ' for he seldom 
 leaves anything out, as he writes only for his own amusement. 
 But can your ladyship favour me with a sight of them V Fudge / 
 * My dear creature,' replied our peeress, ' do you think I carry 
 such things about me ? Though they are very fine to be sure, 
 and I think myself something of a judge : at least I know what 
 pleases myself. Indeed, I was ever an admirer of all Dr Bur- 
 dock's little pieces ; for except what he does, and our dear Count- 
 ess at Hanover Square, there's nothing comes out but the most 
 lowest stuff in nature ; not a bit of high life among them.' Fudge / 
 ' Your ladyship should except,' says t'other, ' your own things 
 in the Lady's Magazine. I hope you'll say there is nothing low- 
 lived there ? But I suppose we are to have no more from that 
 quarter V Fudge I 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 231 
 
 ' AYhy, my dear,' says the lady, ■ you know my reader and com- 
 panion has left me to be married to Captain Roach, and as my 
 poor eyes won't suffer me to write myself, I have been for some 
 time looking out for another. A proper person is no easy matter 
 to find, and to be sure thirty pounds a year is a small stipend for 
 a well-bred girl of character, that can read, write, and behave in 
 company ; as for the chits about town, there is no bearing them 
 about one.' Fudge I 
 
 ' That I know,' cried Miss Skeggs, ' by experience : for of the 
 three companions I had this last half-year, one of them refused to 
 do plain-work an hour in a day; another thought twenty-five 
 guineas a year too small a salary ; and I was obliged to send 
 away the third, because I suspected an intrigue with the chap- 
 lain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, virtue is worth any price : 
 but where is that to be found ?' Fudge I 
 
 My wife had been for a long time all attention to this discourse, 
 but was particularly struck with the latter part of it. Thirty 
 pounds and twenty-five guineas a year, made fifty-six pounds five 
 shillings English money ; all which was in a manner going a beg- 
 ging, and might easily be secured in the family. She for a mo- 
 ment studied my looks for approbation ; and, to own the truth, I 
 was of opinion, that two such place3 would fit our two daughters 
 exactly. Besides, if the squire had any real affection for my 
 eldest daughter, this would be the way to make her every way 
 qualified for her fortune. My wife, therefore, was resolved that 
 we should not be deprived of such advantages for want of assu- 
 rance, and undertook to harangue for the family. ■ I hope,' 
 cried she, ' your ladyships will pardon my present presumption. 
 It is true, we have no right to pretend to such favours, but yet it 
 is natural for me to wish putting my children forward in the 
 world. And I will be bold to say, my two girls have had a pretty 
 good education, and capacity ; at least the country can't show 
 better. They can read, write, and cast accounts ; they under- 
 stand their needle, broadstitch, cross and change, and all man- 
 ner of plain-work ; they can pink, point, and frill ; and know 
 something of music ; they can do up small clothes and work upon 
 catgut ; my eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a very 
 pretty manner of telling fortunes upon the cards.' Fudge I 
 
 When she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, the two 
 ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence, with an air 
 of doubt and importance. At last Miss Carolina Wilelmina 
 Amelia Skeggs condescended to observe, that the young ladies, 
 from the opinion she could form of them from so slight an ac- 
 quaintance, seemed very fit for such employments: but a thing 
 of this kind, madam,' cried she, addressing my spouse, ' requires 
 
232 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 a thorough examination into characters, and a more perfect 
 knowledge of each other. Not, madam/ continued she, * that I 
 in the least suspect the young ladies' virtue, prudence, and dis- 
 cretion, but there is a form in these things, madam ; there is a 
 form.' Fudge I 
 
 My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing, that she 
 was very apt to be suspicious herself ; but referred her to all the 
 neighbours for a character : but this our peeress declined as un- 
 necessary, alleging that her cousin Thornhill's recommendation 
 would be sufficient, and upon this we rested our petition. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD.— 
 MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALAMITIES. 
 
 When we were returned home, the night was dedicated to 
 schemes of future conquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity in 
 conjecturing which of the two girls was likely to have the best 
 place, and most opportunity of seeing good company. The only 
 obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the squire's recom- 
 mendation ; but he had already shown us too many instances of his 
 friendship to doubt it bow. Even in bed my wife kept up the usual 
 theme ; * Well, faith, my dear Charles, between ourselves, I think 
 we have made an excellent day's work of it.' — * Pretty well,' cried 
 I, not knowing what to say. ' W T hat, only pretty well !' returned 
 she : * I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should come to 
 make acquaintance of taste in town ! This I am assured of, that 
 London is the only place in the world for all manner of hus- 
 bands. Besides, my dear, stranger things happen every day : and 
 as ladies of quality are so taken with my daughters, what will 
 not men of quality be ! Entre notes, I protest I like my Lady 
 Blarney vastly : so very obliging. However, Miss Carolina 
 Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs has my warm heart. But yet, 
 when they came to talk of places in town, you saw at once how 
 I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, don't you think I did for my 
 children there?' — 'Ay,' returned I, not knowing well what to 
 think of the matter ; ' Heaven grant they may be both the better 
 for it this day three months !' This was one of those observations 
 I usually made to impress my wife with an opinion of my saga- 
 city : for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; 
 but if anything unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked upon 
 as a prophecy. All this conversation, however, was only pre- 
 paratory to another scheme, and indeed I dreaded as much. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 233 
 
 This was nothing less than that, as we were now to hold up our 
 heads a little higher in the world, it would be proper to sell the 
 colt, which was grown old, at a neighbouring fair, and buy us a 
 horse that would carry single or double upon an occasion, and 
 make a pretty appearance at church, or upon a visit. This at 
 first I opposed stoutly, but it was as stoutly defended. However, 
 as I weakened, my antagonists gained strength, till at last it was 
 resolved to part with him. 
 
 As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of 
 going myself ; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, 
 and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from home. ' No, 
 my dear/ cried she, ' our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can 
 buy and sell to very good advantage ; you know all our great bar- 
 gains are of his purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, 
 and actually tires them till he gets a bargain.' 
 
 As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing 
 enough to intrust him with this commission ; and the next morn- 
 ing I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the 
 fair ; trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat 
 with pins. The business of the toilet being over, we had at last the 
 satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal-box 
 before him to bring home groceries in. He had on a coat made 
 of that cloth called thunder and lightning, which, though grown 
 too short, was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat 
 was of gosling green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad 
 black riband. We all followed him several paces from the door, 
 bawling after him, ' Good luck ! good luck V till we could see him 
 no longer. 
 
 He was scarcely gone, when Mr ThornhilPs butler came to 
 congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying that he overheard 
 his young master mention our names with great commendation. 
 
 Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another foot- 
 man from the same family followed, with a card for my daughters, 
 importing that the two ladies had received such pleasing accounts 
 from Mr Thornhill of us all, that after a few previous inquiries, 
 they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. ■ Ay/ cried my wife, ' I now 
 see it is no easy matter to get into the families of the great, but 
 when one once gets in, then, as Moses says, one may go to sleep/ 
 To this piece of humour, for she intended it for wit, my daughters 
 assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her 
 satisfaction at this message, that she actually put her hand in her 
 pocket, and gave the messenger sevenpence halfpenny. 
 
 This was to be our visiting day. The next that came was Mr 
 Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my little ones a 
 pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife undertook to 
 
GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 keep for them, and give them by letters at a time. He brought 
 my daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they might keep 
 wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, when they got it. My wife 
 was usually fond of a weasel-skin purse, as being the most lucky ; 
 but this by the bye. We had still a regard for Mr Burchell, 
 though his late rude behaviour was in some measure displeasing ; 
 nor could we now avoid communicating our happiness to him, and 
 asking his advice : although we seldom followed advice, we were 
 all ready enough to ask it. When he read the note from the two 
 ladies he shook his head, and observed that an affair of this sort 
 demanded the utmost circumspection. This air of diffidence 
 highly displeased my wife. M never doubted, sir,' cried she, 
 
 * your readiness to be against my daughters and me. You have 
 more circumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy when we 
 come to ask advice, we shall apply to persons who seem to have 
 made use of it themselves.' — ' Whatever my own conduct may have 
 been, madam,' replied he, ' is not the present question ; though 
 as I have made no use of advice myself, I should in conscience 
 give it to those that will.' As I was apprehensive this answer 
 might draw on a repartee, making up by abuse what it wanted in 
 wit, I changed the subject, by seeming to wonder what could keep 
 our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost night-fall. * Never 
 mind our son,' cried my wife, * depend upon it he knows what he 
 is about ; I'll warrant we'll never see him sell his hen on a rainy 
 day. I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. 
 I'll tell you a good story about that, that will make you split your 
 sides with laughing. But as I live, yonder comes Moses, without 
 a horse, and the box at his back.' 
 
 As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under 
 the deal-box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a 
 pedlar. ■ Welcome ! welcome, Moses ! well, my boy, what have 
 you brought us from the fair ?' — * I have brought you myself,' 
 cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the dresser. 
 
 * Ay, Moses,' cried my wife, ' that we know, but where is the 
 horse ?' — ' I have sold him,' cried Moses, * for three pounds five 
 shillings and twopence.' — * Well done, my good boy,' returned 
 she ; ■ I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three 
 pounds five shillings and twopence is no bad day's work. Come, 
 let us have it then.' — * I have brought back no money,' cried 
 Moses again, ' I have laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is,' 
 pulling out a bundle from his breast ; ' here they are ; a gross of 
 green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases.' — * A gross 
 of green spectacles !' repeated my wife, in a faint voice. ■ And 
 you have parted with the colt, and brought us back nothing but 
 a gross of green paltry spectacles !' — ' Dear mother,' cried the 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 235 
 
 boy, ■ why won't you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bargain 
 or I should not have bought them. The silver rims alone will 
 sell for double the money.' — ' A fig for the silver rims !' cried my 
 wife in a passion : * I dare swear they won't sell for above half 
 the money at the rate of broken silver, five shillings an ounce.' — 
 1 You need be under no uneasiness,' cried I, about selling the rims, 
 for they are not worth sixpence, for I perceive they are only 
 copper varnished over.' — ' What,' cried my wife, ■ not silver ! the 
 rims not silver !' — * No,' cried I, i no more silver than your sauce- 
 pan.' — * And so,' returned she, ' we have parted with the colt, and 
 have only got a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims and 
 shagreen cases ! A murrain take such trumpery. The blockhead 
 has been imposed upon, and should have known his company 
 better !' — ' There, my dear,' cried I, ' you are wrong ; he should 
 not have known them at all.' — ■ Marry, hang the idiot V returned 
 she, ' to bring me such stuff ; if I had them I would throw them 
 in the fire.' — ' There again you are wrong, my dear,' cried I ; 'for 
 though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as copper spec- 
 tacles, you know, are better than nothing.' 
 
 By this time the unfortunate Mose3 was undeceived. He now 
 saw that he had indeed been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, 
 who. observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I 
 therefore asked him the circumstances of his deception. He sold 
 the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A 
 reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under pretence of 
 having one to sell. ' Here,' continued Moses, ' we met another 
 man, very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds up- 
 on these, saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of 
 them for a third of their value. The first gentleman, who pre- 
 tended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned 
 me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr Flamborough, 
 and they talked him up as finely as they did me ; and so at last 
 we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ME BUECHELL IS FOUND TO BE AH ENEilY ; FOR HE HAS THE 
 
 CONFIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE. 
 
 Our family had now made several attempts to be fine ; but some 
 unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected. I endea- 
 voured to take the advantage of every disappointment to improve 
 their good sense, in proportion as they were frustrated in ambi- 
 
236 
 
 goldsmith's prose works 
 
 tion. * You see, my children,' cried I, ' how little is to be got by 
 attempts to impose upon the world, in coping with our betters. 
 Such as are poor, and will associate with none but the rich, are 
 hated by those they avoid, and despised by those they follow. 
 Unequal combinations are always disadvantageous to the weaker 
 side ; the rich, having the pleasure, the poor the inconveniences, 
 that result from them. But come, Dick, my boy, repeat the 
 fable you were reading to-day, for the good of the company.' 
 
 * Once upon a time,' cried the child, ' a giant and a dwarf 
 were friends, and kept together. They made a bargain that they 
 never would forsake each other, but go seek adventures. The 
 first battle they fought was with two Saracens ; and the dwarf, 
 who was very courageous, dealt one of the champions a most 
 angry blow. It did the Saracen but very little injury, who, lift- 
 ing up his sword, fairly struck off the poor dwarf's arm. He was 
 now in a woful plight ; but the giant coming to his assistance, in 
 a short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain, and the 
 dwarf cut off the dead man's head out of spite. They then 
 travelled on to another adventure. This was against three 
 bloody-minded satyrs, who were earring away a damsel in dis- 
 tress. The dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before ; but for 
 all that struck the first blow, which was returned by another 
 that knocked out his eye ; but the giant was soon up with them, 
 and, had they not fled, would certainly have killed them every 
 one. They were all very joyful for this victory, and the damsel 
 who was relieved fell in love with the giant, and married him. 
 They now travelled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met 
 with a company of robbers. The giant, for the first time, was 
 foremost now : but the dwarf was not far behind. The battle was 
 stout and long. Wherever the giant came, all fell before him ; 
 but the dwarf had liked to have been killed more than once. At 
 last the victory declared for the two adventurers ; but the dwarf 
 lost his leg. The dwarf had now lost an arm, a leg, and an eye, 
 while the giant was without a single wound. Upon which he 
 cried out to his little companion, " My little hero, this is glorious 
 sport ; let us get one victory more, and then we shall have hon- 
 our for ever." — " No," cries the dwarf, who by this time was grown 
 wiser, " no ; I declare off; I'll fight no more, for I find, in every 
 battle, that you get all the honour and rewards, but all the 
 blows fall upon me." ' 
 
 I was going to moralise upon this fable, when our attention was 
 called off to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr Burchell, 
 upon my daughters' intended expedition to town. My wife very 
 strenuously insisted upon the advantages that would result from 
 it. Mr Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with great 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 237 
 
 ardour, and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions seemed but 
 the second part of those which were received with so ill a grace 
 in the morning. The dispute grew high, while poor Deborah, 
 instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, and was at last 
 obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamour. The conclusion 
 of her harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all : she 
 knew, she said, of some who had their secret reasons for what 
 they advised ; but for her part, she wished such to stay away 
 from her house for the future. * Madam/ cried Burchell, with 
 looks of great composure, which tended to inflame her the more, 
 1 as for secret reasons, you are right ; I have secret reasons which 
 I forbear to mention, because you are not able to answer those of 
 which I make no secret. But I find my visits here are become 
 troublesome ; I'll take my leave therefore now, and perhaps come 
 once more to take a final farewell when I am quitting the country.' 
 Thus saying, he took up his hat ; nor could the attempts of Sophia, 
 whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his going. 
 When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with 
 confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove to 
 hide her concern with a forced smile, and an air of assurance, 
 which I was willing to reprove : ' How, woman !' cried I to her, 
 1 is it thus we treat strangers ? Is it thus we return their kind- 
 ness ? Be assured, my dear, that these were the harshest words, 
 and to me the most unpleasing, that ever escaped your lips ! — 
 * "Why would he provoke me, then V replied she ; ' but I know 
 the motives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent my 
 girls from going to town, that he may have the pleasure of my 
 youngest daughter's company here at home. But whatever 
 happens, she shall choose better company than such low-lived 
 fellows as he. 5 — ' Low-lived, my dear, do you call him ?' cried I ; 
 ' it is very possible we may mistake this man's character ; for b^ 
 seems, upon some occasions, the most finished gentleman I ever 
 knew. Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you any 
 secret instances of his attachment ?' — ' His conversation with me, 
 sir/ replied my daughter, ' has ever been sensible, modest, and 
 pleasing. As to aught else ; no, never. Once indeed I remem- 
 ber to have heard him say, he never knew a woman who could 
 find merit in a man that seemed poor.' — ' Such, my dear/ cried I, 
 ' is the common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But I hope 
 you have been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it 
 would be even madness to expect happiness from one who has 
 been so very bad an economist of his own. Your mother and I 
 have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which you 
 will probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of mak- 
 ing a more prudent choice/ 
 
233 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion, I cannot 
 pretend to determine ; but I was not displeased at the bottom, 
 that we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. Our 
 breach of hospitality went to my conscience a little ; but I quickly 
 silenced that monitor by two or three specious reasons, which 
 served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. The pain which 
 conscience gives the man who has already done wrong is soon got 
 over. Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength 
 enough to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FRESH MORTIFICATIONS, OR A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEMING 
 CALAMITIES MAT BE REAL BLESSINGS. 
 
 The journey of my daughters to town was now resolved upon, Mr 
 Thornhill having kindly promised to inspect their conduct him- 
 self, and inform us by letter of their behaviour. But it was thought 
 indispensably necessary that their appearance should equal the 
 greatness of their expectations, which could not be done without 
 expense. We debated, therefore, in full council, what were the 
 easiest methods of raising money ; or, more properly speaking, 
 what we could most conveniently sell. The deliberation was soon 
 finished : it was found that our remaining horse was utterly use- 
 less for the plough, without his companion, and equally unfit for 
 the road, as wanting an eye : it was therefore determined that we 
 should dispose of him, for the purpose above-mentioned, at the 
 neighbouring fair ; and, to prevent imposition, that I should go 
 with him myself. Though this was one of the first mercantile 
 transactions of my life, yet I had no doubt of acquitting myself 
 with reputation. The opinion a man forms of his own prudence 
 is measured by that of the company he keeps, and as mine was 
 mostly in the family way, I had conceived no unfavourable senti- 
 ments of my worldly wisdom. My wife, however, next morning, 
 at parting, after I had got some paces from the door, called me 
 back, to advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes about me. 
 
 I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my horse 
 through all his paces, but for some time had no bidders. At last 
 a chapman approached, and after he had for a good while ex- 
 amined the horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he would 
 have nothing to say to him ; a second came up, but observing he 
 had a spavin, declared he would not have him for the driving home ; 
 a third perceived he had a windgall, and would bid no money ; a 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 239 
 
 fourth knew by his eye that he had the bots ; a fifth wondered 
 what the plague I could do at the fair with a blind, spavined, 
 galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a dog-kennel. By 
 this time I began to have a most hearty contempt for the poor 
 animal myself, and was almost ashamed at the approach of every 
 customer ; for though I did not entirely believe all the fellows told 
 me, yet I reflected that the number of witnesses was a strong pre- 
 sumption that they were right ; and St Gregory, upon good works, 
 professes himself to be of the same opinion. 
 
 I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergyman, 
 an old acquaintance, who had also business at the fair, came up, 
 and shaking me by the hand, proposed adjourning to a public- 
 house, and taking a glass of whatever we could get. I readily 
 closed with the offer, and, entering an ale-house, we were shown 
 into a little back room, where there was only a venerable old man, 
 who sat wholly intent over a very large book which he was read- 
 ing. I never in my life saw a figure that prepossessed me more 
 favourably. His locks of silver grey venerably shaded his temples, 
 and his green old age seemed to be the result of health and bene- 
 volence. However, his presence did not interrupt our conversa- 
 tion : my friend and I discoursed on the various turns of fortune 
 we had met ; the Whistonian controversy, my last pamphlet, the 
 archdeacon's reply, and the hard measure that was dealt me. But 
 our attention was in a short time taken off by the appearance of 
 a youth, who, entering the room, respectfully said something softly 
 to the old stranger. ' Make no apologies, my child/ said the old 
 man : • to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow-creatures ; 
 take this, I wish it were more ; but five pounds will relieve your 
 distress, and you are welcome/ The modest youth shed tears of 
 gratitude, and yet his gratitude was scarcely equal to mine. I 
 could have hugged the good old man in my arms, his benevolence 
 pleased me so. He continued to read, and we resumed our con- 
 versation, until my companion, after some time, recollecting that 
 he had business to transact in the fair, promised to be soon back ; 
 adding, that he always desired to have as much of Dr Primrose's 
 company as possible. The old gentleman, hearing my name men- 
 tioned, seemed to look at me with attention for some time, and 
 when my friend was gone, most respectfully demanded if I was 
 any way related to the great Primrose, that courageous monoga- 
 mist, who had been the bulwark of the church. Never did my 
 heart feel sincerer rapture than at that moment. * Sir,' cried I, 
 1 the applause of so good a man, as I am sure you are, adds to that 
 happiness in my breast which your benevolence has already ex- 
 cited. You behold before you, sir, that Dr Primrose, the mono- 
 gamist, whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see 
 
240 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 that unfortunate divine, who has so long, and it would ill become 
 me to say successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of the age.' 
 — ' Sir,' cried the stranger, struck with awe, ■ I fear I have been 
 too familiar ; but you'll forgive my curiosity, sir : I beg pardon.' 
 — ' Sir,' cried I, grasping his hand, ■ you are so far from displeas- 
 ing me by your familiarity, that I must beg you'll accept my 
 friendship, as you already have my esteem.' — * Then with grati- 
 tude I accept the offer,' cried he, squeezing me by the hand, ' thou 
 
 glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy ; and do I behold ■ I 
 
 here interrupted what he was going to say ; for though, as an 
 author, I could digest no small share of flattery, yet now my mo- 
 desty would permit no more. However, no lovers in romance ever 
 cemented a more instantaneous friendship. "We talked upon seve- 
 ral subjects ; at first, I thought him rather devout than learned, 
 and began to think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet 
 this no way lessened him in my esteem ; for I had for some time 
 begun privately to harbour such an opinion myself. I therefore 
 took occasion to observe, that the world in general began to be 
 blam ably indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and followed human 
 speculations too much. * Ay, sir,' replied he, as if he had reserved 
 all his learning to that moment, ' ay, sir, the world is in its dotage, 
 and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled philo- 
 sophers of all ages. "What a medley of opinions have they not 
 broached upon the creation of the world ! Sanchoniathon, Ma- 
 netho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in 
 vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara Jcai atelutaion to 
 pan, which imply that all things have neither beginning nor end. 
 Manetho also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser, 
 Asser being a Syriac word usually applied as a surname to the 
 kings of that country, as Teglet Phael-Asser ; Nabon-Asser, he, 
 I say, formed a conjecture equally absurd ; for as we usually say, 
 eh to biblion kubernctes, which implies that books will never teach 
 the world ; so he attempted to investigate — But, sir, I ask pardon, 
 I ara straying from the question.' That he actually was ; nor 
 could I for my life see how the creation of the world had anything 
 to do with the business I was talking of ; but it was sufficient to 
 show me that he was a man of letters, and I now reverenced him 
 the more. I was resolved, therefore, to bring him to the touch- 
 stone ; but he was too mild and too gentle to contend for victory. 
 Whenever I made any observation that looked like a challenge 
 to controversy, he would smile, shake his head, and say nothing ; 
 by which I understood he could say much if he thought proper. 
 The subject, therefore, insensibly changed from the business of anti- 
 quity to that which brought us both to the fair ; mine, I told him, 
 was to sell a horse ; and, very luckily indeed, his was to buy one 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 for one of his tenants. My horse was soon produced, and in fine 
 we struck a bargain. Nothing now remained but to pay me, and 
 he accordingly pulled out a thirty pound note, and bade me 
 change it. Not being in a capacity of complying with his de- 
 mand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who made his ap- 
 pearance in a very genteel livery. ' Here, Abraham,' cried he, 
 1 go and get gold for this ; you'll do it at neighbour Jackson's, or 
 anywhere.' "While the fellow was gone, he entertained me with a 
 pathetic harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I under- 
 took to improve by deploring also the great scarcity of gold ; so 
 that, by the time Abraham had returned, we had both agreed 
 that money was never so hard to be come at as now. Abraham 
 returned to inform us, that he had been over the whole fair and 
 could not get change, though he had offered half-a-crown for 
 doing it. This was a very great disappointment to us all ; but 
 the old gentleman having paused a little, asked me if I knew one 
 Solomon Flamborough in my part of the country ; upon replying 
 that he was my next-door neighbour, ' If that be the case then.' 
 returned he, ■ I believe we shall deal. You shall have a draft 
 upon him, payable at sight ; and let me tell you, he is as warm a 
 man as any within five miles round him. Honest Solomon and I 
 have been acquainted for many years together. I remember I 
 always beat him at three jumps; but he could hop upon one leg 
 farther than I.' A draft upon my neighbour ^vas to me the same 
 as money ; for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability : the 
 draft was signed and put into my hands, and Mr Jenkinson, the 
 old gentleman, his man Abraham, and my horse, Old Blackbeny, 
 trotted off very well pleased with each other. 
 
 After a short interval, being left to reflection, I began to re- 
 collect that I had done wrong in taking a draft from a stranger, 
 and so prudently resolved upon following the purchaser, and 
 having back my horse. But this was now too late ; I therefore 
 made directly homewards, resolving to get the draft changed into 
 money at my friend's as fast possible. I found my honest neigh- 
 bour smoking his pipe at his own door, and informing him that I 
 had a small bill upon him, he read it twice over. ■ You can read 
 the name, I suppose,' cried I, ■ Ephraim Jenkinson.' — ' Yes,' re- 
 turned he, * the name is written plain enough, and I know the 
 gentleman too, the greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven. 
 This is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. "Was he 
 not a venerable-looking man, with grey hair, and no flaps to his 
 pocket-holes ? and did he not talk a long string of learning about 
 Greek, cosmogony, and the world ?' To this I replied with a 
 groan. * Ay,' continued he, ■ he has but that one piece of learn- 
 ing in the world, and he always talks it away whenever he finds 
 
242 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 a scholar in company : but I know the rogue, and will catch him 
 yet.' 
 
 Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my greatest 
 struggle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No 
 truant was ever more afraid of returning to school, there to be- 
 hold the master's visage, than I was of going home. I was deter- 
 mined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first falling into a 
 passion myself. 
 
 But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no way disposed 
 for battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr Thornhill 
 having been there that day to inform them, that their journey to 
 town was entirely over. The two ladies, having heard reports 
 of us from some malicious person about us, were that day set out 
 for London. He could neither discover the tendency nor the 
 author of these ; but, whatever they might be, or whoever might 
 have broached them, he continued to assure our family of his 
 friendship and protection. I found, therefore, that they bore my 
 disappointment with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in the 
 greatness of their own. But what perplexed us most, was to 
 think who could be so base as to asperse the character of a family 
 so harmless as ours — too humble to excite envy, and too inoffen- 
 sive to create disgust. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ALL MR BURCHELL'S VILLANY AT ONCE DETECTED—THE FOLLY OF 
 BEING OVER- WISE. 
 
 That evening, and part of the following day, was employed in 
 fruitless attempts to discover our enemies : scarcely a family in 
 the neighbourhood but incurred our suspicions, and each of us 
 had reasons for our opinion best known to ourselves. As we were 
 in this perplexity, one of our little boys, who had been playing 
 abroad, brought in a letter-case, which he found on the green. It 
 was quickly known to belong to Mr Burchell, with whom it had 
 been seen ; and, upon examination, contained some hints upon dif- 
 ferent subjects ; but what particularly engaged our attention was a 
 sealed note, superscribed, ' The copy of a letter to be sent to the 
 two ladies at Thornhill Castle.' It instantly occurred that he 
 was the base informer : and we deliberated whether the note 
 should not be broken open. I was against it : but Sophia, who 
 said she was sure that of all men he would be the last to be 
 guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its being read. In this 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 243 
 
 she was seconded by the rest of the family ; and, at their joint 
 solicitation, I read as follows : — 
 
 4 Ladies, — The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person from 
 whom this comes : one at least the friend of innocence, and ready to pre- 
 vent its being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that you have some 
 intention of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some know- 
 ledge of, under the character of companions. As I would neither have 
 simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it as my 
 opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will be attended with danger- 
 ous consequences. It has never been my way to treat the infamous or the 
 lewd with severity ; nor should I now have taken this method of explain- 
 ing myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take, therefore, 
 the admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect on the consequences of 
 introducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace and innocence have 
 hitherto resided.' 
 
 Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed, indeed, some- 
 thing applicable to both sides in this letter, and its censures 
 might as well be referred to those to whom it was written as to 
 us ; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no 
 farther. My wife had scarcely patience to hear me to the end, 
 but railed at the writer with unrestrained resentment. Olivia was 
 equally severe, and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his base- 
 ness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of the vilest instances 
 of unprovoked ingratitude I had ever met with. Nor could I 
 account for it in any other manner than by imputing it to hi3 
 desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the country, to have 
 the more frequent opportunities of an interview. In this manner 
 we all sat ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when our little 
 boy came running in to tell us, that Mr Burchell was approach- 
 ing at the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than 
 describe the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain 
 of a recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. 
 Though our intentions were only to upbraid him with his ingra- 
 titude ; yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that would be 
 perfectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to meet him with 
 our usual smiles, to chat in the beginning with more than ordi- 
 nary kindness, to amuse him a little ; and then, in the midst of 
 the flattering calm, to burst upon him like an earthquake, and 
 overwhelm him with the sense of his own baseness. This being 
 resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business herself, 
 as she really had some talents for such an undertaking. We saw 
 him approach ; he entered, drew a chair, and sat down. * A fine 
 day, Mr Burchell.' — ' A very fine day, doctor ; though I fancy we 
 shall have some rain, by the shooting of my corns.' — * The shoot- 
 ing of your horns,' cried my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and 
 then asked pardon for being fond of a joke. 'Dear madam, 
 
244 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 replied he, ' I pardon you with all my heart ; for I protest I 
 should not have thought it a joke, had you not told me.' — ' Per- 
 haps not, sir,' cried my wife, winking at us : ' and yet I dare say 
 you can tell us how many jokes go to an ounce.' — * I fancy, 
 madam,' returned Burchell, * you have been reading a jest-book 
 this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit ; and 
 yet madam, I had rather see half an ounce of understanding,'— 
 1 1 believe you might,' cried my wife, still smiling at us, though 
 the laugh was against her ; ' and yet I have seen some men pre- 
 tend to understanding that have very little.' — ' And no doubt,' 
 replied her antagonist, ' you have known ladies set up for wit 
 that had none.' I quickly began to find, that my wife was likely 
 to gain but little at this business ; so I resolved to treat him in a 
 style of more severity myself. ' Both wit and understanding,' 
 cried I, ' are trifles without integrity ; it is that which gives value 
 to every character ; the ignorant peasant, without fault, is 
 greater than the philosopher with many ; for what is genius or 
 courage without a heart ? 
 
 4 An honest man's the noblest work of God.* 
 
 * I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope's/ returned Mr 
 Burchell, ■ as very unworthy of a man of genius, and a base de- 
 sertion of his own superiority. As the reputation of books is 
 raised, not by their freedom from defect, but the greatness of 
 their beauties ; so should that of men be prized, not for their 
 exemption from fault, but the size of those virtues they are pos- 
 sessed of. The scholar may want prudence ; the statesman may 
 have pride, and the champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to 
 these the low mechanio, who laboriously plods on through life 
 without censure or applause ? We might as well prefer the tame 
 correct paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous, but sub- 
 lime animations of the Roman pencil.' 
 
 * Sir,' replied I, ■ your present observation is just, when there 
 are shining virtues and minute defects ; but when it appears that 
 great vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary 
 virtues, such a character deserves contempt.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' cried he, ' there may be some such monsters as you 
 describe, of great vices joined to great virtues ; yet, in my pro- 
 gress through life, I never yet found one instance of their exis- 
 tence : on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the 
 mind was capacious the affections were good. And, indeed, Pro- 
 vidence seems kindly our fi-fend in this particular, thus to debili- 
 tate the understanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish 
 the power where there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems 
 to extend even to other animals ; the little vermin race are ever 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 245 
 
 treacherous, cruel and cowardly ; whilst those endowed with 
 strength and power are generous, brave, and gentle.' 
 
 1 These observations sound well,' returned I, ' and yet it would 
 be easy this moment to point out a man,' and I fixed my eye 
 steadfastly upon him, * whose head and heart form a most detes- 
 table contrast. Ay, sir,' continued I, raising my voice, l and I am 
 glad to have this opportunity of detecting him in the midst of his 
 fancied security. Do you know this, sir — this pocket-book V — 
 
 * Yes, sir,' returned he, with a face of impenetrable assurance ; 
 
 * that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you have found it.' — 
 1 And do you know,' cried I, ' this letter ? Nay, never falter, 
 man ; but look me full in the face : I say, do you know this 
 letter ?' — ■ That letter,' replied he ; ■ yes, it was I that wrote that 
 letter.' — 'And how could you,' said I, ■ so basely, so ungratefully, 
 presume to write this letter ?' — ( And how came you,' replied he, 
 with looks of unparalleled effrontery, ' so basely to presume to 
 break open thi3 letter ? Don't you know, now, I could hang you 
 all for this ? All that I have to do, is to swear at the next jus- 
 tice's that you have been guilty of breaking open the lock of my 
 pocket-book, and so hang you all up at this door.' This piece of 
 unexpected insolence raised me to such a pitch, that I could 
 scarcely govern my passion. * Ungrateful wretch ! be gone, and 
 no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness. Be gone ! and 
 never let me see thee again : go from my door, and the only 
 punishment I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which will be 
 a sufficient tormentor !' So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, 
 which he took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps with the 
 utmost composure, left us quite astonished at the serenity of his 
 assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that nothing could 
 make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of his villanies. 
 ' My dear,' cried I, willing to calm those passions that had been 
 raised too high among us, ' we are not to be surprised that bad 
 men want shame ; they only blush at being detected in doing good, 
 but glory in their vices.' 
 
 1 Guilt and Shame (says the allegory) were at first companions, 
 and in the beginning of their journey inseparably kept together. 
 But their union was soon found to be disagreeable and inconve- 
 nient to both : Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame 
 often betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. After long dis- 
 agreemeDt, therefore, they at length consented to part for ever. 
 Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake Fate, that went 
 before in the shape of an executioner ; but Shame, being naturally 
 timorous, returned back to keep company with Virtue, which in 
 the beginning of their journey they had left behind. Thus, my 
 children, after men have travelled through a few stages in vice, 
 
246 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 Shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few 
 virtues they have still remaining.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED BY STILL GREATER, 
 
 Whatever might have been Sophia's sensations, the rest of the 
 family were easily consoled for Mr Burchell's absence by the com- 
 pany of our landlord, whose visits now became more frequent and 
 longer. Though he had been disappointed in procuring my 
 daughters the amusements of the town, as he designed, he took 
 every opportunity of supplying them with those little recreations 
 which our retirement would admit of. He usually came in the 
 morning, and while my son and I followed our occupations abroad, 
 he sat with the family at home, and amused them by describing 
 the town, with every part of which he was particularly acquainted. 
 He could repeat all the observations that were retailed in the 
 atmosphere of the playhouses, and had all the good things of the 
 high wits by rote, long before they made their way into the jest- 
 books. The intervals between conversation were employed in teach- 
 ing ray daughters piquet ; or, sometimes, in setting my two little 
 ones to box, to make them sharp, as he called it : but the hopes of 
 having him for a son-in-law in some measure blinded us to all 
 his imperfections. It must be owned, that my wife laid a thou- 
 sand schemes to entrap him ; or, to speak it more tenderly, used 
 every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at 
 tea ate short and crisp, they were made by Olivia ; if the goose- 
 berry-wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of her gathering ; 
 it was her fingers which gave the pickles their peculiar green ; 
 and in the composition of a pudding it was her judgment that 
 mixed the ingredients. Then the poor woman would sometimes 
 tell the squire, that she thought him and Olivia extremely of a 
 size, and would bid both stand up to see which was the tallest. 
 These instances of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet 
 which everybody saw through, were very pleasing to our benefac- 
 tor, who gave every day some new proofs of his passion, which, 
 though they had not arisen to proposals of marriage, yet we 
 thought fell but little short of it : and his slowness was sometimes 
 attributed to native bashfulness, and sometimes to his fear of 
 offending his uncle. An occurrence, however, which happened 
 soon after, put it beyond a doubt, that he designed to become one 
 of our family ; my wife even regarded it as an absolute promise. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 247 
 
 My wife and daughters, happening to return a visit at neigh* 
 bour Flamborough's, found that family had lately got their pic- 
 tures drawn by a limner, who travelled the country, and took 
 Hkenesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours 
 had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the 
 alarm at this stolen march upon us, and notwithstanding all I 
 could say, and I said much, it was resolved that we should have 
 our pictures done too. Having, therefore, engaged the limner, 
 (for what could I do ?) our next deliberation was to show the 
 superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neighbour's 
 family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with seven 
 oranges — a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no com- 
 position in the world. "We desired to have something in a brighter 
 style, and, after many debates, at length came to a unanimous 
 resolution of being drawn together, in one large historical family- 
 piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for 
 all, and it would be infinitely more genteel ; for all families of 
 any taste were now drawn in the same manner. As we did not im- 
 mediately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were con- 
 tented each with being drawn as independent historical figures. 
 My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was 
 requested not to be frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher and 
 hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side ; while 
 I, in my gown and band, was to present her with my books on 
 the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an 
 Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in a green 
 Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia 
 was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could 
 put in for nothing ; and Moses was to be dressed out with a hat 
 and white feather. 
 
 Our taste so much pleased the squire, that he insisted on being 
 put in as one of the family, in the character of Alexander the 
 Great at Olivia's feet. This was considered by us all as an indi- 
 cation of his desire to be introduced into the family, nor could 
 we refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work, 
 and, as he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than 
 four days the whole was completed. The piece was large, and it 
 must be owned he did not spare his colours ; for which my wife 
 gave him great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with 
 his performance; but an unfortunate circumstance, which had 
 not occurred till the picture was finished, now struck us with dis- 
 may. It was so very large, that we had no place in the house to 
 fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is in- 
 conceivable ; but certain it is, we had all been greatly remiss. 
 This picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we 
 
248 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 hoped, leaned in a most mortifying manner against the kitch# 
 wall, where the canvass was stretched and painted, much too 
 large to be got through any of the doors, and the jest of all our 
 neighbours. One compared it to Robinson Crusoe's long boat, too 
 large to be removed ; another thought it more resembled a reel 
 in a bottle ; some wondered how it could be got out, but still more 
 were amazed how it ever got in. 
 
 But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised 
 more malicious suggestions in many. The squire's portrait being 
 found united with ours, was an honour too great to escape envy. 
 Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our expense, and our 
 tranquillity was continually disturbed by persons who came as 
 friends to tell us what was said of us by enemies. These reports 
 were always resented with becoming spirit ; but scandal ever im" 
 proves by opposition. 
 
 We once again, therefore, entered into consultation upon ob- 
 viating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolu- 
 tion which had too much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. 
 It was this: as our principal object was to discover the honour of 
 Mr Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook to sound him, by 
 pretending to ask his advice in the choice of a husband for her 
 eldest daughter. If this was not found sufficient to induce him 
 to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him with a rival. 
 To this last step, however, I would by no means give my consent, 
 till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that she would 
 marry the person provided to rival him upon this occasion, if he 
 did not prevent it by taking her himself. Such was the scheme 
 laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not entirely 
 approve. 
 
 The next time, therefore, that Mr Thornhill came to see us, 
 my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give their 
 mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme in execution ; but 
 they only retired to the next room, from whence they could over- 
 hear the whole conversation : my wife artfully introduced it by 
 observing, that one of the Miss Flainboroughs was like to have a 
 very good match of it in Mr Spanker. To this the squire assent- 
 ing, she proceeded to remark, that they who had warm fortunes 
 were always sure of getting good husbands : * But Heaven help,' 
 continued she, ' the girls that have none ! What signifies beauty, 
 Mr Thornhill ? or what signifies all the virtue and all the quali- 
 iications in the world, in this age of self-interest ? It is not, What 
 is she V but, What has she ? is all the cry.' 
 
 ' Madam,' returned he, * I highly approve the justice, as well 
 as the novelty, of your remarks ; and, if I were a king, it should 
 be otherwise. It should then, indeed, be fine times for the girl* 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 249 
 
 without fortunes : our two young ladies should be the first for 
 whom I would provide. 5 
 
 * Ah ! sir,' returned my wife, * you are pleased to be facetious : 
 but I wish I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest 
 daughter should look for a husband. But now that you have put 
 it into my head, seriously, Mr Thornhill, can't you recommend 
 me a proper husband for her ? she is now nineteen years old, well 
 grown and well educated ; and, in my humble opinion, does not 
 want for parts.' 
 
 * Madam,' replied he, ' If I were to choose, I would find out a 
 person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an angel 
 happy, one with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity : such, 
 madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband.' — * Ay, sir,' 
 said she, ' but do you know of any such person V — ' No, madam,' 
 returned he, ' it is impossible to know any person that deserves 
 to be her husband : she's too great a treasure for one man's pos- 
 session : she's a goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what I think, 
 she is an angel.' — ' Ah, Mr Thornhill, you only flatter my poor 
 girl : but we have been thinking of marrying her to one of your 
 tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager ; 
 you know whom I mean, Farmer Williams ; a warm man, Mr 
 Thornhill, able to give her good bread ; and who has several times 
 made her proposals' (which was actually the case). ' But, sir, 5 
 concluded she, ' I should be glad to have your approbation of our 
 choice.' — ' How, madam !' replied he, ' my approbation ! My 
 approbation of such a choice ! Never< What ! Sacrifice so much 
 beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of the 
 blessing ! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of in- 
 justice ! And I have my reasons — ' ' Indeed, sir,' cried Deborah, 
 1 if you have your reasons, that's another affair ; but I should be 
 glad to know those reasons.' — ' Excuse me, madam,' returned he, 
 ' they lie too deep for discovery,' (laying his hand upon his bosom,) 
 * they remain buried, riveted here.' 
 
 After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we could not 
 tell what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered 
 them as instances of the most exalted passion ; but I was not quite 
 so sanguine : it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had more of 
 love than matrimony in them ; yet, whatever they might portend, 
 it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of Farmer "Williams, who, 
 from my daughter's first appearance in the country, had paid her 
 his addresses. 
 
250 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 SCARCELY ANY YIETUE FOUND TO EESIST THE POWEB OF LONG 
 AND PLEASING TEMPTATION. 
 
 As I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity of Mr 
 Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, prudent, 
 and sincere. It required but very little encouragement to revive 
 his former passion ; so that in an evening or two he and Mr 
 Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each other for some 
 time with looks of anger : but Williams owed his landlord no 
 rent, and little regarded his indignation. Olivia, on her side, 
 acted the coquette to perfection, if that might be called acting 
 which was her real character, pretending to lavish all her ten- 
 derness on her new lover. Mr Thornhill appeared quite dejected 
 at this preference, and, with a pensive air, took leave ; though I 
 own it puzzled me to find him in so much pain as he appeared to 
 be, when he had it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by 
 declaring an honourable passion. But whatever uneasiness he 
 seemed to endure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia's 
 anguish was much greater. After any of these interviews be- 
 tween her lovers, of which there were several, she usually retired 
 to solitude, and there indulged her grief. It was in such a situa- 
 tion I found her one evening, after she had been for some time 
 supporting a fictitious gaiety. ' You now see, my child,' said I, 
 1 that your confidence in Mr ThornhilTs passion was all a dream ; 
 he permits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though 
 he knows it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a candid 
 declaration.' — * Yes, papa/ returned she, * but he has his reasons 
 for this delay ; I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and 
 words convinces me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will 
 discover the generosity of his sentiments, and convince you that 
 my opinion of him has been more just than yours.' — * Olivia, my 
 darling/ returned I, ' every scheme that has been hitherto pur- 
 sued to compel him to a declaration has been proposed and 
 planned by yourself, nor can you in the least say that I have 
 constrained you. But you must not suppose, my dear, that I will 
 ever be instrumental in suffering his honest rival to be the dupe 
 of your ill-placed passion. Whatever time you require to bring 
 your fancied admirer to an explanation, shall be granted ; but at 
 the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless, I must abso- 
 lutely insist that honest Mr Williams shall be rewarded for his 
 fidelity. The character which I have hitherto supported in life 
 demands this from me ; and my tenderness as a parent shall 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 251 
 
 never influence my integrity as a man. Name, then, your day ; 
 let it be as distant as you think proper, and in the meantime take 
 care to let Mr Thornhill know the exact time on which I design 
 delivering you up to another. If he really loves you, his own 
 good sense will readily suggest that there is but one method alone 
 to prevent his losing you for ever.' This proposal, which she could 
 not avoid considering as perfectly just, was readily agreed to. 
 She again renewed her most positive promise of marrying Mr 
 Williams, in case of the other's insensibility ; and at the next op- 
 portunity, in Mr Thornhill 's presence, that day month was fixed 
 upon for her nuptials with his rival. 
 
 Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr Thornhill's 
 anxiety : but what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. 
 In this struggle between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite 
 forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was sought, and 
 spent in tears. One week passed away ; but Mr Thornhill made 
 no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was 
 still assiduous, but not more open. On the third he discontinued 
 his visits entirely ; and instead of my daughter testifying any 
 impatience, as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive tran- 
 quillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, 
 I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was 
 going to be secured in a continuance of competence and peace, 
 and frequently applauded her resolution, in preferring happiness 
 to ostentation. 
 
 It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that 
 my little family at night were gathered round a charming fire, 
 telling stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future ; 
 busied in forming a thousand projects, and laughing at whatever 
 folly came uppermost. * Well, Moses/ cried I, ' we shall soon, my 
 boy, have a wedding in the family ; what is your opinion of 
 matters and things in general V — ' My opinion, father, is, that all 
 things go on very well ; and I was just now thinking, that when 
 sister Livy is married to Farmer Williams, we shall then have 
 the loan of his cider-press and brewing-tubs for nothing.' — * That 
 we shall, Moses,' cried I, ' and he will sing us Death and the Lady, 
 to raise our spirits, into the bargain.' — ■ He has taught that song 
 to our Dick,' cried Moses : ' and I think he goes through it very 
 prettily.' — ' Does he so ?' cried I, * then let us have it : where is 
 little Dick ? let him up with it boldly.'—' My brother Dick,' cried 
 Bill, my youngest, ■ is just gone out with sister Livy : but Mr 
 Williams has taught me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, 
 papa. Which song do you choose — The Dying Swan, or the 
 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog ?' — f The elegy, child, by all 
 means/ said I, ' I never heard that yet,— and Deborah, my life, 
 
252 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 grief, you know, is dry ; let us have a bottle of the best goose- 
 berry-wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at all 
 sorts of elegies of late, that, without an enlivening glass, I am 
 sure this will overcome me. And Sophy, love, take your guitar, 
 „nd thrum in with the boy a little.' 
 
 AN ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 
 Good people all, of every sort, 
 
 Give ear unto my song ; 
 And if you find it wondrous short, 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man, 
 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 That still a godly race he ran, 
 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
 A kind and gentle heart he had 
 
 To comfort friends and foes ; 
 The naked eveiy day he clad, 
 
 When he put on his clothes. 
 
 And in that town a dog was found ; 
 
 As many dogs there be, 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends ; 
 
 But when a pique began, 
 The dog, to gain some private ends, 
 
 Went mad, and bit the man ! 
 
 Around from all the neighb'ring streets 
 
 The wond'ring neighbours ran ; 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 And while they swore the clog was mafi, 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light, 
 
 That showed the rogues they lied* 
 The man recovered of the bite, 
 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
 1 A very good boy, Bill, upon my word ; and an elegy that may 
 be truly called tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's health, 
 and may he one day be a bishop !' 
 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 25 S 
 
 1 With all my heart, 5 cried my wife ; ■ and if he but preaches 
 as well as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his 
 family, by the mother's side, could sing a good song ; it was a 
 common saying in our country, that the family of the Blenkinsops 
 could never look straight before them ; nor the Hugginsons blow 
 out a candle ; that there were none of the Grograms but could 
 sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could tell a story.' — * How- 
 ever that be,' cried I, ■ the most vulgar ballad of all generally 
 pleases me better thanthefine modern odes, and things that petrify 
 us in a single stanza : productions that we at once detest and 
 praise. Put the glass to your brother, Moses. The great fault 
 of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair for griefs that give 
 the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her 
 muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to 
 versify the disaster.' 
 
 1 That may be the mode,' cried Moses, ■ in sublimer compo- 
 sitions ; but the Ranelagh songs that come down to us are per- 
 fectly familiar, and all cast in the same mould ; Colin meets 
 Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together ; he gives her a fairing 
 to put in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay ; ana 
 then they go together to church, where they give good advice to 
 young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they can.' 
 
 1 And very good advice too,' cried I ; ' and I am told there is 
 not a place in the world where advice can be given with so much 
 propriety as there : for, as it persuades us to marry, it also fur- 
 nishes us with a wife ; and surely that must be an excellent 
 market, my boy, where we are told what we want, and supplied 
 with it when wanting.' 
 
 * Yes, sir,' returned Moses, • and I know but of two such mar- 
 kets for wives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia 
 in Spain. The Spanish market is open once a year, but our 
 English wives are saleable every night. 
 
 1 You are right my boy,' cried his mother ; ' Old England is the 
 only place in the world for husbands to get wives,' — * And for 
 wives to manage their husbands,' interrupted I. * It is a proverb 
 abroad, that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of 
 the continent would come over to take pattern from our3 ; for 
 there are no such wives in Europe as our own. But let U3 have 
 one bottle more, Deborah, my life, and, Moses, give us a good 
 song. What thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing 
 tranquillity, health, and competence ! I think myself happier 
 now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such 
 fireside, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, we are 
 now growing old ; but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. 
 We are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we 
 
254 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind us, 
 While we live they will be our support and our pleasure here, 
 and when we die they will transmit our honour untainted to pos- 
 terity. Come, my son, we wait for a song ; let us have a chorus. 
 But where is my darling Olivia ? That little cherub's voice is 
 always sweetest in the concert.' Just as I spoke, Dick came run- 
 ning in — ' papa, papa, she is gone from us — she is gone from 
 us ; my sister Livy is gone from us for ever !' — ' Gone, child V — 
 ' Yes ; she is gone off with two gentlemen in a post-chaise, and 
 one of them kissed her, and said he would die for her ; and she 
 cried very much, and was for coming back ; but he persuaded 
 her again, and she went into the chaise, and said, " Oh ! what 
 will my poor papa do when he knows I am undone." ' — ' Now, 
 then,' cried I, ' my children, go and be miserable ; for we shall 
 never enjoy one hour more. And, O, may Heaven's everlasting 
 fury light upon him and his ! Thus to rob me of my child ! — 
 And sure it will — for taking back my sweet innocent that I was 
 leading up to heaven ! Such sincerity as my child was possessed 
 of! But all our earthly happiness is now over! Go, my children, 
 go and be miserable and infamous — for my heart is broken with- 
 in me !' — ' Father,' cried my son, ' is this your fortitude ?' — ' For- 
 titude, child ! Yes, he shall see I have fortitude— bring me my 
 pistols— I'll pursue the traitor — while he is on earth, I'll pursue 
 him ! Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet — the villain 
 — the perfidious villain !' I had by this time reached down my 
 pistols, when my poor wife, whose passions were not so strong as 
 mine, caught me in her arms. ' My dearest, dearest husband,' 
 cried she, * the Bible is the only weapon that is fit for your old 
 hands now. Open that, my love, and read our anguish into pa- 
 tience, for she has vilely deceived us.' — ' Indeed, sir,' resumed my 
 son, after a pause, 'your rage is too violent and unbecoming. 
 You should be my mother's comforter, and you increase her pain. 
 It ill suited you and your reverend character, thus to curse your 
 greatest enemy ; you should not have cursed him, villain as he 
 is.' — • I did not curse him, child, did I V — ' Indeed, sir, you did, 
 you cursed him twice.' — ' Then may Heaven forgive me and him 
 if I did. And now, my son, I see it was more than human bene- 
 volence that first taught us to bless our enemies. Blessed be his 
 holy name for all the good he hath given, and for all that he hath 
 taken away. But it is not — it is not a small distress that can 
 wring tears from these old eyes, that have not wept for so many 
 years. My child — to undo my darling ! May confusion seize — 
 Heaven forgive me ! — what am I about to say ? You may remem- 
 ber, my love, how good she was, and how charming ; till this vile 
 moment all her care was to make us happy. Had she but died ! but 
 
hi I ------ 
 
 — the villain - the j .;_;. : v s Villain.; I had "by this 
 time re ache 3_ Icwn . 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 266 
 
 bIio is gone ; the honour of our family is contaminated, and I 
 must look out for happiness in other worlds than here. But, my 
 child, you saw them go off ; perhaps he forced her away ? If he 
 forced her, she may yet be innocent.' — ' Ah, no, sir/ cried the 
 child ; ' he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and she wept 
 very much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very 
 fast/ — ■ She's an ungrateful creature,' cried Kiy wife, who could 
 scarcely speak for weeping, ' to use us thus ; she never had the 
 least constraint put upon her affections. The vile strumpet has 
 basely deserted her parents without any provocation — thus to 
 bring your gray hairs to the grave, and I must shortly follow.' 
 
 In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was 
 spent in the bitterness of complaint, and ill-supported sallies of en- 
 thusiasm. I determined, however, to find out our betrayer, wher- 
 ever he was, and reproach his baseness. The next morning we 
 missed our wretched child at breakfast, where she used to give life 
 and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to ease 
 her heart by reproaches. ' Never,' cried she, ' shall that vilest stain 
 of our family again darken these harmless doors. I will never 
 call her daughter more. No ! let the strumpet live with her vile 
 seducer : she may bring us to shame, but she shall never more 
 deceive us.' 
 
 1 Wife,' said I, ' do not talk thus hardly : my detestation of her 
 guilt is as great as yours ; but ever shall this house and this heart 
 be open to a poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she 
 returns from her transgression, the more welcome shall she be to 
 me. For the first time the very best may err ; art may persuade, 
 and novelty spread out its charm. The first fault is the child oi 
 simplicity ; but every other the offspring of guilt. Yes, tha 
 wretched creature shall be welcome to this heart and this house, 
 though stained with ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to 
 the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her bosom, if 
 I find but repentance there. My son, bring hither my Bible and 
 my staff ; I will pursue her, wherever she is ; and, though I cannot 
 save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance of her ini- 
 quity,' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO VIRTUE. 
 
 Though the child could not describe the gentleman's person, who 
 handed his sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entire- 
 ly upon our young landlord, whose character for such iatrigues was 
 
256 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 but too well known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thornhill 
 Castle, resoMng to upbraid him, and, if possible, to bring back 
 my daughter ; but before I had reached his seat I was met by 
 one of my parishioners, who said he saw a young lady resembling 
 my daughter in a post-chaise with a gentleman, whom, by the 
 description, I could only guess to be Mr Burchell, and that they 
 drove very fast. This information, however, did by no means 
 satisfy me ; I therefore went to the young squire's, and, though 
 it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately ; he soon 
 appeared with the most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly 
 amazed at my daughter's elopement, protesting upon his honour 
 that he was quite a stranger to it. I now therefore condemned 
 my former suspicions, and could turn them only on Mr Burchell, 
 who I recollected had of late several private conferences with her ; 
 but the appearance of another witness left me no room to doubt 
 of his villany, who averred that he and my daughter were actually 
 gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there was a 
 great deal of company. Being driven to that state of mind in 
 which we are more ready to act precipitately than to reason right, 
 I never debated with myself, whether these accounts might not 
 have been given by persons purposely placed in my way to mis- 
 lead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied de- 
 luder thither. I walked along with earnestness, and inquired of 
 several by the way ; but received no accounts, till entering the 
 town I was met by a person on horseback, whom I remembered 
 to have seen at the squire's, and he assured me, that if I followed 
 them to the races, which were but thirty miles farther, I might 
 depend upon overtaking them ; for he had seen them dance there 
 the night before, and the whole assembly seemed charmed with 
 my daughter's performance. Early the next day I walked for- 
 ward to the races, and about four in the afternoon I came upon 
 the course. The company made a very brilliant appearance, all 
 earnestly employed in one pursuit, that of pleasure ; how different 
 from mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! I thought I 
 perceived Mr Burchell at some distance from me : but, as if he 
 dreaded an interview, upon my approaching him he mixed among 
 a crowd, and I saw him no more. 
 
 I now reflected, that it would be to no purpose to continue my 
 pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an innocent family, 
 who wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and 
 the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a fever, the symptoms 
 of which I perceived before I came off the course. This was ano- 
 ther unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distant 
 from home ; however, I retired to a little ale-house by the road- 
 side ; and in this place the usual retreat of indigence and frugality, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 25) 
 
 I laid me down patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I lan- 
 guished here for nearly three weeks ; but at last my constitution 
 prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to defray the 
 expenses of my entertainment. It is possible the anxiety from 
 this last circumstance alone might have brought on a relapse, had 
 I not been supplied by a traveller, who stopped to take a cursory 
 refreshment. This person was no other than the philanthrophic 
 bookseller in St Paul's Churchyard, who has written so many 
 little books for children : he called himself their friend, but he 
 was the friend of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted, but 
 he was in haste to be gone ; for he was ever on business of the 
 utmost importance, and was at that time actually compiling ma- 
 terials for the history of one Mr Thomas Trip. I immediately 
 recollected this good-natured man's red pimpled face : for he had 
 published for me against the Deuterogamists of the age ; and 
 from him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my return. 
 Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, I resolved to 
 return home by easy journeys of ten miles a day. 
 
 My health and usual tranquillity were almost restored, and I 
 now condemned that pride which had made me refractory to the 
 hand of correction. Man little knows what calamities are beyond 
 his patience to bear till he tries them ; as in ascending the heights 
 of ambition, which look bright from below, every step we rise 
 shows us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden disappoint- 
 ment ; so in our descent from the summits of pleasure, though 
 the vale of misery below may appear at first dark and gloomy, 
 yet the busy mind, still attentive to its own amusement, finds, as 
 we descend, something to flatter and to please. Still as we ap- 
 proach the darkest objects appear to brighten, and the mental 
 eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situation. 
 
 I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, 
 when I perceived what appeared at a distance like a waggon, 
 which I was resolved to overtake : but when I came up with it 
 found it to be a strolling company's cart, that was carrying their 
 scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next village, where 
 they were to exhibit. 
 
 The cart was attended only by the person who drove it, and one 
 of the company ; as the rest of the players were to follow the en- 
 suing day. ' Good company upon the road,' says the proverb, ' is 
 the shortest cut.' I therefore entered into conversation with the 
 poor player ; and, as I once had some theatrical powers myself, I 
 descanted on such topics with my usual freedom ; but as I was 
 but little acquainted with the present state of the stage, I de- 
 manded who were the present theatrical writers in vogue, who 
 the Dry dens and Otways of the day ? ■ I fancy, sir,' cried the 
 
f58 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 player, • few of our modern dramatists would think themselves 
 much honoured by being compared to the writers you mention. 
 Dryden's and Rowe's manner, sir, are quite out of fashion : our 
 taste has gone back a whole century ; Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and 
 all the plays of Shakspeare, are the only things that go down/ — ■ 
 ' How !' cried I, ' is it possible the present age can be pleased with 
 that antiquated dialect, that obsolete humour, those overcharged 
 characters, which abound in the works you mention ?' — ' Sir,' re- 
 turned my companion, ' the public think nothing about dialect, 
 or humour, or character ; for that is none of their business ; they 
 only go to be amused, and find themselves happy when they can 
 enjoy a pantomime, under the sanction of Jonson 's or Shakspeare 's 
 name.' — ' So then, I suppose,' cried I, ' that our modern drama- 
 tists are rather imitators of Shakspeare than nature.' — * To say 
 the truth,' returned my companion, ' I don't know that they imi- 
 tate anything at all ; nor indeed does the public require it of 
 them ; it is not the composition of the piece, but the number of 
 starts and attitudes that may be introduced, that elicits applause. 
 I have known a piece, with not one jest in the whole, shrugged 
 into popularity, and another saved by the poet's throwing in a fit 
 of the gripes. No, sir, the works of Congreve and Farquhar have 
 too much wit in them for the present taste ; our modern dialect is 
 much more natural.' 
 
 By this time the equipage of the strolling company was arrived 
 at the village, which, it seems, had been apprised of our approach, 
 and was come out to gaze at us ; for my companion observed, that 
 strollers always have more spectators without doors than within. 
 I did not consider the impropriety of my being in such company, 
 till I saw a mob gather about me. I therefore took shelter, as 
 fast as possible, in the first alehouse that offered, and, being 
 shown into the common room, was accosted by a very well-dressed 
 gentleman, who demanded whether I was the real chaplain of 
 the company, or whether it was only to be my masquerade cha- 
 racter in the play ? Upon my informing him of the truth, and 
 that I did not belong in any sort to the company, he was conde- 
 scending enough to desire me and the player to partake in a bowl 
 of punch, over which he discussed modern politics with great 
 earnestness and interest. I set him down in my own mind for 
 nothing less than a parliament-man at least ; but was almost 
 confirmed in my conjectures, when, upon asking what there was 
 in the house for supper, he insisted that the player and I should 
 sup with him at his house ; with which request, after some en- 
 treaties, we were prevailed on to comply. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 259 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE PRESENT GOVERN* 
 MENT, AND APPREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES. 
 
 The house where we were to be entertained lying at a small dis- 
 tance from the village, our inviter observed, that, as the coach 
 was not ready, he would conduct us on foot, and we soon arrived 
 at one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen in that part 
 of the country. The apartment into which we were shown was 
 perfectly elegant and modern ; he went to give orders for supper, 
 while the player, with a wink, observed that we were perfectly in 
 luck. Our entertainer soon returned, an elegant supper was 
 brought in, two or three ladies in easy dishabille were introduced, 
 and the conversation began with some sprightliness. Politics, 
 however, was the subject on which our entertainer chiefly expa- 
 tiated ; for he asserted that liberty was at once his boast and his 
 terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me if I had seen 
 the last Monitor ; to which replying in the negative, ' What, nor 
 the Auditor, I suppose ?' cried he. ■ Neither, sir,' returned L 
 ' That's strange, very strange,' replied my entertainer. * Now 1 
 read all the politics that come out. The Daily, the Public, the 
 Ledger, the Chronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall Even- 
 ing, the seventeen Magazines, and the two Reviews ; and, though 
 they hate each other, I love them all. Liberty, sir, liberty is the 
 Briton's boast, and, by all my coal-mines in Cornwall, I reverence 
 its guardians.' — ' Then it is to be hoped,' cried I, ' you reverence 
 the king?' — ' Yes,' returned my entertainer, ■ when he does what 
 we would have him ; but if he goes on as he has done of late, I'll 
 never trouble myself more with his matters. I say nothing. I 
 think only. I could have directed some things better. I don't 
 think there has been a sufficient number of advisers ; he should 
 advise with every person willing to give him advice, and then we 
 should have things done in another guess manner.' 
 
 1 1 wish,' cried I, ' that such intruding advisers were fixed in 
 the pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist the 
 weaker side of our constitution, that sacred power that has for 
 some years been every day declining, and losing its due share of 
 influence in the state. But these ignorants still continue the same 
 cry of liberty, and if they have any weight, basely throw it into 
 the subsiding scale.' 
 
 * How !' cried one of the ladies, ' do I live to see one so base, so 
 sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of tyrants ? 
 
260 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 Liberty, that sacred gift of heaven, that glorious privilege of 
 Britons V 
 
 1 Can it be possible,' cried our entertainer, ' that there should 
 be any found, at present, advocates for slavery ? Any who are 
 for meanly giving up the privileges of Britons ! Can any, sir, be 
 so abject ?' 
 
 ' No, sir/ replied I, c I am for liberty, that attribute of gods ! 
 Glorious liberty ! that theme of modern declamation. I would 
 have all men kings. I would be a king myself. We have all 
 naturally an equal right to the throne ; we are all originally 
 equal. This is my opinion, and was once the opinion of a set of 
 honest men who were called Levellers. They tried to erect them- 
 selves into a community, where all should be equally free. But, 
 alas ! it would never answer ; for there were some among them 
 stronger, and some more cunning than others, and these became 
 masters of the rest ; for as sure as your groom rides your horses, 
 because he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely will the 
 animal that is cunninger or stronger than he sit upon his 
 shoulders in turn. Since then it is entailed upon humanity to 
 submit, and some are born to command, and others to obey, the 
 question is, as there must be tyrants, whether it is better to 
 have them in the same house with us, or in the same village, or 
 still farther off in the metropolis. Now, sir, for my own part, a? 
 I naturally hate the face of a tyrant, the farther off he is re- 
 moved from me, the better pleased am I. The generality oi 
 mankind also are of my way of thinking, and have unanimously 
 created one king, whose election at once diminishes the number 
 of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the 
 greatest number of people. Now the great, who were tyrants 
 themselves before the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse 
 to a power raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean 
 heaviest on the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, 
 therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible ; because 
 whatever they take from that is naturally restored to themselves : 
 and all they have to do in the state is to undermine the single 
 tyrant, by which they resume their primasval authority. Now 
 the state may be so circumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, 
 or its men of opulence so minded, as all to conspire in carrying 
 on this business of undermining monarchy. For, in the first 
 place, if the circumstances of our state be such as to favour the 
 accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent still more rich, 
 this will increase their ambition. An accumulation of wealth, 
 however, must necessarily be the consequence, when, as at present, 
 more riches flow in from external commerce than arise from in- 
 ternal industry : for external commerce can only be managed to 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 261 
 
 advantage by the rich, and they have also at the same time all 
 the emoluments arising from internal industry ; sc that the rich, 
 with us, have two sources of wealth, whereas the poor have but 
 one. For this reason, wealth in all commercial states is found to 
 accumulate ; and all such have hitherto in time become aristo- 
 cratical. Again, the very laws also of the country may contribute 
 to the accumulation of wealth ; as when, by their means, the na- 
 tural ties that bind the rich and poor together are broken ; and 
 it is ordained that the rich shall only marry with the rich ; or 
 when the learned are held unqualified to serve their country as 
 councillors, merely from a defect of opulence ; and wealth is thus 
 made the object of a wise man's ambition : by these means, I say, 
 and such means as these, riches will accumulate. Now the pos- 
 sessor of accumulated wealth, when furnished with the necessaries 
 and pleasures of life, has no other method to employ the super- 
 fluity of his fortune but in purchasing power ; that is, differently 
 speaking, in making dependants by purchasing the liberty of the 
 needy or the venal, of men who are willing to bear the mortifica- 
 tion of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus each very opulent 
 man generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the 
 people, and the polity abounding in accumulated wealth may be 
 compared to a Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its 
 own. Those, however, who are willing to move in a great man's 
 vortex, are only such as must be slaves, the rabble of mankind, 
 whose souls and whose education are adapted to servitude, and 
 who know nothing of liberty except the name. But there must 
 still be a large number of the people without the sphere of the 
 opulent man's influence, namely, that order of men which subsists 
 between the very rich and the very rabble ; those men who are 
 possessed of too large fortunes to submit to the neighbouring man 
 in power, and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. 
 In this middle order of mankind are generally to be found all the 
 arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is known 
 to be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the People. 
 Now it may happen, that this middle order of mankind may lose 
 all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner drowned 
 in that of the rabble ; for if the fortune sufficient for qualifying a 
 person at present to give his voice in state affairs be ten times 
 less than was judged sufficient upon forming the constitution, it 
 is evident, that greater numbers of the rabble will thus be intro- 
 duced into the political system, and they, ever moving in the 
 vortex of the great, will follow where greatness shall direct. In 
 such a state, therefore, all that the middle order has left is to 
 preserve the prerogative and privileges of the one principal 
 governor with the most sacred circumspection. For he divides 
 
262 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 the power of the rich, and calls off the great from falling with 
 tenfold weight on the middle order placed beneath them. The 
 middle order may be compared to a town, of which the opulent 
 are forming the siege, and of which the governor from without is 
 hastening the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an 
 enemy over them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most 
 specious terms ; to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them 
 with privileges ; but if they once defeat the governor from behind, 
 the walls of the town will be but a small defence to its inhabi- 
 tants. What they may then expect may be seen by turning our 
 eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern the 
 poor, and the rich govern the law. I am then for, and would die 
 for, monarchy, sacred monarchy ; for if there be anything sacred 
 amongst men, it must be the anointed sovereign of his people ; 
 and every diminution of his power, in war or peace, is an infringe- 
 ment upon the real liberties of the subject. The sounds of liberty, 
 patriotism, and Britons, have already done much ; it is to be 
 hoped, that the true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing 
 more. I have known many of these pretended champions for 
 liberty in my time, yet do I not remember one that was not in 
 his heart and in his family a tyrant.' 
 
 My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue beyond 
 the rules of good-breeding : but the impatience of my entertainer, 
 who often strove to interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. 
 ' What !' cried he, l then I have been all this while entertaining a 
 Jesuit in parson's clothes ? but, by all the coal-mines of Cornwall, 
 out he shall pack, if my name be "Wilkinson/ I now found I had 
 gone too far, and asked pardon for the warmth with which I had 
 spoken. ' Pardon !' returned he, in a fury ; ' I think such prin- 
 ciples demand ten thousand pardons. What ! give up liberty, 
 property, and, as the Gazetteer says, lie down to be saddled with 
 wooden shoes ! Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house 
 immediately, to prevent worse consequences. Sir, I insist upon 
 it.' I was going to repeat my remonstrances ; but just then we 
 heard a footman's rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, 
 * As sure as death, there is our master and mistress come home !' 
 It seems my entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, 
 in his master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for a 
 while the gentleman himself; and, to say the truth, he talked 
 politics as well as most country gentlemen do. But nothing could 
 now exceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and his lady 
 enter ; nor was their surprise, at finding such company and good 
 cheer, less than ours. ■ Gentlemen,' cried the real master of the 
 house to me and my companion, ' my wife and I are your most 
 humble servants ; but I protest this is so unexpected a favour, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 268 
 
 that we almost sink under the obligation.' However unexpected 
 our company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still more 
 so to us, and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my 
 own absurdity, when, whom should I next see enter the room but 
 my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be 
 married to my son George ; but whose match was broken off, as 
 already related ! As soon as she saw me, she flew to my arms 
 with the utmost joy. ' My dear, sir,' cried she, ' to what happy 
 accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit ? I am sure my 
 uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they find they have got 
 the good Doctor Primrose for their guest.' Upon hearing my 
 name, the old gentleman and lady very politely stepped up, and 
 welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. Nor could they for- 
 bear smiling on being informed of the nature of my present visit ; 
 but the unfortunate butler, whom they at first seemed disposed to 
 turn away, was at my intercession forgiven. 
 
 Mr Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now 
 insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for some days ; and 
 as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind, in some measure, 
 had been formed under my own instructions, joined in their en- 
 treaties, I complied. That night I was shown to a magnificent 
 chamber, and the next morning early Miss Wilmot desired to 
 walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in the modern 
 manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beauties of 
 the place, she inquired, with seeming unconcern, when last I had 
 heard from my son George. ' Alas ! madam/ cried I, * he has 
 now been nearly three years absent, without ever writing to his 
 friends or me. Where he is, I know not : perhaps I shall never 
 see him or happiness more. No, my dear madam, we shall never 
 more see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our fire-side 
 at Wakefield. My little family are now dispersing very fast, 
 and poverty has brought not only want, but infamy, upon us.' 
 The good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account ; but as I saw 
 her possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute 
 detail of our sufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me 
 to find that time had made no alteration in her affections, and 
 that she had rejected several offers that had been made her since 
 our leaving her part of the country. She led me round all the 
 extensive improvements of the place, pointing to the several walks 
 and arbours, and at the same time catching from every object a 
 hint for some new question relative to my son. In this manner 
 we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned us to dinner, where 
 we found the manager of the strolling company that I mentioned 
 before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the Fair Penitent, 
 which was to be acted that evening : the part of Horatio bv a 
 
264 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 young gentleman who had never appeared on any stage. He 
 seemed to be very warm in the praise of the new performer, and 
 averred, that he never saw any one who bade so fair for excellence. 
 Acting, he observed, was not learned in a day ; ' but this gentle- 
 man/ continued he, l seems born to tread the stage. His voice, 
 his figure, and attitudes are all admirable. We caught him up 
 accidentally, in our journey down.' This account in some mea- 
 sure excited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I 
 was prevailed upon to accompany them to the play-house, which 
 was no other than a barn. As the company with which I went 
 was incontestably the chief of the place, we were received with 
 the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat of the theatre ; 
 where we sat for some time with no small impatience to see 
 Horatio make his appearance. The new performer advanced at 
 last ; and let parents think of my sensations by their own, when I 
 found it was my unfortunate son ! He was going to begin ; when, 
 turning his eyes upon the audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot 
 and me, and stood at once speechless and immoveable. 
 
 The actors behind the scenes, who ascribed this pause to his 
 natural timidity, attempted to encourage him ; but, instead of 
 going on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. 
 I don't know what were my feelings on this occasion, for they suc- 
 ceeded with too much rapidity for description ; but I was soon 
 awaked from this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale 
 and with a trembling voice, desired me to conduct her back to her 
 uncle's. When got home, Mr Arnold, who was as yet a stranger 
 to our extraordinary behaviour, being informed that the new per- 
 former was my son. sent his coach, and an invitation for him ; 
 and, as he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon the stage, 
 the players put another in his place, and we soon had him with 
 us. Mr Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I received 
 him with my usual transport ; for I could never counterfeit false 
 resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception was mixed with seeming 
 neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted a studied part. The 
 tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated ; she said twenty giddy 
 things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at her own want 
 of meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at the glass, 
 as if happy in the consciousness of irresistible beauty ; and often 
 would ask questions, witnout giving any manner of attention tc 
 the answers. 
 
THE VICA.R OF WAKEFIELD. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSUING NOVELTY, 
 BUT LOSING CONTENT. 
 
 After we had supped, Mrs Arnold politely offered to send a 
 couple of her footmen for my son's baggage, which he at first seemed 
 to decline ; but, upon her pressing the request, he was obliged to 
 inform her, that a stick and a wallet were all the moveable things 
 upon this earth which he could boast of, ■ Why, ay, my son/ 
 cried I, ' you left me but poor ; and poor, I find, you are come 
 back ; and yet, I make no doubt, you have seen a great deal of 
 the world.' — ' Yes, sir,' replied my son ; * but travelling after For- 
 tune is not the way to secure her : and, indeed, of late, I have 
 desisted from the pursuit.' — ' I fancy, sir,' cried Mrs Arnold, 
 1 that the account of your adventures would be amusing : the first 
 part of them I have often heard from my niece ; but could the com- 
 pany prevail for the rest, it would be an additional obligation.' — 
 ■ Madam,' replied my son, ■ I promise you the pleasure you have 
 in hearing will not be half so great as my vanity in repeating 
 them ; and yet in the whole narrative I can scarcely promise you 
 one adventure, as my account is rather of what I saw than what 
 I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all know, was 
 great ; but though it distressed it could not sink me. No person 
 ever had a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind I 
 found Fortune at one time, the more I expected from her at 
 another ; and being now at the bottom of her wheel, every new 
 revolution might lift, but could not depress me. I proceeded, 
 therefore, towards London in a fine morning, no way uneasy 
 about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that carolled by the 
 road ; and comforted myself with reflecting, that London was the 
 mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinc- 
 tion and reward. 
 
 1 Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was to deliver your 
 letter of recommendation to our cousin, who was himself in little 
 better circumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, sir, 
 wa3 to be usher at an academy, and I asked his advice on the 
 affair. Our cousin received the proposal with a true sardonic 
 grin. " Ay," cried he, " this is, indeed, a very pretty career that 
 has been chalked out for you. I have been an usher to a board- 
 ing-school myself; and may I die by an anodyne necklace, but I 
 had rather be an under-turnkey in Newgate ! I was up early 
 and late : I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face 
 by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted 
 
266 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are St 
 for a school ? Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred 
 apprentice to the business ?" — " No." — " Then you won't do for a 
 school. Can you dress the boys' hair ?" — " No." — " Then you 
 won't do for a school. Have you had the small-pox ?" — " No." — 
 u Then you won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed ?" 
 — " No." — " Then you will never do for a school. Have you got 
 a good stomach ?" — " Yes." — " Then you will by no means do for 
 a school. No, sir ; if you are for a genteel, easy profession, bind 
 yourself seven years as an apprentice to turn a cutler's wheel ; 
 but avoid a school by any means. Yet come," continued he, " I 
 see you are a lad of spirit and some learning ; what do you think 
 of commencing author like me ? You have read in books, no 
 doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade ; at present I'll 
 show you forty very dull fellows about town that live by it in 
 opulence. All honest jog-trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, 
 write history and politics, and are praised : men, sir, who, had 
 they been bred cobblers, would all their lives have only mended 
 shoes, but never made them." 
 
 ' Finding that there was no degree of gentility affixed to tho 
 character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal ; and, having 
 the highest respect for literature, hailed the Antiqua Mater of 
 Grub Street with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a 
 track which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I considered 
 the goddess of this region as the parent of excellence ; and, how- 
 ever an intercourse with the world might give us good sense, the 
 poverty she entailed I supposed to be the nurse of genius. Big 
 with these reflections I sat down, and, finding that the best things 
 remained to be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write a book 
 that should be wholly new. I therefore dressed up three para- 
 doxes with some ingenuity. They were false, indeed, but they 
 were new. The jewels of truth have been so often imported by 
 others, that nothing was left for me to import but some splendid 
 things that, at a distance, looked every bit as well. Witness, you 
 powers, what fancied importance sat perched upon my quill while 
 I was writing ! The whole learned world, I made no doubt, 
 would rise to oppose my systems ; but then I was prepared to 
 oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine I sat self- 
 collected, with a quill pointed against every opposer.' 
 
 1 Well said, my boy,' cried I ; ' and what subject did you treat 
 upon ? I hope you did not pass over the importance of mono- 
 gamy. But I interrupt : go on. You published your paradoxes ; 
 well, and what did the learned world say to your paradoxes V 
 
 ' Sir,' replied my son, ' the learned world said nothing to my 
 paradoxes ; nothing at all, sir. Every man of them was employed 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 267 
 
 in praising his friends and himself, or condemning his enemies ; 
 and, unfortunately, as I had neither, I suffered the cruellest mor- 
 tification — neglect. 
 
 1 As I was meditating one day, in a coffee-house, on the fate 
 of my paradoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, 
 placed himself in the box before me ; and ; after some preli- 
 minary discourse, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a 
 bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe to a new edition 
 he was going to give the world of Propertius, with notes. 
 This demand necessarily produced a reply, that I had no 
 money ; and that concession led him to inquire into the nature 
 of my expectations. Finding that my expectations were just as 
 great as my purse, " I see," cried he, " you are unacquainted with 
 the town. Ill teach you a part of it. Look at these proposals ; 
 upon these very proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for 
 twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns from his travels, 
 a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from her country- 
 seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts with 
 flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they 
 subscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedi- 
 cation fee ; if they let me have that, I smite them once more foi 
 engraving their coat of arms at the top. Thus," continued he } 
 " I live by vanity, and laugh at it. But, between ourselves, I am 
 now too well known ; I should be glad to borrow your face a bit ; 
 a nobleman of distinction has just returned from Italy ; my face 
 is familiar to his porter : but, if you bring this copy of verses, my 
 life for it, you succeed, and we divide the spoil." ' 
 
 1 Bless us, George,' cried I, ■ and is this the employment of poets 
 now? Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary? 
 Can they so far disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of 
 praise for bread V 
 
 ' no, sir,' returned he ; ' a true poet can never be so base ; 
 for, wherever there is genius, there is pride. The creatures I now 
 describe are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he brave3 
 every hardship for fame, so is he equally a coward to contempt : 
 and none but those who are unworthy protection condescend to 
 solicit it. 
 
 1 Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet 
 a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was 
 now obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread. But ] 
 was unqualified for a profession where mere industry alone was tc 
 insure success. I could not suppress my lurking passion for 
 applause ; but usually consumed that time in efforts after excel- 
 lence, which takes up but little room, when it should have been 
 more advantageously employed in the diffusive productions o, 
 
268 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would, therefore, come forth 
 in the midst of periodical publications, unnoticed and unknown. 
 The public were more importantly employed than to observe the 
 easy simplicity of my style, or the harmony of my periods. 
 Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were 
 buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures 
 for the bite of a mad dog ; while Philautos, Philalethes, and 
 Philelutheros, and Philanthropos, all wrote better, because they 
 wrote faster, than I. 
 
 ' Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disap- 
 pointed authors like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised 
 each other. The satisfaction we found in every celebrated 
 writer's attempts was inversely as their merits. I found that no 
 genius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes 
 had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could neither 
 read nor write with satisfaction ; for excellence in another was 
 my aversion, and writing was my trade. 
 
 1 In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sit- 
 ting on a bench in St James's Park, a young gentleman of dis- 
 tinction, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the univer- 
 sity, approached me. We saluted each other with some hesita- 
 tion ; he almost ashamed of being known to one who made so 
 shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But my sus- 
 picions soon vanished ; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a 
 very good-natured fellow.' 
 
 ' What did you say, George V interrupted I. * Thornhill ! was 
 not that his name ? It can certainly be no other than my land- 
 lord.' — ' Bless me !' cried Mrs Arnold, * is Mr Thornhill so near a 
 neighbour of yours ? He has long been a friend in our family, 
 and we expect a visit from him shortly.' 
 
 1 My friend's first care,' continued my son, ■ was to alter my 
 appearance by a very fine suit of his own clothes, and then I was ad- 
 mitted to his table upon the footing of half friend, half underling. 
 My business was to attend him at auctions, to put him in spirits 
 when he sat for his picture, to take the left hand in his chariot 
 when not filled by another, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the 
 phrase was, when he had a mind for a frolic. Besides this, I had 
 twenty other little employments in the family. I was to do many 
 small things without bidding ; to carry the cork-screw ; to stand 
 godfather to all the butler's children ; to sing when I was bid ; to 
 be never out of humour ; always to be humble ; and, if I could, 
 to be very happy. 
 
 ' In this honourable post, however, I was not without a rival. 
 A captain of marines, who was formed for the place by nature, 
 opposed me in my patron's affections. His mother had been 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 269 
 
 laundress to a man of quality, and thus he early acquired a taste 
 for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman made it the study 
 of his life to be acquainted with lords, though he was dismissed 
 from several for his stupidity, yet he found many of them, who 
 were as dull as himself, that permitted his assiduities. As flattery 
 was his trade, he practised it with the easiest address imaginable; 
 but it came awkward and stiff from me ; and as every day my 
 patron's desire of flattery increased, so every hour being better 
 acquainted with his defects, I became more unwilling to give it. 
 Thus I was once more fairly going to give up the field to the 
 captain, when my friend found occasion for my assistance. This 
 was nothing less than to fight a duel for him with a gentleman, 
 whose sister it was pretended he had used ill. I readily complied 
 with his request ; and though I see you are displeased at my con- 
 duct, yet, as it was a debt indispensably due to friendship, I 
 could not refuse. I undertook the affair, disarmed my antagonist, 
 and soon after had the pleasure of finding that the lady was only 
 a woman of the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. 
 This piece of service was repaid with the warmest professions of 
 gratitude ; but as my friend was to leave town in a few days, he 
 knew no other method of serving me but by recommending me to 
 his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great 
 distinction, who enjoyed a post under the government. When he 
 was gone, my first care was to carry his recommendatory letter 
 to his uncle, a man whose character for every virtue was univer- 
 sal, yet just. I was received by his servants with the most hos- 
 pitable smiles, for the looks of the domestics ever transmit their 
 master's benevolence. Being shown into a grand apartment, 
 where Sir William soon came to me, I delivered my message and 
 Letter, which he read, and after pausing some minutes— " Pray, 
 sir," cried he, " inform me what you have done for my kinsman, 
 to deserve this warm recommendation ? But I suppose, sir, I 
 guess your merits ; you have fought for him ; and so you would 
 expect a reward from me for being the instrument of his vices. 
 I wish, sincerely wish, that my present refusal may be some 
 punishment for your guilt ; but still more, that it may be some 
 inducement to your repentance." The severity of this rebuke I 
 bore patiently, because I knew that it was just. My whole ex* 
 pectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great man. As 
 the doors of the nobility are almost ever beset with beggars, all 
 ready to thrust in some sly petition, I found it no easy matter to 
 gain admittance. However, after bribing the servants with half 
 my worldly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious apart- 
 ment, my letter being previously sent up for his lordship's in- 
 spection. Daring this anxious interval, I had full time to look 
 
270 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 around me. Every thing was grand and of happy contrivance; 
 the paintings, the furniture, the gildings, petrified me with awe, 
 and raised my idea of the owner. Ah ! thought I to myself, how 
 very great must the possessor of all these things be, who carries 
 in his head the business of the state, and whose house displays 
 half the wealth of a kingdom ; sure his genius must be unfathom- 
 able ! During these awful reflections I heard a step coming 
 heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man himself! No, it was 
 only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard soon after. This 
 must be he ! No, it was only the great man's valet-de-chambre. 
 At last his lordship actually made his appearance. " Are you," 
 cried he, " the bearer of this here letter ?" I answered with a 
 bow. " I learn by this," continued he, as " how that — " But 
 just at that instant a servant delivered him a card ; and without 
 taking farther notice he went out of the room, and left me to 
 digest my own happiness at leisure. I saw no more of him, till 
 told by a footman that his lordship was going to his coach at the 
 door. Down I immediately followed, and joined my voice to 
 that of three or four more, who came like me to petition for 
 favours. His lordship, however, went too fast for us, and was 
 gaining his chariot-door with large strides, when I hallooed out 
 to know if I was to have any reply. He was by this time got in, 
 and muttered an answer, half of which 1 only heard, the other 
 half was lost in the rattling of his chariot-wheels. I stood for 
 some time with my neck stretched out, in the posture of one that 
 was listening to catch the glorious sound, till looking round me, I 
 found myself alone at his lordship's gate. 
 
 ' My patience/ continued my son, ' was now quite exhausted. 
 Stung with the thousand indignities I had met with, I was will- 
 ing to cast myself away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. 
 I regarded myself as one of those vile things that Nature designed 
 should be thrown by into her lumber-room, there to perish in 
 obscurity. I had still, however, half-a-guinea left, and of that 1 
 thought fortune herself should not deprive me ; but, in order to 
 be sure of this, I was resolved to go instantly and spend it while 
 I had it, and then trust to occurrences for the rest. As I was 
 going along with this resolution, it happened that Mr Crispe's 
 office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In 
 this office Mr Crispe kindly offers all his majesty's subjects a 
 generous promise of £30 a-year, for which promise all they give 
 in return is their liberty for life, and permission to let him trans- 
 port them to America as slaves. I was happy at finding a place 
 where I could lose my fears in desperation, and entered this cell, 
 for it had the appearance of one, with the devotion of a monastic 
 Here I found a number of poor creatures, all in circumstances 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 271 
 
 like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr Crispe, presenting a true 
 epitome of English impatience. Each untractable soul at vari- 
 ance with fortune wreaked her injuries on their own hearts ; 
 but Mr Crispe at last came down, and all our murmurs were 
 hushed. He deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar appro- 
 bation, and indeed he was the first man, who, for a month past, 
 talked to me with smiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit 
 for everything in the world. He paused awhile upon the properest 
 means of providing for me, and slapping his forehead as if he 
 had found it, assured me that there was at that time an embassy 
 talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw 
 Indians, and that he would use his interest to get me made secre- 
 tary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and yet his 
 promise gave me pleasure, there was something so magnificent 
 in the sound. I fairly, therefore, divided my half-guinea, one 
 half of which went to be added to his thirty thousand pounds, 
 and with the other half I resolved to go to the next tavern, to be 
 there more happy than he. 
 
 1 As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the door 
 by the captain of a ship, with whom I had formerly some little 
 acquaintance, and he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of 
 punch. As I never chose to make a secret of my circumstances, 
 he assured me that I was upon the very point of ruin, in listen- 
 ing to the office-keeper's promises ; for that he only designed to 
 sell me to the plantations. " But," continued he, " I fancy you 
 might by a much shorter voyage be very easily put into a genteel 
 way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow for 
 Amsterdam ; what if you go in her as a passenger ? The moment 
 you land, all you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen English, 
 and I warrant you'll get pupils and money enough. I suppose 
 you understand English," added he, " by this time.' 5 I confidently 
 assured him of that ; but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch 
 would be willing to learn English. He affirmed, with an oath, 
 that they were fond of it to distraction ; and upon that affirma- 
 tion I agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next day to 
 teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind was fair, our 
 voyage short, and, after having paid my passage with half my 
 moveables, I found myself, as fallen from the skies, a stranger in 
 one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I 
 was unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. I 
 addressed myself, therefore, to two or three of those I met, whose 
 appearance seemed most promising; but it was impossible to 
 make ourselves mutually understood, It was not till this very 
 moment I recollected, that in order to teach Dutchmen English, 
 it w&s nece^arv that thev should first teach me Dutch. Howl 
 
272 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 came to overlook so obvious an objection, is to me amazing ; but 
 certain it is I overlooked it. 
 
 I This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly 
 shipping back to England again ; but falling into company with 
 an Irish student, who was returning from Louvain, our conversa- 
 tion turning upon topics of literature (for by the way, it may be 
 observed, that I always forgot the meanness of my circumstances 
 when I could converse on such subjects), from him I learned, that 
 there were not two men in his whole university who understood 
 Greek. This amazed me ; I instantly resolved to travel to Lou- 
 vain, and there live by teaching Greek ; and in this design I was 
 heartened by my brother-student, who threw out some hints that 
 a fortune might be got by it. 
 
 ' I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day lessened 
 the burthen of my moveables, like ^Esop and his basket of bread ; 
 for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. 
 When I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneaking to 
 the lower professors, but openly tendered my talents to the prin- 
 cipal himself. I went, had admittance, and offered him my ser- 
 vice as a master of the Greek language, which I had been told 
 was a desideratum in this university. The principal seemed, at 
 first, to doubt of my abilities ; but of these I offered to convince 
 him, by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix upon 
 into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my proposal, he 
 addressed me thus : " You see me, young man : I never learned 
 Greek, and I don't find that I have ever missed it. I have had a 
 doctor's cap and gown without Greek ; I have ten thousand 
 florins a-year without Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek ; and, 
 in short," continued he, " as I don't know Greek, I do not believe 
 there is any good in it." 
 
 I I was now too far from home to think of returning, so I re- 
 solved to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, with a 
 tolerable voice ; I now turned what was once my amusement into 
 a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless 
 peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were poor 
 enough to be very merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in 
 proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's 
 house towards nightfall, I played one of my most merry tunes, 
 and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the 
 next day. I once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion ; 
 but they always thought my performance odious, and never re- 
 warded me even with a trifle. This was to me the more extraor- 
 dinary, as whenever I used in better days to play for company, 
 when playing was my amusement, my music never failed to 
 throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but as it was 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 27 1 
 
 now my only means, it was received with contempt : a proof how 
 ready the world is to underrate those talents by which a man is 
 supported. 
 
 1 In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but just 
 to look about me, and then to go forward. The people of Paris 
 are much fonder of strangers that have money, than of those 
 that have wit. As I could not boast much of either, I was no 
 great favourite. After walking about the town four or five days, 
 and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I was preparing to 
 leave this retreat of venal hospitality ; when, passing through 
 one of the principal streets, whom should I meet but our cousin, 
 to whom you first recommended me ! This meeting was very 
 agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing to him. He in- 
 quired into the nature of my journey to Paris, and informed me 
 of his own business there, which was to collect pictures, medals, 
 intaglios, and antiques of all kinds, for a gentleman in London, 
 who had just stepped into taste and a large fortune. I was the 
 more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this office, 
 as he himself had often assured me he knew nothing of the 
 matter. Upon asking how he had been taught the art of a 
 cognoscente so very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was 
 more easy. The whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to 
 two rules : the one, always to observe that the picture might have 
 been better if the painter had taken more pains ; and the other, 
 to praise the works of Pietro Perugino. " But," says he, " as I 
 once taught you how to be an author in London, 111 now under- 
 take to instruct you in the art of picture-buying in Paris." 
 
 * "With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was living ; and 
 now all my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his lodg- 
 ings, improved my dress by his assistance ; and, after some time, 
 accompanied him to auctions of pictures, where the English 
 gentry were expected to be purchasers. I was not a little sur- 
 prised at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who re- 
 ferred themselves to his judgment upon every picture or medal, 
 as to an unerring standard of taste. He made very good use of 
 my assistance upon these occasions ; for when asked his opinion, 
 he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, shrug, look wise, 
 return, and assure the company that he could give no opinion 
 upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes 
 an occasion for a more supported assurance. I remember to have 
 seen him, after giving his opinion that the colouring of a picture 
 was not mellow enough, very deliberately take a brush with 
 brown varnish that was accidentally lying by, and rub it over the 
 piece with great composure before all the company, and then ssk 
 if he had not improved the tints. 
 
274 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 f When he finished his commission in Paris, he left me strongly 
 recommended to several men of distinction, as a person very pro- 
 per for a travelling tutor ; and, after some time, I was employed 
 in that capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward to Paris, 
 in order to set him forward on his tour through Europe. I was 
 to be the young gentleman's governor, but with a proviso that 
 he should always be permitted to govern himself. My pupil, in 
 fact, understood the art of guiding in money concerns much 
 better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred 
 thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in the West Indies ; and 
 his guardians, to qualify him for the management of it, had bound 
 him apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing 
 passion : all his questions on the road were, how much money 
 might be saved ; which was the least expensive course of travel- 
 ling; whether any thing could be bought that would turn to 
 account when disposed of again in London. Such curiosities on 
 the way as could be seen for nothing, he was ready enough to 
 look at ; but il the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually 
 asserted that he had been told they were not worth seeing. He 
 never paid a bill that he would not observe, how amazingly ex- 
 pensive travelling was ! and all this though he was not yet 
 twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to 
 look at the port and shipping, he inquired the expense of the 
 passage by sea home to England. This he was informed was but 
 a trifle compared to his returning by land : he was therefore 
 unable to withstand the temptation ; so paying me the small part 
 of my salary that was due, he took leave, and embarked with only 
 one attendant for London. 
 
 ' I now therefore was left once more upon the world at large ; 
 but then it was a thing I was used to. However, my skill in 
 music could avail me nothing in a country where every peasant 
 was a better musician than I ; but by this time I had acquired 
 another talent which answered my purpose as well, and this was 
 a skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities and con- 
 vents there are, upon certain days, philosophical theses main- 
 tained against every adventitious disputant ; for which, if the 
 champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in 
 money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. In this manner, 
 therefore, I fought my way towards England ; walked along from 
 city to city ; examined mankind more nearly ; and, if I may so 
 express it, saw both sides of the picture. My remarks, however, 
 are but few ; I found that monarchy was the best government for 
 the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the rich. I found 
 that riches in general were in every country another name for 
 freedom ; and that no man is so fond of liberty himself, as not t<? 
 
Til E VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 275 
 
 be desirous of subjecting the will of some individuals in society to 
 his own. 
 
 1 Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to pay my respects 
 first to you, and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expedi- 
 tion that was going forward ; but on my journey down my reso- 
 lutions were changed by meeting an old acquaintance, who I 
 found belonged to a company of comedians that were going to 
 make a summer campaign in the country. The company seemed 
 not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, how- 
 ever, apprised me of the importance of the task at which I aimed ; 
 that the public was a many-headed monster, and that only such 
 as had very good heads could please it ; that acting was not to 
 be learnt in a day ; and that without some traditional shrugs, 
 which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, these hun- 
 dred years, I could never pretend to please. The next difficulty 
 was in fitting me with parts, as almost every character was in 
 keeping. I was driven for some time from one character to 
 another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence of 
 the present company has happily hindered me from acting.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE SHOET CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS, WHICH 
 IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATISFACTION. 
 
 My son's account was too long to be delivered at once ; the first 
 part of it was begun that night, and he was concluding the rest 
 after dinner the next day, when the appearance of Mr Thornhill's 
 equipage at the door seemed to make a pause in the general 
 satisfaction. The butler, who was now become my friend in the 
 family, informed me, in a whisper, that the squire had already 
 made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and 
 uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr Thornhill's 
 entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start back ; but 
 I readily imputed that to surprise, and not displeasure. How- 
 ever, upon our advancing to salute him, he returned our greeting 
 with the most apparent candour ; and after a short time his pre- 
 sence served only to increase the general good humour. 
 
 After tea, he called me aside, to inquire after my daughter ; 
 but upon my informing him that my inquiry was unsuccessful, 
 he seemed greatly surprised ; adding that he had been since fre« 
 quently at my house, in order to comfort the rest of my family 
 whom he left n erf ectly well. He then asked if I had communi 
 
GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 eated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot, or my son ; and upon my 
 replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my 
 prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep it a 
 secret ; ' for at best/ cried he, ' it is but divulging one's own in- 
 famy ; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we all 
 imagine.' We were here interrupted by a servant, who came to 
 ask the squire in to stand up at country-dances ; so that he left 
 me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to take in my con- 
 cerns. His addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot, were too obvious 
 to be mistaken ; and yet she seemed not perfectly pleased, but 
 bore them rather in compliance to the will of her aunt, than from 
 real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her lavish 
 some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other could 
 neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr Thornhill's 
 seeming composure, however, not a little surprised me : we had 
 now continued here a week, at the pressing instances of Mr 
 Arnold ; but each day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot showed 
 my son, Mr Thornhill's friendship seemed proportionably to 
 increase for him. 
 
 He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using his 
 interest to serve the family ; but now his generosity was not con- 
 fined to promises alone. Th© morning I designed for my depar- 
 ture Mr Thornhill came to me, with looks of real pleasure, to in- 
 form me of a piece of service he had done for his friend George, 
 This was nothing less than his having procured him an ensign's 
 sommission in one of the regiments that were going to the West 
 [ndies, for which he had promised but one hundred pounds, his in* 
 terest having been sufficient to get an abatement of the other two, 
 • as for this trifling piece of service,' continued the younggentleman, 
 ' I desire no other reward but the pleasure of having served my 
 friend ; and as for the hundred pounds to be paid, if you are unable 
 to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me at 
 your leisure.' This was a favour we wanted words to express our 
 sense of: I readily, therefore, give my bond for the money, and 
 testified as much gratitude as if I never intended to pay. 
 
 George was to depart for town the next day to secure his com- 
 mission, in pursuance of his generous patron's directions, who 
 judged it highly expedient to use despatch, lest in the mean time 
 another should step in with more advantageous proposals. The 
 next morning, therefore, our young soldier was early prepared for 
 his departure, and seemed the only person among us that was not 
 affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers he was going to 
 encounter, nor the friends and mistress (for Miss Wilmot actually 
 loved him) he was leaving behind, anyway damped his spirits. 
 After he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 277 
 
 all that I had— my blessing : ' And now, my boy,' cried I, • thou 
 art going to fight for thy country, remember how thy brave grand- 
 father fought for his sacred king, when loyalty among Britons was 
 a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but his misfortunes ; 
 if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, and 
 if you fall, though distant, exposed and unwept by those that love 
 you, the most precious tears are those with which Heaven bedews 
 the unburied head of a soldier.' 
 
 The next morning I took leave of the good family that had been 
 kind enough to entertain me so long, not without several expres- 
 sions of gratitude to Mr Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them 
 in the enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and good 
 breeding procure, and returned towards home, despairing of ever 
 finding my daughter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven, to spare 
 and to forgive her. I was now come within about twenty miles 
 of home, having hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, 
 and comforted myself with the hopes of soon seeing all I held 
 dearest upon earth. But the night coming on, I put up at a little 
 public-house by the road-side, and asked for the landlord's company 
 over a pint of wine. We sat beside his kitchen fire, which waa 
 the best room in the house, and chatted on politics and the news 
 of the country. "We happened, among other topics, to talk of 
 young Squire Thornhill, who, the host assured me, was hated as 
 much as his uncle, Sir William, who sometimes came down to the 
 country, was loved. He went on to observe, that he made it his 
 whole study to betray the daughters of such as received him to 
 their houses, and after a fortnight or three weeks' possession 
 turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As we 
 continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who had been out 
 to get change, returned, and perceiving that her husband was en- 
 joying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him, in 
 an angry tone, what he did there, to which he only replied in an 
 ironical way by drinking her health. ' Mr Symonds,' cried she, 
 1 you use me very ill, and I'll bear it no longer. Here three parts 
 of the business is left for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished, 
 while you do nothing but soak with the guests all day long ; 
 whereas, if a spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never 
 touch a drop.' I now found what she would be at, and imme- 
 diately poured her out a glass, which she received with a curtsey, 
 and drinking towards my good health, ■ Sir,' resumed she, ' it 
 is not so much for the value of the liquor I am angry, but 
 one cannot help it when the house is going out of the windows. 
 If the customers or guests are to be dunned, all the burden lies 
 upon my back ; he'd as lief eat that glass as budge after them 
 himself. There now above stairs we have a young woman why 
 
278 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 has come to take up her lodgings here, and I don't believe she 
 has got any money, by her over-civility. I am certain she is very 
 slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind of it.' — ' What 
 signifies minding her?' cried the host; ' if she be slow she's 
 sure.' — * I don't know that,' replied the wife, ' but I know that I 
 am sure she has been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen 
 the cross of her money.' — * I suppose, my dear,' cried he, * we shall 
 have it all in a lump.' — * In a lump !' cried the other, ' I hope we 
 may get it anyway ; and that I am resolved we will this very 
 night, or out she tramps, bag and baggage.' — ' Consider, my dear,' 
 cried the husband, ' she is a gentlewoman, and deserves more re- 
 spect.' — ' As for the matter of that,' returned the hostess, * gentle 
 or simple, out she shall pack with a sassarara. Gentry may be 
 good things where they take ; but for my part I never saw much 
 good of them at the sign of the Harrow.' Thus saying, she ran 
 up a narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a room 
 overhead, and I soon perceived by the loudness of her voice, and 
 the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money was to be had from 
 her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very distinctly : ' Out, I 
 say, pack out this moment! tramp, thou infamous strumpet, or I'll 
 give thee a mark thou won't be the better for these three months. 
 "What ! you trumpery, to come and take an honest house without 
 cross or coin to bless yourself with ! come along, I say.' — * O dear 
 madam/ cried the stranger, ' pity me, pity a poor abandoned 
 creature for one night, and death will soon do the rest/ I in- 
 stantly knew the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia. I flew to 
 her rescue, while the woman was dragging her along by the hair 
 and I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. * Welcome, 
 any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treasure, to your poor 
 old father's bosom. Though the vicious forsake thee, there is yet 
 one in the world that will never forsake thee ; though thou hadst 
 ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will forgive them all.' — ' 
 my own dear,' — for minutes she could say no more, — * my own 
 dearest good papa! could angels be kinder? How do I deserve 
 so much ? The villain, I hate him and myself, to be a reproach 
 to so much goodness. You can't forgive me ; I know you cannot.' — 
 ' Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive thee : only repent, 
 and we both shall yet be happy. We shall see many pleasant 
 days yet, my Olivia. — ' Ah! never, sir, never. The rest of my 
 wretched life must be infamy abroad, and shame at home. 
 But, alas ! papa, you look much paler than you used to do. 
 Could such a thing as I am give you so much uneasiness ? surely 
 you have too much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon 
 yourself !'— ' Our wisdom, young woman — ' replied I. ' Ah, why 
 bo cold a name, papa ?' cried she. ' This is the first time you ever 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 279 
 
 called ine by so cold a name.' — ' I ask pardon, my darling,' re- 
 turned I ; ' but I was going to observe, that wisdom makes but a 
 slow defence against trouble, though at last a sure one/ 
 
 The landlady now returned to know if we did not choose a more 
 genteel apartment ; to which assenting, we were shown to a room 
 where we could converse more freely. After we had talked our- 
 selves into some degree of tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring 
 some account of the gradations that led to her present wretched 
 situation. ' That villain, sir,' said she, ' from the first day of our 
 meeting, made me honourable, though private proposals.' 
 
 1 Villain, indeed,' cried I, ' and yet it in some measure surprises 
 me, how a person of Mr BurchelPs good sense and seeming honour 
 could be guilty of such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a 
 family to undo it.' 
 
 * My dear papa,' returned my daughter, ' you labour under a 
 strange mistake. Mr Burchell never attempted to deceive me. 
 Instead of that, he took every opportunity of privately admonishing 
 me against the artifices of Mr Thornhill, who, I now find, was even 
 worse than he represented him.' — ' Mr Thornhill ! ' interrupted I, 
 ' can it be V — * Yes, sir,' returned she, ■ it wa3 Mr Thornhill who 
 seduced me ; who employed the two ladies, as he called them, but 
 who in fact were abandoned women of the town, without breeding 
 or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their artifices, you may re- 
 member, would have certainly succeeded but for Mr BurcheU's 
 letter, who directed those reproaches at them which we all applied 
 to ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as to defeat 
 their intention, still remains a secret to me ; but I am convinced 
 he was ever our warmest, sincerest friend.' 
 
 1 You amaze me, my dear,' cried I ; ' but now I find my first 
 suspicions of Mr Thornhill 's baseness were too well grounded : but 
 he can triumph in security, for he is rich and we are poor. But 
 tell me, my child ; sure it was no small temptation that could thus 
 obliterate all the impressions of such an education, and so virtuous 
 a disposition as thine V 
 
 ' Indeed, sir,' replied she, * he owes all his triumph to the desire 
 I had of making him, and not myself, happy. I knew that the 
 ceremony of our marriage, which was privately performed by a 
 popish priest, was no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust 
 to but his honour.' — 'What ! ' interrupted I, ■ and were you in- 
 deed married by a priest, and in orders?' — * Indeed, sir, we were,' 
 replied she, ' though we were both sworn to conceal his name.' — 
 ' AVhy then, my child, come to my arms again ; and now you are a 
 thousand times more welcome than before ; for you are his wife to 
 all intents and purposes; norcan allthelawsof man, though written 
 upon tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred connexion. 1 
 
280 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 * Alas ! papa,' replied she, ' you are but little acquainted with 
 his villanies ; he has been married already, by the same priest, to 
 six or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and aban- 
 doned.' 
 
 ■ Has he so ?' cried I, ' then we must hang the priest, and you 
 shall inform against him to-morrow.' — ' But, sir,' returned she, 
 * will that be right, when I am sworn to secrecy V — ' My dear,' I re- 
 plied, * if you have made such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt 
 you to break it. Even though it may benefit the public, you must 
 not inform against him. In all human institutions, a smaller evil 
 is allowed to procure a greater good : as, in politics, a province 
 may be given away to secure a kingdom ; in medicine, a limb may 
 be lopped off to preserve the body. But in religion the law is writ- 
 ten and inflexible, never to do evil. And, this law, my child, is 
 right ; for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil to procure a 
 greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred in expectation 
 of contingent advantage. And though the advantage should cer- 
 tainly follow, yet the interval between commission and advantage, 
 which is allowed to be guilty, may be that in which we are called 
 away to answer for the things we have done, and the volume of 
 human actions is closed for ever. But I interrupt you, my dear . 
 go on.' 
 
 1 The very next morning,' continued she, ' I found what little 
 expectations I was to have from his sincerity. That very morn- 
 ing he introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like 
 me, he had deceived, but who lived in contented prostitution. I 
 loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and 
 strove to forget my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With this 
 view, I danced, dressed, and talked, but still was unhappy. The 
 gentlemen who visited there told me every moment of the power 
 of my charms, and this only contributed to increase my melancholy, 
 as I had thrown all their power qu*ite away. Thus each day 1 
 grew more pensive and he more insolent, till at last the monster 
 had the assurance to offer me to a young baronet of his acquaint- 
 ance. Need I describe, sir, how this ingratitude stung me ? My 
 answer to this proposal was almost madness. I desired to part. 
 As I was going, he offered. me a purse ; but I flung it at him with 
 indignation, and burst from him in a rage that for a while kept 
 me insensible of the miseries of my situation. But I soon looked 
 round me, and saw myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one 
 friend in the world to apply to. Just in that interval a stage-coach 
 happening to pass by, I took a place, it being my only aim to be 
 driven at a distance from a wretch I despised and detested. I was 
 set down here ; where, since my arrival, my own anxiety and this 
 Toman's unkindness, have been my only companions. The hours 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 281 
 
 of pleasure that I have passed with my mamma and sister now grow 
 painful to me. Their sorrows are much ; but mine are greater 
 than theirs ; for mine are mixed with guilt and infamy.' 
 
 1 Have patience, my child/ cried I, ' and I hope things will yet 
 be better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I'll carry 
 you home to your mother and the rest of the family, from whom 
 you will receive a kind reception. Poor woman ! this has gone to 
 her heart ; but she loves you still, Olivia, and will forget it. 5 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 OFFENCES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT BOTTOM. 
 
 The next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set out on 
 my return home. As we travelled along, I strove by every per- 
 suasion to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolu- 
 tion to bear the presence of her offended mother. I took every 
 opportunity, from the prospect of a fine country, through which 
 we passed, to observe how much kinder Heaven was to us than 
 we to each other ; and that the misfortunes of nature's making 
 were but very few. I assured her, that she should never perceive 
 any change in my affections, and that during my life, which yet 
 might be long, she might depend upon a guardian and an in- 
 structor. I armed her against the censures of the world, showed 
 her that books were sweet unreproaching companions to the 
 miserable, and that, if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they 
 would at least teach us to endure it. 
 
 The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an 
 inn by the way, within about five miles from my house ; and as 1 
 was willing to prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I 
 determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to return for 
 her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the next morn- 
 ing. It was night before we reached our appointed stage ; how- 
 ever, after seeing her provided with a decent apartment, and 
 having ordered the hostess to prepare proper refreshments, I 
 kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now my heart 
 caught new sensations of pleasures, the nearer I approached that 
 peaceful mansion. As a bird that had been frightened from 
 its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and hovered round my 
 little fireside with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the 
 many fond things I had to say, and anticipated the welcome J 
 v?as to receive. I already felt my wife's tender embrace, and 
 
282 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the 
 night waned apace ; the labourers of the day were all retired to 
 rest ; the lights were out in every cottage ; no sounds were heard 
 but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog, at 
 hollow distance. I approached my little abode of pleasure, and, 
 before I was within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff 
 came running to welcome me. 
 
 It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door : 
 all was still and silent — my heart dilated with unutterable happi- 
 ness, when, to my amazement, I saw the house bursting out into 
 a blaze of fire, and every aperture red with conflagration ! I gave 
 a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pavement insensible. 
 This alarmed my son, who had till this been asleep, and he, per- 
 ceiving the flames, instantly awaked my wife and daughter, and 
 all running out, naked and wild with apprehension, recalled me 
 to life with their anguish. But it was only to objects of new 
 terror, for the flames had by this time caught the roof of our 
 dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the family 
 stood with silent agony, looking on as if they enjoyed the blaze. 
 I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round 
 me for my two little ones ; but they were not to be seen. ' O 
 misery ! where/ cried I, ' where are my little ones ?' — ' They are 
 burnt to death in the flames,' said my wife, calmly, s and I will 
 die with them.' That moment I heard the cry of the babes with- 
 in, who were just awaked by the fire, and nothing could have 
 stopped me. ' "Where, where are my children ?' cried I, rushing 
 through the flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in which 
 they were confined ; ' where are my little ones V — ' Here, dear 
 papa, here we are !' cried they together, while the flames were 
 just catching the bed where they lay. I caught them both in my 
 arms, and conveyed them through the fire as fast as possible, 
 while, just as I was going out, the roof sunk in. * JN T ow,' cried I, 
 holding up my children, ' now let the flames burn on, and all my 
 possessions perish ; here they are — I have saved my treasure : 
 here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall yet be 
 happy.' We kissed our little darlings a thousand times ; they 
 clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our transports, 
 while their mother laughed and wept by turns. 
 
 I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time 
 began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in 
 a terrible manner. It was, therefore, out of my power to give my 
 son any assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or pre- 
 venting the flames spreading to our corn. By this time the neigh- 
 bours were alarmed, and came running to our assistance ; but all 
 they could do was to stand, like us, spectators of the calamity. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 28 & 
 
 My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for my 
 daughters' fortunes, were entirely consumed, except a box with 
 some papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three things 
 more of little consequence, which my son brought away in the 
 beginning. The neighbours contributed, however, what they could 
 to lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, and furnished 
 one of our out-houses with kitchen utensils : so that by daylight 
 we had another, though a wretched dwelling to retire to. My 
 honest next neighbour and his children were not the least assidu- 
 ous in providing us with everything necessary, ar,il offering what- 
 ever consolation untutored benevolence could suggest. 
 
 When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know 
 the cause of my long stay began to take place ; having, therefore, 
 informed them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare them 
 for the reception of our lost one ; and, though we had nothing but 
 wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to procure her a wel- 
 come to what we had : this task would have been more difficult 
 but for our own recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's 
 pride, and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable 
 to go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, T 
 sent my son and daughter, who soon returned supporting the 
 wretched delinquent, who had not the courage to look up at her 
 mother, whom no instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect 
 reconciliation ; for women have a much stronger sense of female 
 error than men. ■ Ah, madam !' cried her mother, ■ this is but a 
 poor place you are come to after so much finery. My daughter 
 Sophy and I can afford bat little entertainment to persons who 
 have kept company only with people of distinction : yes, Miss 
 Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very much of late ; 
 but I hope Heaven will forgive you.' During this reception, the 
 unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to 
 reply ; but I could not continue a silent spectator of her distress ; 
 wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in my voice and manner 
 which was ever followed with instant submission, ' I entreat, 
 woman, that my words may be now marked once for all : I have 
 here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer — her return to 
 duty demands the revival of our tenderness; the real hardships 
 of life are now coming fast upon us ; let us not therefore, increase 
 them by dissensions among each other: if we live harmoniously 
 together, we may yet be contented, as tnere are enough of us to 
 shut out the censuring world, and keep each other in countenance. 
 The kindness of Heaven is promised to the penitent, and let ours 
 be directed by the example. Heaven, we are assured, is much 
 more pleased to view a repentant sinner that ninety-nine persons 
 who have supported a course of undeviating rectitude : and thii 
 
28 4 
 
 GOLDSMITH "S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 is right : for that single effort by which we stop short in the down- 
 hill path to perdition, is of itself a greater exertion of virtue than 
 a hundred acts of justice.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY MISERABLE. 
 
 Some assiduity was now required to make our present abode as 
 convenient as possible, and we were soon again qualified to enjoy 
 our former serenity. Being disabled myself from assisting my 
 son in our usual occupations, I read to my family from the few 
 books that were saved, and particularly from such as, by amus- 
 ing the imagination, contributed to ease the heart. Our good 
 neighbours, too, came every day with the kindest condolence, 
 and fixed a time in which they were all to assist in repairing my 
 former dwelling. Honest farmer Williams was not last among 
 these visitors, but heartily offered his friendship. He would even 
 have renewed his addresses to my daughter ; but she rejected 
 them in such a manner as totally repressed his future solicita- 
 tions. Her grief seemed formed for continuing, and she was the 
 only person in our little society that a week did not restore to 
 cheerfulness. She now lost that unblushing innocence which 
 once taught her to respect herself, and to seek pleasure hy pleas- 
 ing. Anxiety had now taken strong possession of her mind ; her 
 beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, and neglect 
 still more contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet be- 
 stowed on her sister brought a pang, to her heart, and a tear to 
 her eye ; and as one vice, though cured, ever plants others where 
 it has been, so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, 
 left jealousy and envy behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen 
 her care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for hers, 
 collecting such amusing passages of history as a strong memory 
 and some reading could suggest. * Our happiness, my dear,' 1 
 would say, ' is in the power of One who can bring it about by a 
 thousand unforeseen ways that mock our foresight. If example 
 be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, my child, told us 
 by a grave, though sometimes a romancing, historian. 
 
 ' Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman of 
 the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the 
 aga of fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her infant son in 
 the open window of an apartment, which hung over the river 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 285 
 
 Volturna, the child, with a sudden spring, leaped from her arms 
 into the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The mother, 
 struck with instant surprise, and making an effort to save him, 
 plunged in after ; but, far from being able to assist the infant, 
 she herself with great difficulty escaped to the opposite shore, 
 just when some French soldiers were plundering the country on 
 that side, who immediately made her their prisoner. 
 
 ' As the war was then carried on between the French «ind the 
 Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once to 
 perpetrate those two extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. 
 This base resolution, however, was opposed by a young officer, 
 who, though their retreat required the utmost expedition, placed 
 her behind him, and brought her in safety to his native city. 
 Her beauty at first caught his eye : her merit, soon after, his 
 heart. They were married ; he rose to the highest posts ; they 
 lived long together, and were happy. But the felicity of a soldier 
 can never be called permanent : after an interval of several years, 
 the troops which he commanded having met with a repulse, he 
 was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with 
 his wife. Here they suffered a siege, and the city at length was 
 taken. Few histories can produce more various instances of 
 cruefty than those which the French and Italians at that time 
 exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon 
 this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death ; but par- 
 ticularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was prin- 
 cipally instrumental in protracting the siege. Their determina- 
 tions were, in general, executed almost as soon as resolved upon. 
 The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner with his 
 sword stood ready, while the spectators, in gloomy silence, awaited 
 the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the general, who 
 presided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this interval 
 of anguish and expectation, that Matilda came to take the last 
 farewell of her husband and deliverer, deploring her wretched 
 situation, and the cruelty of fate that had saved her from perish- 
 ing by a premature death in the river Volturna, to be the specta- 
 tor of still greater calamities. The general, who was a young 
 man, was struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her 
 distress ; but with still stronger emotions when he heard her 
 mention her former dangers. He was her son, the infant for 
 whom she had encountered so much danger; he acknowledged 
 her at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be 
 easily supposed ; the captive was set free, and all the happiness 
 that love, friendship, and duty, could confer on earth, were 
 anited.' 
 
 In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter ; but 
 
286 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 she listened with divided attention ; for her own misfortunes en- 
 grossed all the pity she once had for those of another, and 
 nothing gave her ease. In company she dreaded contempt ; and 
 in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the colour of her 
 wretchedness, when we received certain information that Mr 
 Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot ; for whom I 
 always suspected he had a real passion, though he took every 
 opportunity before me to express his contempt both of her person 
 and fortune. This news served only to increase poor Olivia's 
 affliction ; for such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than 
 her courage could support. I was resolved, however, to get more 
 certain information ; and to defeat, if possible, the completion of 
 his designs, by sending my son to old Mr Wilmot's, with instruc- 
 tions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot 
 a letter intimating Mr ThornhilPs conduct in my family. My 
 son went, in pursuance of my directions, and in three days return- 
 ed, assuring us of the truth of the account ; but that he had 
 found it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore 
 obliged to leave, as Mr Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting 
 round the country. They were to be married, he said, in a few 
 days, having appeared together at church, the Sunday before he 
 was there, in great splendour, the bride attended by six young 
 ladies, and he by as many gentlemen. Their approaching 
 nuptials filled the whole country with rejoicing, and they usually 
 rode out together in the grandest equipage that had been seen in 
 the country for many years. All the friends of both families, 
 he said, were there, particularly the squire's uncle, Sir William 
 Thornhill, who bore so good a character. He added, that nothing 
 but mirth and feasting were going forward ; that all the country 
 praised the young bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's fine per- 
 son, and that they were immensely fond of each other ; conclud- 
 ing that he could not help thinking Mr Thornhill one of the most 
 happy men in the world. 
 
 ' Why, let him if he can/ returned I ; ' but, my son, observe 
 this bed of straw and unsheltering roof; those mouldering walls 
 and humid floor ; my wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my 
 children weeping round me for bread : you have come home, my 
 child, to all this ; yet here, even here, you see a man that would 
 not for a thousand worlds exchange situations. 0, my children, 
 if you could but learn to commune with your own hearts, and 
 know what noble company you can make them, you would little 
 regard the elegance and splendour of the worthless. Almost all 
 men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the 
 travellers. The similitude still may be improved, when we ob- 
 serve that the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 28? 
 
 going towards home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like 
 travellers that are going into exile. 
 
 My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new 
 disaster, interrupted what I had farther to observe. I bade her 
 mother support her, and after a short time she recovered. She 
 appeared from that time more calm, and I imagined had gained 
 a new degree of resolution ; but appearances deceived me ; for 
 her tranquillity was the langour of overwrought resentment. A 
 supply of provisions, charitably sent us by my kind parishioners, 
 seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness among the rest of my family, 
 nor was I displeased at seeing them once more sprightly and at 
 ease. It would have been unjust to damp their satisfactions, 
 merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to burden them 
 with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, once more, the tale went 
 round, and a song was demanded, and cheerfulness condescended 
 to hover round our little habitation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 FRESH CALAMITIES. 
 
 The next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for the 
 season, so that we agreed to breakfast together on the honey- 
 suckle bank ; where, while we sat, my youngest daughter, at my 
 request, joined her voice to the concert on the trees about us. It 
 was in this place my poor Olivia first met her seducer, and every 
 object served to recal her sadness. But that melancholy, which 
 is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of har- 
 mony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother, too, 
 upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept, and loved 
 her daughter as before. ' Do, my pretty Olivia,' cried she, ' let 
 us have that little melancholy air your papa was so fond of; 
 your sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child, it will please 
 your old father.' She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathe- 
 tic, as moved me. 
 
 When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
 
 And finds, too late, that men betray, 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 
 To hide her shame from every ey«5 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 
 And wring his bosom, is — to die 
 
288 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption 
 iD her voice, from sorrow, gave peculiar softness, the appearance 
 of Mr Thornhill's equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but par^ 
 ticularly increased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, de- 
 sirous of shunning her betrayer, returned to the house with hei 
 sister. In a few minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and, 
 making up to the place where I was still sitting, inquired after 
 my health with his usual air of familiarity. * Sir/ replied I, ' your 
 present assurance only serves to aggravate the baseness of your 
 character ; and there was a time when I would have chastised 
 your insolence, for presuming thus to appear before me. But now 
 you are safe ; for age has cooled iny passions, and my calling re- 
 strains them.' 
 
 1 1 vow, my dear sir,' returned he, ' I am amazed at all this ; 
 nor can I understand what it means ! I hope you do not think 
 your daughter's late excursion with me had anything criminal 
 in it.' 
 
 ■ Go,' cried I, * thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, and 
 every way a liar ; but your meanness secures you from my anger. 
 Yet, sir, I am descended from a family that would not have 
 borne this ! And so, thou vile thing ! to gratify a momentary 
 passion thou hast made one poor creature wretched for life, and 
 polluted a family that had nothing but honour for their portion.' 
 
 1 If she or you/ returned he, ' are resolved to be miserable, J 
 cannot help it. But you may still be happy ; and whatever 
 opinion you may have formed of me, you shall ever find me ready 
 to contribute to it. We can marry her to another in a short time ; 
 and, what is more, she may keep her lover beside ; for I protest I 
 shall ever continue to have a true regard for her.' 
 
 I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading pro- 
 posal ; for though the mind may often be calm under great in- 
 juries, little villany can at any time get within the soul, and 
 sting it into rage. ■ Avoid my sight, thou reptile,' cried I, ' nor 
 continue to insult me with thy presence. Were my brave son at 
 home, he would not suffer this ; but I am old and disabled, and 
 every way undone.' 
 
 * I find/ cried he, ' you are bent upon obliging me to talk in a 
 harsher manner than I intended. But, as I have shown you what 
 may be hoped from my friendship, it may not be improper to re- 
 present what may be the consequences of my resentment. My at- 
 torney, to whom your late bond has been transferred, threatens 
 hard ; nor do I know how to prevent the course of justice, except 
 by paying the money myself; which, as I have been at some ex- 
 penses lately, previous to my intended marriage, is not so easy to 
 be done. And then my steward talks of driving for the rent : it 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 289 
 
 is certain he knows his duty ; for I never trouble myself with 
 affairs of that nature. Yet still I could wish to serve you, and even 
 to have you and your daughter present at my marriage, which is 
 shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot ; it is even the request 
 of my charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse. 5 
 
 1 Mr Thornhill,' replied I, ■ hear me once for all : as to your 
 marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to ; 
 and though your friendship could raise me to a throne, or your 
 resentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise both. Thou 
 hast once wofully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my heart 
 upon thine honour, and have found its baseness. Never more, 
 therefore, expect friendship from me. Go, and possess what for- 
 tune has given thee — beauty, riches, health, and pleasure. Go, 
 and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled 
 as I am, shall my heart still vindicate its dignity ; and though 
 thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my contempt.' 
 
 1 If so/ returned he, ' depend upon it, you shall feel the effects 
 of this insolence, and we shall shortly see which is the fittest object 
 of scorn, you or me/ Upon which he departed abruptly. 
 
 My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed 
 terrified with apprehension. My daughters also, finding that he 
 was gone, came out to be informed of the result of our conference ; 
 which, when known, alarmed them not less than the rest. But as 
 to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of his malevolence — 
 he had already struck the blow, and I now stood prepared to repel 
 every new effort — like one of those instruments used in the art of 
 war, which, however thrown, still present a point to receive the 
 enemy. 
 
 We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain : 
 for the very next morning his steward came to demand my annual 
 rent, which, by the train of accidents already related, I was unable 
 to pay. The consequence of my incapacity was, his driving my 
 cattle that evening, and their being upraised and sold the next 
 day for less than half their value. My wife and children now, 
 therefore, entreated me to comply upon any terms, rather than 
 incur certain destruction. They even begged of me to admit his 
 visits once more, and used all their little eloquence to paint the 
 calamities I was going to endure — the terrors of a prison in so 
 rigorous a season as the present, with the danger that threatened 
 my health from the late accident that happened by the fire. But 
 I continued inflexible. 
 
 * Why, my treasures,' cried I, * why will you thus attempt to 
 persuade me to the thing that is not right ? My duty has taught 
 me to forgive him, but my conscience will not permit me to approve. 
 Would you have me applaud to the world what my heart must 
 
290 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 Internally condemn ? Would you have me tamely sit down and 
 flatter our infamous betrayer ; and, to avoid a prison, continually 
 suffer the more galling bonds of mental confinement ? No, never. 
 If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right, 
 and wherever we are thrown we can still retire to a charming 
 apartment, where we can look round our own hearts with intre- 
 pidity and with pleasure.' 
 
 In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morn- 
 ing, as the snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my 
 son was employed in clearing it away, and opening a passage be- 
 fore the door. He had not been thus engaged long, when he came 
 running in, with looks all pale, to tell us that two strangers, whom 
 he knew to be officers of justice, were making towards the house. 
 
 Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed where 
 I lay, after previously informing me of their employment and 
 business, made me their prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with 
 them to the county gaol, which was eleven miles off. 
 
 ' My friends,' said I, * this is severe weather in which you are 
 come to take me to a prison ; and it is particularly unfortunate at 
 this time, as one of my arms has lately been burnt in a terrible 
 manner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, and I want 
 clothes to cover me, and I am now too weak and old to walk far in 
 such deep snow ; but if it must be so ' 
 
 I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to get 
 together what few things were left us, and to prepare immediately 
 for leaving this place. I entreated them to be expeditious ; and 
 desired my son to assist his eldest sister ; who, from a conscious- 
 ness that she was the cause of all our calamities, was fallen, and 
 had lost anguish in insensibility. I encouraged my wife, who, pale 
 and trembling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her arms, that 
 clung to her bosom in silence, dreading to look round at the stran- 
 gers. In the mean time my youngest daughter prepared for our 
 departure, and as she received several hints to use despatch, in 
 about an hour we were ready to depart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOME SORT 
 OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT. 
 
 We set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, and walked on 
 slowly. My eldest daughter being enfeebled by a slow fever, which 
 had begun for some days to undermine her constitution, one of 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 291 
 
 the officers who had a horse kindly took her behind him ; for even 
 these men cannot entirely divest themselves of humanity. My 
 son led one of the little ones by the hand, and my wife the other 
 while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears fell not for her 
 own but my distresses. 
 
 "We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, when 
 we saw a crowd running and shouting behind us, consisting oi 
 about fifty of my poorest parishioners. These, with dreadful im- 
 precations, soon seized upon the two officers of justice, and swear- 
 ing they would never see their minister go to a gaol, while they 
 had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, were going to use them 
 with great severity. The consequence might have been fatal, had 
 I not immediately interposed, and with some difficulty rescued 
 the officers from the hands of the enraged multitude. My child- 
 ren, who looked upon my delivery now as certain, appeared tran- 
 sported with joy, and were incapable of containing their raptures. 
 But they were soon undeceived, upon hearing me address the pool 
 deluded people, who came, as they imagined, to do me service. 
 
 * What ! my friends/ cried I, { and is this the way you love me ? 
 Is this the manner you obey the instructions I have given you 
 from the pulpit ? thus to fly in the face of justice, and bring down 
 ruin on yourselves and me ? Which is your ringleader ? Show 
 me the man that has thus seduced you. As sure as he lives, he 
 shall feel my resentment. Alas ! my dear deluded flock, return 
 back to the duty you owe to God, to your country, and to me. I 
 shall yet, perhaps, one day see you in greater felicity here, and 
 contribute to make your lives more happy. But let it at least be 
 my comfort, when I pen my fold for immortality, that not one 
 here shall be wanting.' 
 
 They now seemed all repentance, and, melting into tears, came, 
 one after the other, to bid me farewell. I shook each tenderly by 
 the hand, and leaving them my blessing, proceeded forward with- 
 out meeting any further interruption. Some hours before night 
 we reached the town or rather village ; for it consisted but of a 
 few mean houses, having lost all its former opulence, and retain- 
 ing no marks of its ancient superiority but the gaol. 
 
 Upon entering we put up at an inn, where we had such refresh- 
 ments as could most readily be procured, and I supped with my 
 family with my usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly 
 accommodated for that night, I next attended the sheriffs officers 
 to the prison, which had formerly been built for the purposes of 
 war, and consisted of one large apartment, strongly grated, and 
 paved with stone, common to both felons and debtors at certain 
 hours in the four-and-twenty. Besides this, every prisoner had 
 a separate cell, where he was locked in for the night. 
 
292 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamentations, 
 and various sounds of misery, but it was very different. The 
 prisoners seemed all employed in one common design, that of for- 
 getting thought in merriment or clamour. I was apprised of the 
 usual perquisite required upon these occasions ; and immediately 
 complied with the demand, though the little money I had was 
 very near being all exhausted. This was immediately sent away 
 for liquor, and the whole prison was soon filled with riot, laughter, 
 and profaneness. 
 
 ' How !' cried I to myself, ' shall men so very wicked be cheer- 
 ful, and shall I be melancholy ? I feel only the same confinement 
 with them, and I think I have more reason to be happy.' 
 
 With such reflections I laboured to become more cheerful : but 
 cheerfulness was never yet produced by effort, which is itself pain- 
 ful. As I was sitting, therefore, in a corner of the gaol, in a pen- 
 sive posture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and sitting by 
 me entered into conversation. It was my constant rule in life 
 never to avoid the conversation of any man who seemed to desire 
 it ; for if good, I might profit by his instructions ; if bad, he might 
 be assisted by mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of strong 
 unlettered sense, but a thorough knowledge of the world, as it is 
 called ; or, more properly speaking, of human nature on the wrong 
 side. He asked me if I had taken care to provide myself with a 
 bed, which was a circumstance I had never once attended to. 
 
 1 That's unfortunate,' cried he, ■ as you are allowed nothing 
 but straw, and your apartment is very large and cold. However, 
 you seem to be something of a gentleman, and as I have been one 
 myself in my time, part of my bed-clothes are heartily at your 
 service.' 
 
 I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such humanity 
 in a gaol in misfortunes ; adding, to let him see that I was a 
 scholar, * that the sage ancient seemed to understand the value of 
 company in affliction, when fee said, ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton 
 etairon ; and in fact,' continued I, ' what is the world if it affords 
 only solitude ?' 
 
 ' You talk of the world, sir/ returned my fellow-prisoner ; * the 
 world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony, or creation of the 
 world, has puzzled the philosophers of every age. What a med- 
 ley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the 
 world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, 
 have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these words : — 
 Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which implies ' * I ask 
 pardon, sir,' cried I, ' for interrupting so much learning ; but I 
 think I have heard all this before. Have I not had the pleasure 
 of once sseing you at Welbridge-fair, and is not your name Eph- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 raim Jenkinson V At this demand he only sighed. ' I suppose 
 you must recollect/ resumed I, ' one Doctor Primrose, from whom 
 you bought a horse V 
 
 He now at once recollected me, for the gloominess of the place 
 and the approaching night had prevented his distinguishing my 
 features before. ' Yes, sir,' returned Mr Jenkinson, ' I remember 
 you perfectly well ; I bought a horse, but forgot to pay for him. 
 Your neighbour Flamborough is the only prosecutor I am any 
 way afraid of at the next assizes ; for he intends to swear posi- 
 tively against me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, sir, I ever de- 
 ceived you, or indeed any man : for you see,' continued he, point- 
 ing to his shackles, ' what my tricks have brought me to.' 
 
 ' Well, sir,' replied I, ' your kindness in offering me assistance, 
 when you could expect no return, shall be repaid with my en- 
 deavours to soften or totally suppress Mr Flamborough 's evidence, 
 and I will send my son to him for that purpose the first opportu- 
 nity : nor do I in the least doubt but he will comply with my re- 
 quest : and as to my own evidence, you need be under no uneasi- 
 ness about that.' 
 
 ' Well, sir,' cried he, ' all the return I can make shall be yours. 
 You shall have more than half my bed-clothes to night, and 111 
 take care to stand your friend in the prison, where I think I have 
 some influence.' 
 
 I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the pre- 
 sent youthful change in his aspect ; for at the time I had seen 
 him before he appeared at least sixty. ' Sir/ answered he, ' you 
 are little acquainted with the world. I had at that time false 
 hair, and have learned the art of counterfeiting every age from 
 seventeen to seventy. Ah, sir ! had I but bestowed half the pains 
 in learning a trade, that I. have in learning to be a scoundrel, I 
 might have been a rich man at this day. But, rogue as I am, 
 still I may be your friend, and that, perhaps, when you least ex- 
 pect it/ 
 
 We were now prevented from further conversation by the 
 arrival of the gaoler's servants, who came to call over the pri- 
 soners' names, and lock up for the night. A fellow also with a 
 bundle of straw for my bed attended, who led me along a dark 
 narrow passage into a room paved like the common prison, and 
 in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the clothes given me 
 by my fellow-prisoner ; which done, my conductor, who was civil 
 enough, bade me a good night. After my usual meditations, and 
 having praised my heavenly Corrector, I laid myself down and 
 slept with the utmost tranquillity until morning. 
 
in 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL — TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE, THEY SHOULD 
 REWARD AS WELL AS PUNISH. 
 
 The next morning early I was awakened by my family, whom 1 
 found in tears at my bed-side. The gloomy appearance of every- 
 thing about us, it seems, had daunted them. I gently rebuked 
 their sorrow, assuring them I had never slept with greater tran- 
 quillity, and next inquired after my eldest daughter, who was not 
 among them. They informed me that yesterday's uneasiness and 
 fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged proper to leave 
 her behind. My next care was to send my son to procure a room 
 or two to lodge my family in, as near the prison as conveniently 
 could be found. He obeyed, but could only find one apartment, 
 which was hired at a small expense for his mother and sisters, 
 the gaoler with humanity consenting to let him and his two little 
 brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared 
 for them in a corner of the room, which I thought answered very 
 conveniently. I was willing, however, previously to know whether 
 my little children chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright 
 them upon entrance. 
 
 1 Well/ cried I, ■ my good boys, how do you like your bed ? 1 
 hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears.' 
 
 * No, papa/ says Dick, * I am not afraid to lie anywhere, where 
 you are.' 
 
 1 And I,' says Bill, who was yet but four years old, ■ love every 
 place best that my papa is in.' 
 
 After this, I allotted to each of the family what they were to do 
 My daughter was particularly directed to watch her sister's de- 
 clining health ; my wife was to attend me ; my little boys were 
 to read to me : * And as for you, my son,' continued I, ■ it is by 
 the labour of your hands we must all hope to be supported. Your 
 wages, as a day-labourer, will be fully sufficient, with proper fru- 
 gality, to maintain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art now 
 sixteen years old, and hast strength, and it was given thee, my 
 son, for very useful purposes ; for it must save from famine your 
 helpless parents and family. Prepare then this evening to look 
 out for work against to-morrow, and bring home every night what 
 money you earn for our support.' 
 
 Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked 
 down to the common prison, where I could enjoy more air and 
 room. But I wa3 not long there when the execrations, lewdness, 
 End brutality, that invaded me on every side, drove me back to 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 395 
 
 my apartment again. Here I sat for some time pondering upon 
 the strange infatuation of wretches who, finding all mankind in 
 open arms against them, were labouring to make themselves a 
 future and tremendous enemy. 
 
 Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted 
 my own uneasiness from my mind. It even appeared a duty in- 
 cumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I resolved, there- 
 fore, once more to return, and in spite of their contempt, to give 
 them my advice, and conquer them by perseverance. Going 
 therefore among them again, I informed Mr Jenkinson of my de- 
 sign, at which he laughed heartily, but communicated it to the 
 rest. The proposal was received with the greatest good humour, 
 as it promised to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons 
 who had now no other resource for mirth but what could be de- 
 rived from ridicule or debauchery. 
 
 I therefore read them a portion of the service, with a loud un- 
 affected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon the 
 occasion. Lewd whispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, wink- 
 ing and coughing, alternately excited laughter. However, I con- 
 tinued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that what 
 I did might amend some, but could itself receive no contamina* 
 tion from any. 
 
 After reading, I entered upon my exhortation, which was 
 rather calculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. I pre- 
 viously observed that no other motive but their welfare could in- 
 duce me to this ; that I was their fellow-prisoner, and now got 
 nothing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very 
 profane ; because they got nothing by it, and might lose a great 
 deal : ' For be assured, my friends,' cried I * (for you are my 
 friends, however the world may disclaim your friendship), though 
 you swore twelve thousand oaths in a days, it would not put one 
 penny in your purse. Then what signifies calling every moment 
 upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since you find how 
 scurvily he uses you ? He has given you nothing here, you find, 
 but a mouthful of oaths and an empty belly ; and, by the best 
 accounts I have of him, he will give you nothing that's good 
 hereafter. 
 
 ' If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go else- 
 where. "Were it not worth your while, then, just to try how you 
 may like the usage of another Master, who gives you fair pro- 
 mises, at least, to come to him ? Surely, my friends, of all stupi- 
 dity in the world, his must be the greatest, who, after robbing a 
 house, runs to the thief-takers for protection. And yet how are 
 you more wise ? You are all seeking comfort from one that has 
 already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious being than 
 
296 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 any thief-taker of them all ; for they only decoy and then hang 
 you ; but he decoys and hangs, and, what is worse of all, will not 
 let you loose after the hangman has done.' 
 
 When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my 
 audience, some of whom came and shook me by the hand, swear- 
 ing that I was a very honest fellow, and that they desired my 
 further acquaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my lecture 
 next day, and actually conceived some hope of making a refor- 
 mation here ; for it had ever been my opinion, that no man was 
 past the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to the shafts 
 of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. When I 
 had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my apartment, where 
 my wife prepared a frugal meal, while Mr Jenkinson begged 
 leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, as he 
 was kind enough to express it, of my conversation. He had not 
 yet seen my family, for as they came to my apartment by a door 
 in the narrow passage already described, by this means they 
 avoided the common prison. Jenkinson at the first interview, 
 therefore, seemed not a little struck with the beauty of my young- 
 est daughter, which her pensive air contributed to heighten, and 
 my little ones did not pass unnoticed. 
 
 ' Alas ! doctor,' cried he, ' these children are too handsome and 
 too good for such a place as this.' 
 
 ' Why, Mr Jenkinson/ replied I, * thank Heaven, my children 
 are pretty tolerable in morals, and if they be good it matters little 
 for the rest.' 
 
 * I fancy, sir,' returned my fellow-prisoner, ■ that it must give 
 you a great comfort to have all this little family about you.' 
 
 * A comfort, Mr Jenkinson !' replied I, ' yes it is indeed a com- 
 fort, and I would not be without them for all the world ; for they 
 can make a dungeon seem a palace. There is but one way in this 
 life of wounding my happiness, and that is by injuring them.' 
 
 ' I am afraid then, sir/ cried he, * that I am in some measure 
 culpable ; for I think I see here (looking at my son Moses) one 
 that I have injured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven.' 
 
 My son immediately recollected his voice and features, though 
 he had before seen him in disguise, and taking him by the hand, 
 with a smile forgave him. ' Yet/ continued he, ' I can't help 
 wondering at what you could see in my face, to think me a proper 
 mark for deception.' 
 
 ' My dear sir/ returned the other, ' it was not your face, but 
 your white stockings, and the black riband in your hair, that 
 allured me. But, no disparagement to your parts, I have deceived 
 wiser men than you in my time ; and yet with all my tricks the 
 blockheads have been too many for me at last.' 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 297 
 
 * I suppose,' cried my son, ' that the narrative of such a life as 
 yours must be extremely instructive and amusing.' 
 
 1 Not much of either/ returned Mr Jenkinson. ' Those rela- 
 tions which describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by in- 
 creasing our suspicion in life, retard our success. The traveller 
 that distrusts every person he meets, and turns back upon the 
 appearance of every man that looks like a robber, seldom arrives 
 in time at his journey's end. 
 
 1 Indeed, I think from my own experience, that the knowing 
 one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I was thought cunning 
 from my very childhood ; when but seven years old the ladies 
 would say that I was a perfect little man ; at fourteen I knew the 
 world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies ; at twenty, though I 
 was perfectly honest, yet every one thought me so cunning, that no 
 one would trust me. Thus I was at last obliged to turn sharper 
 in my own defence, and have lived ever since, my head throb- 
 bing with schemes to deceive, and my heart palpitating with 
 fears of detection. I used often to laugh at your honest simple 
 neighbour Flamborough, and one way or another generally cheated 
 him once a year. Yet still the honest man went forward without 
 suspicion, and grew rich, while I still continued tricksy and cun- 
 ning, and was poor without the consolation of being honest. How- 
 ever,' continued he, ' let me know your case, and what has brought 
 you here ; perhaps, though I have not skill to avoid a gaol myself, 
 I may extricate my friends.' 
 
 In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole 
 train of accidents and follies that had plunged me into my present 
 troubles, and my utter inability to get free. 
 
 After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slapped 
 his forehead, as if he had hit upon something material, and took 
 his leave, saying, he would try what could be done. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 
 
 The next morning I communicated to my wife and children the 
 schemes I had planned of reforming the prisoners, which they 
 received with universal disapprobation, alleging the impossibility 
 and impropriety of it ; adding that my endeavours would no way 
 contribute to their amendment, but might probably disgrace my 
 calling. 
 ' Excuse me/ returned I, ' these people, however fallen, are 
 
298 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 still men : and that is a very good title to my affections. Good 
 counsel rejected returns to enrich the giver's bosom ; and though 
 the instruction I communicate may not mend them, yet it wili 
 assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, my children, were 
 princes, there would be thousands ready to offer their ministry ; 
 but in my opinion the heart that is buried in a dungeon is as 
 precious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, my treasures, if I can 
 mend them, I will ; perhaps they will not all despise me : perhaps 
 I may catch up even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain ; 
 for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the human soul ? 
 
 Thus saying, I left them and descended to the common prison, 
 where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting my arrival ; 
 and each prepared with some gaol-trick to play upon the doctor. 
 Thus, as I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry as if by 
 accident, and then asked my pardon. A second, who stood at 
 some distance, had a knack of spitting through his teeth, which 
 fell in showers upon my book. A third would cry ■ Amen ! ' in 
 such an affected tone as gave the rest great delight. A fourth 
 had slily picked my pocket of my spectacles. But there was one 
 whose trick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest ; foi 
 observing the manner in which I had disposed my books on the 
 table before me, he very dexterously displaced one of them, and 
 put an obscene jest-book of his own in the place. However, I took 
 no notice of all that this mischievous group of little beings could 
 do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my 
 attempt would excite mirth only the first or second time, while 
 what was serious would be permanent. My design succeeded, 
 and in less than six days some were penitent and all were atten- 
 tive. 
 
 It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address, at 
 thus giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral feel- 
 ing, and now began to think of doing them temporal services also, 
 by rendering their situation somewhat more comfortable. Their 
 time had hitherto been divided between famine and excess, tumul- 
 tuous riot and bitter repining. Their only employment was 
 quarrelling among each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting 
 tobacco-stoppers. From this last mode of idle industry I took the 
 hint of setting such as chose to work at cutting pegs for tobacco- 
 nists and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a general 
 subscription, and, when manufactured, sold by my appointment ; 
 so that each earned something every day ; a trifle indeed, but 
 sufficient to maintain him. 
 
 I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of 
 immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in less than 
 a fortnight I had formed them into something social and humane, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 299 
 
 and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator, who had 
 brought men from their native ferocity into friendship and obedi- 
 ence. 
 
 And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power would 
 thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity ; that it 
 would seem convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not 
 by making punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead 
 of our present prisons, which find or make men guilty, which in- 
 close wretches for the commission of one crime, and return them, 
 if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration of thousands ; we 
 should see, as in other parts of Europe, places of penitence and 
 solitude, where the accused might be attended by such as could 
 give them repentance, if guilty, or new motives to virtue, if inno- 
 cent. And this, but not the increasing punishments, is the way to 
 mend a state : nor can I avoid even questioning the validity of that 
 right which social combinations have assumed of capitally punish- 
 ing offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder their right is 
 obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self-defence, 
 to cut off that man who has shown a disregard for the life of 
 another. Against such all nature rises in arms, but it is not so 
 against him who steals my property. Natural law gives me no 
 right to take away his life, as by that the horse he steals is as 
 much his property as mine. If, then, I have any right, it must 
 be from a compact made between us, that he who deprives the 
 other of his horse shall die. But this is a false compact ; because 
 no man has a right to barter his life, any more than to take it 
 away, as it is not his own. And besides the compact is inade- 
 quate, and would be set aside even in a court of modern equity, 
 as there is a great penalty for a trifling inconvenience, since it is 
 far better that two men should live than that one man should ride. 
 But a compact that is false between two men is equally so between 
 a hundred and a hundred thousand ; for as ten millions of circles 
 can never make a square, so the united voice of myriads cannot 
 lend the smallest foundation to falsehood It is thus that reason 
 speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. Ravages that 
 are directed by natural law alone, are very tender of the lives of 
 each other ; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty. 
 
 Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but few 
 executions in times of peace ; and in all commencing governments, 
 that have the print of nature still strong upon them, scarcely any 
 crime is held capital. 
 
 It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal laws 
 which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. 
 Government, while it grows older, seems to acquire the morose- 
 ness of age ; and as if our property were become dearer in propor- 
 
£00 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 tion as it increased ; as if the more enormous our wealth, the moro 
 extensive our fears ; all our possessions are paled up with new edict? 
 every day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every invader. 
 
 I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws, 
 or the licentiousness of our people, that this country should show 
 more convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe united. 
 Perhaps it is owing to both ; for they mutually produce each other. 
 When by indiscriminate penal laws a nation beholds the same 
 punishment affixed to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving 
 no distinction in the penalty the people are led to lose all sense 
 of distinction in the crime, and this distinction is the bulwark of 
 all morality : thus the multitude of laws produce new vices, and 
 new vices call for fresh restraints. 
 
 It were to be wished then, that power, instead of contriving new 
 laws to punish vice, instead of drawing hard the cords of society 
 till a convulsion come to burst them, instead of cutting away 
 wretches as useless before we have tried their utility, instead of 
 converting correction into vengeance ; it were to be wished that 
 we tried the restrictive arts of government, and made law the 
 protector, but not the tyrant, of the people. "VVe should then 
 find that, creatures, whose souls are held as dross, only wanted the 
 hand of a refiner ; we should then find that wretches, now stuck 
 up for long tortures, lest luxury should feel a momentary pang, 
 might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the state in times of 
 danger ; that as their faces are like ours, their hearts are so too ; 
 that few minds are so base as that perseverance cannot amend ; 
 that a man may see his last crime without dying for it ; and that 
 very little blood will serve to cement our security. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE THAN OF 
 VIRTUE IN THIS LIFE ; TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES BEING REGARDED 
 BY HEAVEN AS THINGS MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRIFLING, AND UN- 
 WORTHY ITS CARE IN THE DISTRIBUTION. 
 
 I had now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not since 
 my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed 
 to see her. Having communicated my wishes to my wife, the next 
 morning the poor girl entered my apartment leaning on her sister's 
 arm. The change which I saw in her countenance struck me. 
 The numberless graces that once resided there were now fled, and 
 the hand of death seemed to have moulded every feature to alarm 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 301 
 
 ine. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal 
 paleness sat upon her cheek. 
 
 ' I am glad to see thee, my dear/ cried I, ' but why this dejec* 
 tion, Livy ? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard for me, 
 to permit disappointment thus to undermine a life which I priza 
 as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we may yet see happier 
 days.' 
 
 1 You have ever, sir,' replied she, ' been kind to me, and it adds 
 to my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of sharing that 
 happiness you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved 
 for me here, and I long to be rid of a place where I have only 
 found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would make a proper sub- 
 mission to Mr Thornhill : it may in some measure induce him to 
 pity you, and it will give me relief in dying.' 
 
 ' Never, child/ replied I, • never will I be brought to acknow- 
 ledge my daughter a prostitute ; for though the world may look 
 upon your offence with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark 
 of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in 
 this place, however dismal it may seem ; and be assured, that 
 while you continue to bless me by living, he shall never have my 
 consent to make you more wretched by marrying another.' 
 
 After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, who 
 was by at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated upon my 
 obstinacy, in refusing a submission which promised to give me 
 freedom. He observed, that the rest of my family were not to be 
 sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the only one 
 who had offended me. ' Besides,' added he, ' I don't know if it be 
 just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, which you do at 
 present, by refusing to consent to a match which you cannot hin- 
 der, but may render unhappy.' 
 
 ' Sir,' replied I, ' you are unacquainted with the man that op- 
 presses us. I am very sensible that no submission I can make 
 could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told that even 
 in this very room a debtor of his, no later then last year, died for 
 want. But though my submission and approbation could transfer 
 me from hence to the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of, 
 yet I would grant neither, as something whispers me that it would 
 be giving a sanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, no 
 other marriage of his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were she 
 removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, from any resent- 
 ment of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who wish for a 
 union. No ; villain as he is, I should then wish him married, to 
 prevent the oonsequences of his future debaucheries. But now 
 should I not be the most cruel of all fathers to sign an instrument 
 which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison 
 
302 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 myself; and thus, to escape one pang, break my child's heart with 
 a thousand V 
 
 He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not avoid 
 observing, that he feared my daughter's life was already too much 
 wasted to keep me long a prisoner. 'However,' continued he, 
 ' though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no 
 objection to laying your case before the uncle, who has the first 
 character in the kingdom for everything that is just and good. I 
 would advise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating all 
 his nephew's ill usage, and, my life for it, that in three days you 
 shall have an answer.' I thanked him for the hint, and instantly 
 set about complying ; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our 
 money had been laid out that morning in provisions : however, he 
 supplied me. 
 
 For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to know 
 what reception my letter might meet with : but in the meantime 
 was frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions 
 rather than remain here, and every hour received repeated ac- 
 counts of the decline of my daughter's health. The third day and 
 the fourth arrived, but I received no answer to my letter : the 
 complaints of a stranger against a favourite nephew were no way 
 likely to succeed ; so that these hopes soon vanished like all my 
 former. My mind, however, still supported itself, though confine- 
 ment and bad air began to make a visible alteration in my health, 
 and my arm that had suffered in the fire grew worse. My child- 
 ren, however, sat by me, and, while I was stretched on my straw, 
 read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But 
 my daughter's health declined faster than mine, every message 
 from her contributed to increase my apprehensions and pain. The 
 fifth morning after I had written the letter which was sent to Sir 
 William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that she was 
 speechless. Now it was that confinement was truly painful to me ; 
 my soul was bursting from its prison to be near the pillow of my 
 child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and 
 teach her soul the way to heaven ! Another account came — she 
 was expiring, and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weep- 
 ing by her. My fellow-prisoner, some time after, came with the 
 last account. He bade me be patient — she was dead ! The next 
 morning he returned, and found me with my two little ones, now 
 my only companions, who were using all their innocent efforts to 
 comfort me. They entreated to read to me, and bade me not to 
 cry, for I was now too old to weep. ' And is not my sister an 
 angel now, papa ?' cried the eldest ; * and why then are you sorry 
 for her ? I wish I were an angel, out of this frightful place, if 
 my papa were with me.' — 'Yes,' added my youngest darling, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 303 
 
 Heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there 
 are none but good people there, and the people here are very bad.* 
 
 Mr Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle, by observing 
 that, now my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of 
 the rest of my family, and attempt to save my own life, which 
 was every day declining for want of necessaries and wholesome 
 air. He added that it was now incumbent on me to sacrifice any 
 pride or resentment of my own to the welfare of those who de- 
 pended on me for support ; and that I was now, both by reason 
 and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord. 
 
 • Heaven be praised !' replied I, ' there is no pride left me now. 
 I should detest my own heart, if I saw either pride or resentment 
 lurking there. On the contrary, as my oppressor has been once 
 my parishioner, I hope one day to present him up an unpolluted 
 soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no resentment now ; 
 and though he has taken from me what I held dearer than all 
 his treasures, though he has wrung my heart, for I am sick 
 almost to fainting, very sick, my fellow-prisoner, yet that shall 
 never inspire me with vengeance. I am now willing to approve 
 his marriage, and if this submission can do him any pleasure, let 
 him know, that if I have done him any injury I am sorry for it.' 
 Mr Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my submission 
 nearly as I have expressed it, to which I signed my name. My 
 son was employed to carry the letter to Mr Thornhill, who was 
 then at his seat in the country. He went, and in about six hours 
 returned with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, he said, 
 to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants were insolent and 
 suspicious ; but he accidentally saw him as he was going out 
 upon business, preparing for his marriage, which was to be in 
 three days. He continued to inform us that he stepped up in the 
 humblest manner, and delivered the letter, which, when Mr 
 Thornhill had read, he said that all submission was now too late 
 and unnecessary : that he had heard of our application to his 
 uncle, which met with the contempt it deserved : and, as for the 
 rest, that all future applications should be directed to his attorney, 
 not to him. He observed, however, that as he had a very good 
 opinion of the discretion of the two young ladies, they might have 
 been the most agreeable intercessors. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said I to my fellow-prisoner, ■ you now discover the 
 temper of the man that oppresses me. He can at once be facetious 
 and cruel ; but, let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in 
 spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards 
 an abode that looks brighter as I approach it ; this expectation 
 cheers my afflictions, and though I leave a helpless family of 
 orphans behind me* yet they will not be utterly forsaken ; some 
 
804 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S THOSE WORKS. 
 
 friend, perhaps, will be found to assist them, for the sake of their 
 poor father, and some may charitably relieve them for the sake 
 of their Heavenly Father.' 
 
 Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, 
 appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable, to 
 speak. * Why, my love,' cried I, ' why will you thus increase my 
 afflictions by your own ? What though no submission can turn 
 our severe master, though he has doomed me to die in this place 
 of wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, yet still 
 you will find comfort in your other children when I shall be no 
 more.' — ' We have, indeed, lost,' returned she, ' a darling child ! 
 My Sophia, my dearest, is gone— snatched from us, carried off by 
 ruffians.' 
 
 * How, madam !' cried my fellow-prisoner, ' Miss Sophia carried 
 off by villains ! Sure it cannot be !' 
 
 She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. 
 But one of the prisoners ' wives, who was present, and came in 
 with her, gave us a more distinct account : she informed us, that 
 as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk to- 
 gether on the great road a little way out of the village, a posU 
 chaise and pair drove up to them, and instantly stopped. Upon 
 which a well-dressed man, but not Mr Thornhill, stepping out, 
 clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in bid the 
 postillion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment. 
 
 * Now, cried I, 'the sum of my miseries is made up ; nor is it 
 in the power of anything on earth to give me another pang. 
 AVhat ! not one left ! not to leave me one ! the monster ! the 
 child that was next my heart ! she had the beauty of an angel, 
 and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support that woman, nor 
 let her fall. Not to leave me one !' — ■ Alas, my husband !' said my 
 wife, 'you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses 
 are great ; but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. 
 They may take away my children, and all the world, if they leave 
 me but you.' 
 
 My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate her grief, 
 he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have 
 reason to be thankful. * My child,' cried I, ' look round the world, 
 and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray 
 of comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects only lie beyond 
 the grave V — ' My dear father,' returned he, ■ I hope there is still 
 something that will give you an interval of satisfaction, for I have 
 a letter from my brother George.' — ' What of him, child ?' inter- 
 rupted I, ' docs he know our misery ? I hope, my boy, he is 
 exempt from any part of what his wretched family suffers.'— 
 Yes, sir,' returned he, ' he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 305 
 
 His letter bring3 nothing but good news ; he is the favourite of 
 his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieuten- 
 ancy that becomes vacant.' 
 
 1 But are you sure of all this V cried my wife, ' are you sure 
 that nothing ill has befallen my boy ?' — ' ISTothing, indeed, 
 madam,' returned my son; 'you shall see the letter, which will 
 give you the highest pleasure : and, if anything can procure you 
 comfort, I am sure that will.' — ' But are you sure,' still repeated 
 she, ' that the letter is from himself, and that he is really so 
 happy ?' — ' Yes, madam,' replied he, ' it is certainly his, and he 
 will one day be the credit and the support of our family.' — * Then J, 
 thank Providence,' cried she, ' that my last letter to him has mis- 
 carried. Yes, my dear,' continued she, turning to me, * I will now 
 confess, that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in other 
 instances, it has been favourable here. By the last letter I wrote 
 my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon 
 his mother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see 
 justice done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But, 
 thanks be to Him who directs all things, it has miscarried, and I 
 am at rest.' — ' Woman,' cried I, ' thou hast done very ill, and at 
 another time my reproaches might have been more severe. Oh ! 
 what a tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have 
 buried both thee and him in endless ruin ! Providence, indeed, 
 has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved 
 that son to be the father and protector of my children when I 
 shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stripped 
 of every comfort, when still I hear that he is happy, and insen- 
 sible of our afflictions ; still kept in reserve to support his 
 widowed mother, and to protect his brothers and sisters ! But 
 what sisters has he left ! he has no sisters now : they are all gone, 
 robbed from me, and I am undone ! ? — ' Father,' interrupted my 
 son, ' I beg you will give me leave to read this letter : I know it 
 will please you/ Upon which, with my permission, he read as 
 follows : — 
 
 4 Honoured Sir, — I have called off my Imagination a few moments 
 from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still 
 more pleasing, the dear little fireside at home. My fancy draws that 
 harmless group as listening to every line of this with great composure. I 
 view those faces with delight, which never felt the deforming hand of 
 ambition or distress. But whatever your happiness may be at home, I 
 am sure it will be some addition to it to hear that I am perfectly pleased 
 with my situation, and every way happy here. 
 
 ' Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the kingdom ; the 
 colonel, who professes himself my friend, takes me with him to all com- 
 panies where he is acquainted, and, after my first visit, I generally find 
 myself received with increased respect upon repeating it. 1 danced last 
 
306 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 night with Lady G , and, could I forget you know whom, I might 
 
 perhaps be successful But it is my fate still to remember others, while I 
 am myself forgotten by most of my absent friends, and in this number I 
 fear, sir, that I must consider you, for I have long expected the pleasure 
 of a letter from home to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia, too, promised to 
 write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them that they are two arrant 
 little baggages, and that I am at this moment in a most violent passion with 
 them ; yet still, I know not how, though I want to bluster a little, my 
 heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then tell them, sir, that after 
 all I love them affectionately ; and be assured of my ever remaining 
 
 ' YOUB DUTIFUL SON.' 
 
 ' In all our miseries,' cried I, ' what thanks have we not to re- 
 turn, that one at least of our family is exempted from what we 
 suffer ! Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy, to 
 be the support of his widowed mother, and the father of these two 
 babes, which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him ! 
 May he keep their innocence from the temptations of want, and 
 be their conductor in the paths of honour !' I had scarcely said 
 these words, when a noise like that of a tumult seemed to proceed 
 from the prison below ; it died away soon after, and a clanking 
 of fetters was heard along the passage that led to my apartment. 
 The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all bloody, 
 wounded, and fettered with the heaviest irons. I looked with 
 compassion upon the wretch as he approached me, but with 
 horror when I found it was my own son ! ' My George ! my 
 George ! and do I behold thee thus ! wounded ! fettered ! Is this 
 thy happiness ! Is this the manner you return to me ! that 
 this sight would break my heart at once, and let me die !' 
 
 ' Where, sir, is your fortitude V returned my son, with an in- 
 trepid voice, ' I must suffer ; my life is forfeited, and let them 
 take it.' 
 
 I tried to restrain my passion for a few minutes in silence, but 
 I thought I should have died with the effort. ' O my boy, my 
 heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it ! 
 In the moment that I thought thee blest, and prayed for thy 
 safety, to behold thee thus again, chained, wounded ! And yet 
 the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a very old 
 man, and have lived to see this day ; to see my children all un- 
 timely falling about me, while I continue a wretched survivor in 
 the midst of ruin ! May all the curses that ever sunk a soul fall 
 heavy upon the murderer of my children ! May he live, like me 
 to see ' 
 
 * Hold, sir/ replied my son, ' or I shall blush for thee. How, 
 sir ! forgetful of your age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the 
 justice of Heaven, and fling those curses upward, that must soon 
 descend to crush thy own grey head with destruction ! No, sir, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 30"» 
 
 let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I must shortly 
 suffer, to arm me with hope and resolution, to give me courage to 
 drink of that bitterness which must shortly be my portion/ 
 
 * My child, you must not die ! I am sure no offence of thine 
 can deserve so vile a punishment. My George could never be 
 guilty of any crime to make his ancestors ashamed of him.' 
 
 1 Mine, sir,' returned my son, ' is, I fear, an unpardonable one. 
 When I received my mother's letter from home, I immediately 
 came down, determined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and 
 sent him an order to meet me, which he answered, not in person, 
 but by despatching four of his domestics to seize me. I wounded 
 one who first assaulted me, and I fear desperately ; but the rest 
 made me their prisoner. The coward is determined to put the 
 law in execution against me ; the proofs are undeniable : I have 
 sent a challenge, and as I am the first aggressor upon the statute 
 I see no hopes of pardon. But you have often charmed me with 
 your lessons of fortitude ; let me now, sir, find them in your 
 example.' 
 
 ' And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above 
 this world, and all the pleasures it can produce. From this 
 moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it down to 
 earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, 
 I will point out the way, and my soul shall guide yours in the 
 ascent, for we will take our flight together. I now see and am 
 convinced you can expect no pardon here, and I can only exhort 
 you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where we both shall 
 shortly answer. But let us not be niggardly in our exhortations, 
 but let all our fellow-prisoners have a share. Good gaoler, let 
 them be permitted to stand here, while I attempt to improve 
 them.' Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from my straw, but 
 wanted strength, and was able only to recline against the wall. 
 The prisoners assembled themselves according to my directions, 
 for they loved to hear my counsel : my son and his mother sup- 
 ported me on either side ; I looked and saw that none were want- 
 ing, and then addressed them with the following exhortation. 
 
£08 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED WITH BEGARD TO 
 THE HAPPY AND THE MISERABLE HERE BELOW. THAT, IROM THE 
 NATURE OP PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE WRETCHED MUST BE RUPAID THE 
 BALANCE OF THEIR SUFFERINGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER. 
 
 ' My friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, when I reflect on 
 the distribution of good and evil here below, I find that much has 
 been given man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we 
 should examine the whole world, we shall not find one man so 
 happy as to have nothing left to wish for : but we daily see thou- 
 sands who by suicide show us they have nothing left to hope. In 
 this life, then, it appears that we cannot be entirely blest ; but 
 yet we may be completely miserable. 
 
 ' Why man should thus feel pain : why our wretchednesf should 
 be requisite in the formation of universal felicity ; why, when all 
 other systems are made perfect by the perfection of their sub- 
 ordinate parts, the great system should require for its perfection 
 parts that are not only subordinate to others, but imperfect in 
 themselves, — these are questions that never can be explained, 
 and might be useless if known. On this subject Providence has 
 thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied with granting us mo- 
 tives to consolation. 
 
 ' In this situation, man has called in the friendly assistance of 
 philosophy ; and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to console 
 him, has given him the aid of religion. The consolations of phi- 
 losophy are very amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us that 
 life is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy them ; and on the 
 other hand, that though we unavoidably have miseries here, life 
 is short, and they will soon be over. Thus do these consolations 
 destroy each other ; for if life is a place of comfort, its shortness 
 must be misery ; and if it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus 
 philosophy is weak ; but religion comforts in a higher strain. 
 Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and preparing it for 
 another abode. When the good man leaves the body, and is all 
 a glorious mind, he will find he has been making himself a heaven 
 of happiness here ; while the wretch that has been maimed and 
 contaminated by his vices, shrinks from his body with terror, and 
 finds that he has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To re- 
 ligion, then, we must hold in every circumstance of life for our 
 truest comfort ; for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure t*. 
 think that we can make that happiness unending ; and, if we are 
 miserable, it is very consoling to think that there is a place of rest. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 309 
 
 Thus, to the fortunate, religion holds out a continuance of bliss ; 
 to the wretched, a change from pain. 
 
 * But though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised 
 peculiar rewards to the unhappy ; the sick, the naked, the house- 
 less, the heavy-laden, and the prisoner, have ever most frequent 
 promises in our sacred law. The Author of our religion every- 
 where professes himself the wretch's friend ; and, unlike the 
 false ones of this world, bestows all his caresses upon the forlorn. 
 The unthinking have censured this as partiality, as a preference 
 without merit to deserve it. But they never reflect, that it is not 
 in the power even of Heaven itself to make the offer of unceas- 
 ing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the miserable. 
 To the first, eternity is but a single blessing, since, at most, it but 
 increases what they already possess. To the latter, it is a double 
 advantage ; for it diminishes their pain here and rewards them 
 with heavenly bliss hereafter. 
 
 1 But Providence is in another respect kinder to the poor than 
 to the rich ; for as it thus makes the life after death more desir- 
 able, so it smooths the passage there. The wretched have had a 
 long familiarity with every face of terror. The man of sorrow lays 
 himself quietly down, with no possessions to regret, and but few 
 ties to stop his departure ; he feels only nature's pang in the final 
 separation, and this is no way greater than he has often fainted 
 under before ; for, after a certain degree of pain, every new breach 
 that death opens in the constitution, nature kindly covers with 
 insensibility. 
 
 * Thus Providence has given to the wretched two advantages 
 over the happy in this life — greater felicity in dying, and in 
 heaven all that superiority of pleasure which arises from con- 
 trasted enjoyment. And this superiority, my friends, is no small 
 advantage, and seems to be one of the pleasures of the poor man 
 in the parable ; for though he was already in heaven, and felt all 
 the raptures it could give, yet it was mentioned as an addition to 
 his happiness, that he had once been wretched, and now was com- 
 forted ; that he had known what it was to be miserable, and now 
 felt what it was to be happy. 
 
 ' Thus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy could 
 never do : it shows the equal dealings of Heaven to the happy and 
 the unhappy, and levels all human enjoyments to nearly the same 
 standard. It gives to both rich and poor the same happiness here- 
 after, and equal hopes to aspire after it; but if the rich have the 
 advantage of enjoying pleasure here, the poor have the endless 
 satisfaction of knowing what it was once to be miserable, when 
 crowned with endless felicity hereafter, and even though this 
 should be called a small advantange, yet, being an eternal one, 
 
310 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 it must make up by duration what the temporal happiness of the 
 great may have exceeded by intenseness. 
 
 ' These are, therefore, the consolations which the wretched have 
 peculiar to themselves, and in which they are above the rest of 
 mankind ; in other respects they are below them. They who 
 would know the miseries of the poor, must see life and endure it. 
 To declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy, is only repeat- 
 ing what none either believe or practise. The men who have the 
 necessaries of living are not poor ; and they who want them must 
 be miserable. Yes, my friends we must be miserable. No vain 
 efforts of a refined imagination can soothe the wants of nature, 
 can give elastic sweetness to the dank vapour of a dungeon, or 
 ease to the throbbings of a broken heart. Let the philosopher 
 from his couch of softness tell us, that we can resist all these. 
 Alas ! the effort by which we resist them is still the greatest pain. 
 Death is slight, and any man may sustain it ; but torments are 
 dreadful, and these no man can endure. 
 
 ■ To us, then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven 
 should be peculiarly dear, for if our reward be in this life alone, 
 we are, indeed, of all men the most miserable. "When I look round 
 these gloomy walls, made to terrify, as well as to confine us ; this 
 light, that only serves to show the horrors of the place ; those 
 shackles, that tyranny has imposed, or crime made necessary 
 when I survey these emaciated looks, and hear those groans : O, 
 my friends, what a glorious exchange would heaven be for these 
 To fly through regions unconfined as air — to bask in the sunshine 
 of eternal bliss — to carol over endless hymns of praise — to have no 
 master to threaten or insult us, but the form of Goodness himself 
 for ever in our eyes : when I think of these things, death becomes 
 the messenger of very glad tidings ; when I think of these things, 
 his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my support ; when I think 
 of these things, what is there in life worth having ? when I think 
 of these things, what is there that should not be spurned away % 
 Kings in their palaces should groan for such advantages ; but we, 
 humbled as we are, should yearn for them. 
 
 ' And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will certainly be, 
 if we but try for them ; and what is a comfort, we are shut out 
 from many temptations that would retard our pursuit. Only let 
 us try for them, and they will certainly be ours ; and what is still 
 a comfort, shortly too ; for if we look back on a past life, it ap- 
 pears but a very short span ; and whatever we may think of the 
 rest of life, it will yet be found of less duration : as we grow older 
 the days seem to grow shorter, and our intimacy with time ever 
 lessens the perception of the stay. Then let us take comfort now, 
 for we shall soon be at our journey's end ; we shall soon lay down 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 311 
 
 the heavy burden laid by Heaven upon us ; and though death, the 
 only friend of the wretched, for a little while mocks the weary 
 traveller with the view, and like the horizon still flies before him ; 
 yet the time will certainly and shortly come, when we shall cease 
 from our toil ; when the luxurious great ones of the world shall 
 no more tread us to the earth : when we shall think with pleasure 
 of our sufferings below ; when we shall be surrounded with all our 
 friends, or such as deserved our friendship ; when our bliss shall 
 be unutterable, and still, to crown all, unending.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. — LET US BE INFLEXIBLE, AND 
 FORTUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE IN OUR FAVOUR. 
 
 When I had thus finished, and my audience was retired, the 
 gaoler, who was one of the most humane of his profession, hoped 
 I would not be displeased, as what he did was but his duty ; ob- 
 serving, that he must be obliged to remove my son into a stronger 
 cell, but that he should be permitted to visit me every morning. 
 I thanked him for his clemency, and grasping my boy's hand bade 
 him farewell, and be mindful of the great duty that was before 
 him. 
 
 I again therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones sat by 
 my bed-side reading, when Mr Jenkinson, entering, informed me 
 that there was news of my daughter ; for that she was seen by a 
 person about two hours before in a strange gentleman's company, 
 and that they had stopped at a neighbouring village for refresh- 
 ment, and seemed as if returning to town. He had scarcely de- 
 livered this news, when the gaoler came with looks of haste and 
 pleasure to inform me that my daughter was found ! Moses came 
 running in a moment after, crying out that his sister Sophy was 
 below, and coming up with our old friend Mr Burchell. 
 
 Just as he delivered this news my dearest girl entered, and, with 
 looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a transport of 
 affection. Her mother's tears and silence also showed her plea- 
 sure. 
 
 ' Here, papa,' cried the charming girl, ' here is the brave man 
 to whom I owe my delivery ; to this gentleman's intrepidity I am 
 indebted for my happiness and safety ' A kiss from Mr Bur- 
 chell, whose pleasure seemed even greater than hers, interrupted 
 what she was going to add. 
 
 1 Ah, Mr Burchell !' cried I, ' this is but a wretched habitation 
 
812 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 you find us in ; and we are now very different from what you last 
 saw us. You were ever our friend : we have long discovered our 
 errors with regard to you, and repented of our ingratitude. After 
 the vile usage you then received at my? hands, I am almost 
 ashamed to behold your face ; yet I hope you'll forgive me, as I 
 was deceived by a base ungenerous wretch, who under the mask 
 of friendship has undone me.' 
 
 < It is impossible,' replied Mr Burchell, ' that I should forgive 
 you, as you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your 
 delusion then, and, as it was out of my power to restrain, I could 
 only pity it.' 
 
 ' It was ever my conjecture,' cried I, c that your mind was noble ; 
 but now I find it so. But tell me, my dear child, how thou hast 
 been relieved, or who the ruffians were that carried thee away ?' 
 
 1 Indeed, sir,' replied she, * as to the villain who carried me off 
 I am yet ignorant. For as my mamma and I were walking out, 
 he came behind us, and almost before I could call for help forced 
 me into the post-chaise, and in an instant the horses drove away. 
 I met several on the road to whom I cried out for assistance, but 
 they disregarded my entreaties. In the mean time, the ruffian 
 himself used every art to hinder me from crying out ; he flattered 
 and threatened me by turns, and swore that, if I continued but 
 silent, he intended no harm. In the mean time I had broken the 
 canvas that he had drawn up, and whom should I perceive at 
 some distance but your old friend Mr Burchell, walking along 
 with his usual swiftness, with the great stick for which we used 
 so much to ridicule him ! As soon as we came within hearing, I 
 called out to him by name, and entreated his help. I repeated 
 my exclamations several times, upon which, with a very loud 
 voice, he bade the postilion stop ; but the boy took no notice, but 
 drove on with still greater speed. I now thought he could never 
 overtake us, when in less than a minute I saw Mr Burchell come 
 running up by the side of the horses, and with one blow knocked 
 the postilion to the ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon 
 stopped of themselves, and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths 
 and menaces, drew his sword, and ordered him at his peril to re- 
 tire ; but Mr Burchell running up shivered his sword to pieces, 
 and then pursued him for near a quarter of a mile ; but he made 
 his escape. I was by this time come out myself, willing to assist 
 my deliverer ; but he soon returned to me in triumph. The pos- 
 tilion, who was recovered, was going to make his escape too : but 
 Mr Burchell ordered him at his peril to mount again and drive 
 back to town. Finding it impossible to resist, he reluctantly com- 
 plied, though the wound he had received seemed, to me at least, to 
 be dangerous. He continued to complain of the pain as we drove 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 313 
 
 along, so that he at last excited Mr Burchell's compassion ; who, 
 at my request, exchanged him for another at an inn where we 
 called on our return/ 
 
 1 "Welcome, then/ cried I, my child, and thou, her gallant 
 deliverer, a thousand welcomes. Though our cheer is but 
 wretched, yet our hearts are ready to receive you. And now Mr 
 Burchell, as you have delivered my girl, if you think her a recom- 
 pense she is yours : if you can stoop to an alliance with a family 
 so poor as mine, take her, obtain her consent, as I know you have 
 her heart, and you have mine. And let me tell you, sir, that I 
 give you no small treasure ; she has been celebrated for beauty, 
 it is true, but that is not my meaning — I give you a treasure in 
 her mind.' 
 
 ' But I suppose, sir,' cried Mr Burchell, ■ that you are apprised 
 of my circumstances, and of my incapacity to support her as she 
 deserves V 
 
 ' If your present objection/ replied I, ' be meant as an evasion 
 of my offer, I desist ; but I know no man so worthy to deserve her 
 as you ; and if I could give her thousands, and thousands sought 
 her from me, yet my honest brave Burchell should be my dearest 
 choice/ 
 
 To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying refusal ; 
 and without the least reply to my offer, he demanded if we could 
 not be furnished with refreshments from the next inn ; to which 
 being answered in the affirmative, he ordered them to send in 
 the best dinner that could be provided upon such short notice. 
 He bespoke also a dozen of their best wine, and some cordials for 
 me ; adding, with a smile, that he would stretch a little for orice ; 
 and though in a prison, he was never more disposed to be merry. 
 The waiter soon made his appearance with preparations for din- 
 ner ; a table was lent us by the gaoler, who seemed remarkably 
 assiduous ; the wine was disposed in order, and two very well- 
 dressed dishes were brought in. 
 
 My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's melan- 
 choly situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp her cheer- 
 fulness by the relation. But it was in vain that I attempted to 
 appear cheerful, the circumstances of my unfortunate son broke 
 through all efforts to dissemble ; so that I was at last obliged to 
 damp our mirth by relating his misfortunes, and wishing he might 
 be permitted to share with us in this little interval of satisfaction. 
 After my guests were recovered from the consternation my account 
 had produced, I requested also that Mr Jenkinson, a fellow-pri- 
 Boner, might be admitted ; and the gaoler granted my request with 
 an air of unusual submission. The clanking of my son's irons was 
 no sooner haard along the passage, than his sister ran impatiently 
 
goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 to meet him ; while Mr Burchell, in the mean time, asked me if 
 my son's name was George ; to which replying in the affirmative, 
 he still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered the room, I 
 could perceive he regarded Mr Burchell with a look of astonish- 
 ment and reverence. * Come on,' cried I, * my son ; though we 
 are fallen very low, yet Providence has been pleased to grant us 
 some small relaxation from pain. Thy sister is restored to us, and 
 there is her deliverer ; to that brave man it is that I am indebted 
 for yet having a daughter ; give him, my boy, the hand of friend- 
 ship— he deserves our warmest gratitude.' 
 
 My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and still 
 continued fixed at a respectful distance. ' My dear brother,' 
 cried his sister, ' why don't you thank my good deliverer ? the 
 brave should ever love each other.' 
 
 He still continued his silence and astonishment ; till our guest 
 at last perceived himself to be known, and assuming all his native 
 dignity, desired my son to come forward. Never before had I 
 seen anything so truly majestic as the air he assumed upon this 
 occasion. The greatest object in the universe, says a certain 
 philosopher, is a good man struggling with adversity ; yet there is 
 a still greater, which is the good man that comes to relieve it. 
 After he had regarded my son for some time with a superior air, 
 
 1 I again find,' said he, * unthinking boy, that the same crime ' 
 
 But here he was interrupted by one of the gaoler's servants, who 
 came to inform us that a person of distinction, who had driven 
 into town with a chariot and several attendants, sent his respects 
 to the gentleman that was with us, and begged to know when he 
 should think proper to be waited upon. * Bid the fellow wait, 
 cried our guest, ' till I shall have leisure to receive him :' and then 
 turning to my son, ■ I again find, sir,' proceeded he, ' that you are 
 guilty of the same offence for which you once had my reproof, 
 and for which the law is now preparing its justest punishments. 
 You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt for your own life gives you 
 a right to take that of another ; but where, sir, is the difference 
 between the duellist, who hazards a life of no value, and the 
 murderer, who acts with greater security ? Is it any diminution 
 of the gamester's fraud, when he alleges that he has staked a 
 counter ?' 
 
 1 Alas, sir !' cried I, « whoever you are, pity the poor misguided 
 creature : for what he has done was in obedience to a deluded 
 mother, who in the bitterness of her resentment required him, 
 upon her blessing, to avenge her quarrel. Here, sir, is the letter, 
 which will serve to convince you of her imprudence, and diminish 
 his guilt.' 
 
 He took the letter, and hastily read it ever. ( This,' said he, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 315 
 
 1 though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his fault as 
 induces me to forgive him. And now, sir,' continued he, kindly 
 taking my son by the hand, ■ I see you are surprised at finding 
 me here ; but I have often visited prisons upon occasions less in- 
 teresting. I am now come to see justice done a worthy man, for 
 whom I have the most sincere esteem. I have long been a dis- 
 guised spectator of thy father's benevolence. I have at his little 
 dwelling enjoyed respect, uncontaminated by flattery, and have 
 received that happiness which courts could not give from the 
 amusing simplicity round his fireside. My nephew has been 
 apprised of my intentions of coming here, and I find he is arrived ; 
 it would be wronging him and you to condemn him without 
 examination ; if there be injury, there shall be redress ; and this 
 I may say without boasting, that none have ever taxed the injus- 
 tice of Sir William Thornum.' 
 
 We now found that the personage whom we had so long enter- 
 tained as a harmless, amusing companion, was no other than the 
 celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to whose virtues and singulari- 
 ties scarcely any were strangers. The poor Mr Burchell was in 
 reality a man of large fortune and great interest, to whom senates 
 listened with applause, and whom party heard with conviction ; 
 who was the friend of his country, but loyal to his king. My poor 
 wife, recollecting her former familiarity, seemed to shrink with 
 apprehension ; but Sophia, who a few moments before thought him 
 her own, now perceiving the immense distance to which he was 
 removed by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears. 
 
 1 Ah, sir,' cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, * how is it pos- 
 sible that I can ever have your forgiveness ? The slights you re- 
 ceived from me the last time I had the honour of seeing you at 
 our house, and the jokes which I so audaciously threw out — these, 
 sir, I fear, can never be forgiven.' 
 
 * My dear good lady,' returned he, with a smile, ■ if you had 
 your joke, I had my answer. Ill leave it to all the company if 
 mine were not as good as yours. To say the truth, I know no- 
 body whom I am disposed to be angry with at present, but the 
 fellow who so frightened my little girl here ! I had not even time 
 to examine the rascal's person, so as to describe him in an adver- 
 tisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you should 
 know him again ?' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir/ replied she, * I cannot be positive ; yet, now I re- 
 collect, he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows.' — ' I ask 
 pardon, madam/ interrupted Jenkinson, who was by, ' but be so 
 good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair.' — ■ Yes, 
 I think so/ cried Sophia. ■ And did your honour/ continued he, 
 turning to Sir William, * observe the length of his legs ?' — ■ I can'* 
 
316 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 be sure of their length/ cried the baronet ; * but I am convinced 
 of their swiftness ; for he outran me, which is what I thought few 
 men in the kingdom could have done/ — ' Please your honour.' 
 cried Jenkinson, ' I know the man ; it is certainly the same : the 
 best runner in England ; he has beaten Pinwire, of Newcastle ; 
 Timothy Baxter is his name : I know him perfectly, and the very 
 place of his retreat at this moment. If your honour will bid Mr 
 Gaoler let two of his men go with me, I'll engage to produce him 
 to you in an hour at farthest. Upon this the gaoler was called, 
 who instantly appearing, Sir William demanded if he knew him. 
 ' Yes, please your honour,' replied the gaoler. * I know Sir Wil- 
 liam Thornhill well ; and every body that knows anything of him, 
 will desire to know more of him.' — ' Well, then/ said the baronet, 
 * my request is, that you will permit this man and two of your 
 servants to go upon a message by my authority, and as I am in 
 the commission of the peace, I undertake to secure you.' — l Your 
 promise is sufficient/ replied the other ; ' and you may, at a mi- 
 nute's warning, send them over England whenever your honour 
 thinks fit/ 
 
 In pursuance of the gaoler's compliance, Jenkinson was de- 
 spatched in pursuit of Timothy Baxter, while we were amused 
 with the assiduity of our youngest boy, Bill, who had just come 
 in and climbed up to Sir William's neck in order to kiss him. His 
 mother was immediately going to chastise his familiarity, but the 
 worthy man prevented her ; and taking the child, all ragged as 
 he was, upon his knee, * What, Bill, you chubby rogue !' cried he, 
 do you remember your old friend Burchell ? And Dick, too, my 
 honest veteran, are you here ? you shall find I have not forgot 
 you.' So saying, he gave each a large piece of gingerbread, which 
 the poor fellows ate very heartily, as they had got that morning 
 but a very scanty breakfast. 
 
 We now sat down to dinner, which was almost cold : but pre- 
 viously, my arm still continuing painful, Sir William wrote a 
 prescription, for he had made the study of physic his amusement, 
 and was more than moderately skilled in the profession : this 
 being sent to an apothecary, who lived in the place, my arm was 
 dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief. We were 
 waited upon at dinner by the gaoler himself, who was willing to 
 do our guest all the honour in his power. But before we had well 
 dined, another message was brought from his nephew, desiring 
 permission to appear, in order to vindicate his innocence and 
 honour ; with which request the baronet complied, and desired 
 Mr Thornhill to be introduced. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 FOR1LER BENEVOLENCE NOV REPAID WITH UNEXTECTED INTEREST. 
 
 Mr Thornhill made his entrance with a smile, which he sel- 
 dom wanted, and was going to embrace his uncle, which the 
 other repulsed with an air of disdain. ■ No fawning, sir, at pre- 
 sent,' cried the baronet, with a look of severity ; ■ the only way to 
 my heart is by the road of honour ; but here I only see compli- 
 cated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppression. How is 
 it, sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you professed a 
 friendship, is used thus hardly ? His daughter vilely seduced as 
 a recompense for his hospitality, and he himself thrown into pri- 
 son, perhaps but for resenting the insult — his son, too, whom you 
 
 feared to face as a man ' 
 
 1 Is it possible, sir,' interrupted his nephew, ■ that my uncle 
 should object that as a crime which his repeated instruction? 
 alone have persuaded me to avoid ?' 
 
 * Your rebuke,' cried Sir William, ' is just ; you have acted in 
 this instance prudently and well, though not quite as your father 
 would have done : my brother, indeed, was the soul of honour, 
 
 but thou yes, you have acted in this instance perfectly right, 
 
 and it has my warmest approbation.' 
 
 ' And I hope,' said his nephew, ' that the rest of my conduct 
 will not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, with this 
 gentleman's daughter at some places of public amusement; thus, 
 what was levity, scandal called by a harsher name, and it was 
 reported that I had debauched her. I waited on her father in 
 person, willing to clear the thing to his satisfaction, and he received 
 me only with insult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to 
 his being here, my attorney and steward can best inform you, as 
 
 I commit the management of business entirely to them. If he 
 has contracted debts, and is unwilling, or even unable, to pay 
 them, it is their business to proceed in this manner ; and I see 
 no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal means of re- 
 dress.' 
 
 * If this,' cried Sir "William, ■ be as you have stated it, there is 
 nothing unpardonable in your offences ; and though your conduct 
 might have been more generous in not suffering this gentleman 
 to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least 
 equitable.' 
 
 ■ He cannot contradict a single particular,' replied the squire *, 
 
 I I defy him to do so, and several of my servants are ready to 
 attest what I say. Thus, sir,' continued he, finding that I was 
 
318 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 silent, for in fact I could not contradict him : thus sir, my own 
 innocence is vindicated : but though at your entreaty I am ready 
 to forgive this gentleman every other offence, yet his attempts to 
 lessen me in your esteem, excite a resentment that I cannot 
 govern ; and this, too, at a time when his son was actually pre- 
 paring to take away my life. This, I say, was such guilt, that I 
 am determined to let the law take its course. I have here the 
 challenge that was s^nt me, and two witnesses to prove it ; one of 
 my servants has been wounded dangerously ; and even though 
 my uncle himself should dissuade me, which I know he will not, 
 yet I will see public justice done, and he shall suffer for it.' 
 
 ' Thou monster !' cried my wife, ' hast thou not had vengeance 
 enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty ? I hope 
 that good Sir "William will protect us, for my son is as innocent 
 as a child ; I am sure he is, and never did harm to man.' 
 
 'Madan/ replied the good man, 'your wishes for his safety 
 are not greater than mine : but I am sorry to find his guilt too 
 
 plain : and if my nephew persists ■ But the appearance of 
 
 Jenkinson and the gaoler's two servants now called off our attention, 
 who entered hauling in a tall man, very genteelly dressed, and 
 answering the description already given of the ruffian who had 
 carried off my daughter. ' Here,' cried Jenkinson, pulling him 
 in, ' here we have him : and, if ever there was a candidate for 
 Tyburn, this is one.' 
 
 The moment Mr Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and Jenkin- 
 son who had him in custody, he seemed to shrink backward with 
 terror. His face became pale with conscious guilt, and he would 
 have withdrawn ; but Jenkinson, who perceived his design, stopped 
 him. ■ What, squire,' cried he, ' are you ashamed of your two 
 old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter? But this is the way 
 that all great men forget their friends, though I am resolved we 
 will not forget you. Our prisoner, please your honour,' continued 
 he, turning to Sir "William, ■ has already confessed all. This is 
 the gentleman reported to be so dangerously wounded ; he declares 
 that it was Mr Thornhill who first put him upon this affair ; that 
 he gave him the clothes he now wears to appear like a gentleman, 
 and furnished him with the post-chaise. The plan was laid be- 
 tween them, that he should carry off the young lady to a place of 
 safety, and that there he should threaten and terrify her ; but 
 Mr Thornhill was to come in in the mean time, as if by accident, 
 to her rescue, and that they should fight awhile, and then he was 
 to run off, by which Mr Thornhill would have the better oppor- 
 tunity of gaining her affections himself under the character of her 
 defender.' 
 
 Sir William remembered the coat to have been frequently worn 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 319 
 
 by his nephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself confirmed by 
 a more circumstantial account ; concluding, that Mr Thornhill 
 had often declared to him that he was in love with both sisters at 
 the same time. 
 
 ' Heavens !' cried Sir William, ' what a viper have I been fos- 
 tering in my bosom ! And so fond of public justice, too, as he 
 seemed to be ! But he shall have it — secure him Mr Gaoler — yet 
 hold, I fear there is no legal evidence to detain him.' 
 
 Upon this, Mr Thornhill, with the utmost humility, entreated 
 that two such abandoned wretches might not be admitted as 
 evidences against him ; but that his servants should be examined. 
 1 Your servants,' replied Sir William ; ' wretch ! call them yours 
 no longer : but come, let us hear what those fellows have to say : 
 let his butler be called.' 
 
 "When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his for- 
 mer master's looks that all his power was now over. ' Tell me,' 
 cried Sir William sternly, ' have you ever seen your master and 
 that fellow dressed up in his clothes in company together V — 
 1 Yes, please your honour,' cried the butler, * a thousand times : 
 he was the man that always brought him his ladies.' — ■ How V 
 interrupted young Mr Thornhill, ' this to my face V— * Yes,' re- 
 plied the butler ; ' or to any man's face. To tell you a truth, 
 Master Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked you, and I 
 don't care if I tell you now a piece of my mind.' — ■ Xow then,' cried 
 Jenkinson, * tell his honour whether you know anything of me.' 
 — ' I can't say,' replied the butler, ' that I know much good of 
 you. The night that gentleman's daughter was deluded to our 
 house, you were one of them.'' — c So then,' cried Sir "William, ■ I 
 find you -have brought a very fine witness to prove your inno- 
 cence, thou stain to humanity ! to associate with such wretches ! 
 But,' continuing his examination, ' you tell me, Mr Butler, that 
 this was' the person who brought him this old gentleman's 
 daughter.'— ■ No, please your honour,' replied the butler, ' he did 
 not bring her, for the squire himself undertook that business : 
 but he brought the priest that pretended to marry them.' 
 
 1 It is but too true/ cried Jenkinson, ■ I cannot deny it ; that 
 was the employment assigned to me ; and I confess it to my 
 confusion.' 
 
 * Good Heavens V exclaimed the worthy baronet, ' how every 
 new discovery of his villany alarms me ! All his guilt is now too 
 plain, and I find his present prosecution was dictated by tyranny, 
 cowardice, and revenge : at my request, Mr Gaoler, set this 
 young officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to me for the 
 consequences. I'll make it my business to set the affair in a 
 proper light to my friend the magistrate who has committed 
 
320 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORkS. 
 
 him. But where is the unfortunate young lady herself? let her 
 appear to confront this wretch ; I long to know by what arts h6 
 has seduced her. Entreat her to come in. Where is she?' 
 ' Ah ! sir/ said I, ' that question stings me to the heart ; I was 
 
 once indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries ' Another 
 
 interruption here prevented me ; for who should make her ap- 
 pearance but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was the next day to 
 have been married to Mr Thornhill. Nothing could equal her 
 surprise at seeing Sir William and his nephew here before her ; 
 for her arrival was quite accidental. It happened that she and 
 the old gentleman, her father, were passing through the town on 
 their way to her aunt's, who had insisted that her nuptials with 
 Mr Thornhill should be consummated at her house : but, stopping 
 for refreshment, they put up at an inn at the other end of the 
 town. It was there, from the window, that the young lady hap- 
 pened to observe one of my little boys playing in the street, and, 
 instantly sending a footman to bring the child to her, she learnt 
 from him some account of our misfortunes, but was still kept 
 ignorant of young Mr Thornhill's being the cause. Though her 
 father made several remonstrances on the impropriety of her 
 going to a prison to visit us, yet they were ineffectual ; she de- 
 sired the child to conduct her, which he did : and it was thus she 
 surprised us at a juncture so unexpected. 
 
 Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental 
 meetings, which, though they happen every day, seldom excite 
 our surprise but upon some extraordinary occasion. To what a 
 fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every pleasure and con- 
 venience of our live3 ! How many seeming accidents must unite 
 before we can be clothed or fed ! The peasant must be disposed 
 to labour, the shower must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, 
 or numbers must want the usual supply. 
 
 We all continued silent for some moments, while my charming 
 pupil, which was the name I generally gave this young lady, 
 united in her looks compassion and astonishment, which gave new 
 finishing to her beauty. ■ Indeed, my dear Mr ThornhilV cried 
 she to the squire, who she supposed was come here to succour and 
 not to oppress us, * I take it a little unkindly that you should 
 come here without me, or never inform me of the situation of a 
 family so dear to us both ; you know I should take as much plea- 
 sure in contributing to the relief of my reverend old master 
 here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I find that, like 
 your uncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret.' 
 
 * He find pleasure in doing good V cried Sir William, interrupt- 
 ing her : * no, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. You 
 see in him, madam, as complete a villain as ever disgraced 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 821 
 
 humanity. A wretch, who, after having deluded this poor man's 
 daughter, after plotting against the inuocence of her sister, has 
 thrown the father into prison, and the eldest son into fetters, be- 
 cause he had the courage to face her betrayer ! And give me 
 leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an escape from such 
 a monster/ 
 
 * goodness/ cried the lovely girl, ■ how have I been deceived ! 
 Mr Thornhill informed me, for certain, that this gentleman's 
 eldest son, Captain Primrose, was gone off to America with his 
 new-married lady.' 
 
 ' My sweetest miss,' cried my wife, ' he has told you nothing 
 but falsehoods. My son George never left the kingdom, nor ever 
 was married. Though you have forsaken him, he has always 
 Loved you too well to think of any body else : and I have heard him 
 say he would die a bachelor for your sake.' She then proceeded 
 to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son's passion ; she set his 
 duel with Mr Thornhill in a proper light, from thence she made 
 a rapid digression to the squire's debaucheries, his pretended 
 marriages, and ended with a most insulting picture of his cowar- 
 dice. 
 
 ' Good Heaven V cried Miss Wilmot, ' how very near have I 
 been to the brink of ruin ! but how great is my pleasure to have 
 escaped it ! Ten thousand falsehoods has this gentleman told 
 me ! He had at last art enough to persuade me that my promise 
 to the only man I esteemed was no longer binding, since he had 
 been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was taught to detest one 
 equally brave and generous.' 
 
 But by this time my son was freed from the incumbrances of 
 justice, as the person supposed to be wounded was detected to be 
 an impostor. Mr Jenkinson, also, who had acted as his valet-de- 
 ehambre, had dressed up his hair, and furnished him with what- 
 ever was necessary to make a genteel appearance. He now, 
 therefore, entered, handsomely dressed in his regimentals, and 
 without vanity (for I am above it) he appeared as handsome a 
 fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he entered, he made 
 Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet 
 acquainted with the change which the eloquence of his mother 
 had wrought in his favour. But no decorums could restrain the 
 impatience of his blushing mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, 
 her looks, all contributed to discover the real sensations of her 
 heart, for having forgotten her former promise, and having suf- 
 fered herself to be deluded by an impostor. My son appeared 
 amazed at her condescension, and could scarcely believe it real. 
 * Sure, madam,' cried he, ' this is but delusion ; I can never have 
 merited this ! To be blessed thus, is to be too happy !' — ' No, sir/ 
 
822 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 replied she, ' I have been deceived, basely deceived, else nothing 
 could have ever made me unjust to my promise. You know my 
 friendship, you have long known it : but forget what I have done ; 
 and, as you once had my warmest vows of constancy, you shall 
 now have them repeated ; and be assured, that if your Arabella 
 cannot be yours, she shall never be another's/ — * And no other's 
 you shall be/ cried Sir William, ' if I have any influence with your 
 father/ 
 
 This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately flew 
 to the inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of every 
 circumstance that had happened. But in the mean time the 
 squire, perceiving that he was on every side undone, now finding 
 that no hopes were left from flattery or dissimulation, concluded 
 that his wisest way would be to turn and face his pursuers. Thus 
 laying aside all shame, he appeared the open hardy villain. ' I 
 find then,' cried he, ' that I am to expect no justice here ; but I 
 am resolved it shall be done me. You shall know, sir/ turning 
 to Sir William, ' I am no longer a poor dependant upon your 
 favours. I scorn them. Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune 
 from me, which, I thank her father's assiduity, is pretty large. 
 The articles and a bond for her fortune are signed, and safe in 
 my possession. It was her fortune, not her person, that induced 
 me to wish for this match ; and, possessed of the one, let who will 
 take the other/ 
 
 This was an alarming blow : Sir William was sensible of the 
 justice of his claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up 
 the marriage-articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, perceiv- 
 ing that her fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to my son, 
 asked if the loss of fortune could lessen her value to him. 
 * Though fortune/ said she, ' is out of my power, at least I have 
 my hand to give/ 
 
 ' And that, madam/ cried her real lover, ' was indeed all that 
 you ever had to give ; at least, all that I ever thought worth the 
 acceptance. And I now protest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, 
 your want of fortune this moment increases my pleasure, as it 
 serves to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity/ 
 
 Mr Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at the 
 danger his daughter had just escaped, and readily consented to a 
 dissolution of the match. But finding that her fortune, which 
 was secured to Mr Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, 
 nothing could exceed his disappointment. He now saw that his 
 money must all go to enrich one who had no fortune of his own. 
 He could bear his being a rascal, but to want an equivalent to his 
 daughter's fortune, was wormwood. He sat, therefore, for some 
 minutes employed in the most mortifying speculations, till Sir 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 323 
 
 William attempted to lessen his anxiety. ' I must confess, sir/ 
 he cried, ' that your present disappointment does not entirely 
 displease me. Your immoderate passion for wealth is now justly 
 punished. But though the young lady cannot be rich, she has 
 still a competence sufficient to give content. Here you see an 
 honest young soldier, who is willing to take her without fortune ; 
 they have long loved each other, and for the friendship I bear his 
 father my interest shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave, 
 then, that ambition which disappoints you, and for once admit that 
 happiness which courts your acceptance.' 
 
 ' Sir William,' replied the old gentleman, f be assured I never 
 yet forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues 
 to love this young gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. 
 There is still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your promise 
 will make it something more. Only let my old friend here' 
 (meaning me) ' give me a promise of settling six thousand pounds 
 upon my girl, if ever he should come to his fortune, and I am 
 ready this night to be the first to join them together.' 
 
 As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, 
 I readily gave a promise of making the settlement he required ; 
 which, to one who had such little expectations as I, was no great 
 favour. We had now therefore the satisfaction of seeing them fly 
 into each other's arms in a transport. ' After all my misfortunes,' 
 cried my son George, ' to be thus rewarded ! Sure this is more 
 than I could ever have presumed to hope for. To be possessed of 
 all that's good, and after such an interval of pain ! my warmest 
 wishes could never rise so high V — ' Yes, my George/ returned his 
 lovely bride, ' now let the wretch take my fortune : since you are 
 happy without it, so am I. what an exchange have I made 
 from the basest of men to the dearest, best ! Let him enjoy our 
 fortune ; I now can be happy even in indigence/ — * And I pro- 
 mise you/ cried the squire, with a malicious grin, ' that I shall 
 be very happy with what you despise.' — c Hold, hold, sir/ cried 
 Jenkinson ; ' there are two words to that bargain. As for that 
 lady's fortune, sir, you shall never touch a single stiver of it. 
 Pray, your honour/ continued he to Sir William, ' can the squire 
 have this lady's fortune if he be married to another ?' — ' How can 
 you make such a simple demand?' replied the baronet: *un-. 
 doubtedly he cannot.' — ' I am sorry for that/ cried Jenkinson : 
 ' for as this gentleman and I have been old fellow sporters, I have 
 a friendship for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, 
 that his contract is not worth a tobacco-stopper, for he is married 
 already.' — ' You lie like a rascal/ returned the squire, who seemed 
 roused by this insult ; ' I never was legally married to any wo- 
 man.' — * Indeed, begging your honour's pardon/ replied the other, 
 
324 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 * you were ; and I hope you will show a proper return of friend- 
 ship to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife ; and 
 if the company restrain their curiosity a few minutes they shall 
 see her/ So saying, he went off with his usual celerity, and left 
 us all unable to form any probable conjecture as to his design. 
 ' Ay, let him go,' cried the squire, * whatever else I may have 
 done, I defy him there. I am too old now to be frightened with 
 squibs.' 
 
 ' I am surprised/ said the baronet, c what the fellow can intend 
 by this. Some low piece of humour, I suppose/ 
 
 ' Perhaps, sir/ replied I, * he may have a more serious meaning. 
 For when we reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has 
 laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one more artful than the 
 rest, has been found able to deceive him. When we consider what 
 numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with anguish 
 the infamy and the contamination which he has brought into their 
 families, it would not surprise me if some one of them — Amaze- 
 ment ! Do I see my lost daughter ! Do I hold her ! It is, it is 
 my life, my happiness ! I thought thee lost, my Olivia ; yet still 
 I hold thee, and still thou shalt live to bless me/ The warmest 
 transports of the fondest lover were not greater than mine, when 
 I saw him introduce my child, and held my daughter in my arms, 
 whose silence only spoke her raptures. * And art thou returned 
 to me, my darling/ cried I, ' to be my comfort in age !' — ' That 
 she is/ cried Jenkinson, ■ and make much of her, for she is your 
 own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole 
 room, let the other be who she will. And as for you, squire, as 
 sure as you stand there, this young lady is your lawful wedded 
 wife : and to convince you that I speak nothing but the truth, 
 here is the license by which you were married together/ So say- 
 ing, he put the license into the baronet's hands, who read it, and 
 found it perfect in every respect. * And now, gentlemen/ con- 
 tinued he, * I find you are surprised at all this ; but a very few 
 words will explain the difficulty. That there squire of renown, 
 for whom I have a great friendship, but that's between ourselves, 
 has often employed me in doing odd little things for him. Among 
 the rest he commissioned me to procure him a false license, and a 
 false priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was 
 very much his friend, what did I do, but went and got a true li- 
 cense and a true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth 
 could make them. Perhaps you'll think it was generosity made 
 me do all this. But no. To my shame I confess it, my only de- 
 sign was to keep the license, and let the squire know that I could 
 prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, and so make him 
 nome down whenever I wanted money/ A burst of pleasure wow 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 825 
 
 seemed to fill the whole apartment ; our joy even reached the com- 
 mon room, where the prisoners themselves sympathised, 
 
 And shook their chains 
 In transport and rude harmony. 
 
 Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's 
 cheeks seemed flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to re- 
 putation, to friends and fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient 
 to stop the progress of decay, and restore former health and vi- 
 vacity. But, perhaps, among all, there was not one who felt sin- 
 3erer pleasure than I. Still holding the dear-loved child in my 
 arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not delusion. 
 ' How could you/ cried I, turning to Jenkinson, ' how could you 
 add to my miseries by the story of her death ? But it matters 
 not : my pleasure at finding her again is more than a recompense 
 for the pain/ 
 
 ' As to your question/ replied Jenkinson, ' that is easily an- 
 swered. I thought the only probable means of freeing you from 
 prison, was by submitting to the squire, and consenting to his 
 marriage with the other young lady. But these you had vowed 
 never to grant while your daughter was living ; there was, there- 
 fore, no other method to bring things to bear, but by persuading 
 you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in the 
 deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of undeceiving you 
 till now/ 
 
 In the whole assembly there now appeared only two faces that 
 did not glow with transport. Mr ThornhilFs assurance had en- 
 tirely forsaken him ; he now saw the gulf of infamy and want be- 
 fore him, and trembled to take the plunge. He therefore fell on 
 his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing misery im- 
 plored compassion. Sir William was going to spurn him away, 
 but at my request he raised him, and after pausing a few mo- 
 ments, ■ Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude/ cried he, ' deserve 
 no tenderness ; yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken ; a bare 
 competence shall be supplied to support the wants of life, but not 
 its follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession 
 of a third part of that fortune which once was thine ; and from her 
 tenderness alone thou art to expect any extraordinary supplies for 
 the future/ He was going to express his gratitude for such kind- 
 ness in a set speech ; but the baronet prevented him, by bidding 
 him not aggravate his meanness, which was already but too ap- 
 parent. He ordered him at the same time to be gone, and from 
 all his former domestics to choose one, and such as he should 
 think proper, which was all that should be granted to attend him. 
 
 As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stepped up to 
 
326 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 his new niece with a smile and wished her joy. His example w&a 
 followed by Miss Wilmot and her father ; my wife too kissed her 
 daughter with much affection, as, to use her own expression, she 
 was now made an honest woman of. Sophia and Moses followed 
 in turn, and even our benefactor Jenkinson desired to be admitted 
 to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed scarcely capable of in- 
 crease. Sir William, whose greatest pleasure was in doing good, 
 now looked round with a countenance open as the sun, and saw 
 nothing but joy in the looks of all except that of my daughter 
 Sophia, who, for some reasons we could not comprehend, did not 
 seem perfectly satisfied. ' I think now,' cried he with a smile, 
 ' that all the company, except one or two, seem perfectly happy. 
 There only remains an act of justice for me to do. You are sen- 
 sible, sir/ continued he, turning to me, ' of the obligations we 
 both owe to Mr Jenkinson ; and it is but just we should both re- 
 ward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am sure, make him very 
 happy, and he shall have five hundred pounds as her fortune ; 
 and upon this, I am sure they can live very comfortably together. 
 Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my making ? 
 will you have him ?' My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her 
 mother's arms at the hideous proposal. * Have him, sir !' cried 
 she faintly ; ' no, sir, never !' ' What !' cried he again, ' not Mr 
 Jenkinson, your benefactor ; a handsome young fellow, with five 
 hundred pounds, and good expectations V ' I beg, sir,' returned 
 she, scarcely able to speak, ' that you'll desist, and not make me 
 so very wretched.' — ' Was ever such obstinacy known V cried he 
 again, ' to refuse the man whom the family has such infinite 
 obligations to, who has preserved your sister, and who has five 
 hundred pounds ? What ! not have him !' — ' No, sir, never,' re- 
 plied she, angrily ; ' I ? d sooner die first !' — ' If that be the case, 
 then,' cried he, * if you will not have him — I think I must have 
 you myself.' And so saying, he caught her to his breast with 
 ardour. ' My loveliest, my most sensible of girls,' cried he, ' how 
 could you ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, or that 
 Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to admire a mistress that 
 loved him for himself alone ? I have for some years sought for 
 a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, could think I had merit 
 as a man. After having tried in vain, even among the pert and 
 ugly, how great at last must be my rapture, to haTe made a con- 
 quest over such sense and such heavenly beauty !' Then turning 
 to Jenkinson, ' As I cannot, sir, part with this young lady myself, 
 for she hath taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the recom- 
 pense I can make is, to give you her fortune, and you may call 
 upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred pounds.' Thus we 
 had all our compliments to repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 the same round of ceremony that her sister had done before. In 
 the mean time Sir William's gentleman appeared to tell us that 
 the equipages were ready to carry us to the inn, where everything 
 was prepared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and 
 left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous baronet 
 ordered forty pounds to be distributed among the prisoners, and 
 Mr Wilmot, induced by his example, gave half that sum. We 
 were received below by the shouts of the villagers, and I saw and 
 shook by the hand two or three of my honest parishioners, who were 
 among the number. They attended us to our inn, where a sump- 
 tuous entertainment was provided, and coarser provisions were 
 distributed in great quantities among the populace. 
 
 After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alternation 
 of pleasure and pain which they had sustained during the day, I 
 asked permission to withdraw : and leaving the company in the 
 midst of their mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured 
 out my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy as well as sorrow, 
 and then slept undisturbed till morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 The next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found my eldest son 
 sitting by my bed-side, who came to increase my joy with 
 another turn of fortune in my favour. First having released me 
 from the settlement that I had made the day before in his 
 favour, he let me know that my merchant, who had failed in 
 town, was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to 
 a much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My 
 boy's generosity pleased me almost as much as this unlooked-for 
 good fortune. But I had some doubts whether I ought in justice 
 to accept his offer. While I was pondering upon this, Sir 
 William entered the room, to whom I communicated my doubts. 
 His opinion was, that as my son was already possessed of a very 
 affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his offer without 
 hesitation. His business, however, was to inform me, that as he 
 had the night before sent for the licenses, and expected them every 
 hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in making 
 all the company happy that morning. A footman entered while 
 we were speaking, to tell us that the messenger was returned ; 
 and as I was by this time ready, I went down, where I found the 
 whole company as merry as affluence and innocence could make 
 
328 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 them. However, as they were now preparing for a very solemn 
 ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I told them of 
 the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment they should assume 
 upon this mystical occasion, and read them two homilies and a 
 thesis of my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they 
 still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we 
 were going along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity 
 had quite forsaken them, and 1 was often tempted to turn back 
 in indignation. In church a new dilemma arose, which promised 
 no easy solution. This was, which couple should be married 
 first ; my son's bride warmly insisted that Lady Thornhill (that 
 was to be) should take the lead ; but this the other refused with 
 equal ardour, protesting she would not be guilty of such rudeness 
 for the world. The argument was supported for some time be- 
 tween both with equal obstinacy and good breeding. But as I 
 stood all this time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired 
 of the contest, and shutting it, ' I perceive/ cried I, ' that none of 
 you have a mind to be married, and I think we had as good go 
 back again • for I suppose there will be no business done here to- 
 day.' This at once reduced them to reason. The baronet and 
 his lady were first married, and then my son and his lovely 
 partner. 
 
 I had previously that morning given orders that a coach 
 should be sent for my honest neighbour Flamborough and his 
 family, by which means, upon our return to the inn, we had the 
 pleasure of finding the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted before 
 us. Mr Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and my son Moses 
 led up the other ; and I have since found that he has taken a 
 real liking to the girl, and my consent and bounty he shall have, 
 whenever he thinks proper to demand them. We were no sooner 
 returned to the inn, but numbers of my parishioners, hearing of 
 my success, came to congratulate me ; but among the rest were 
 those who rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with 
 such sharpness. I told the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, 
 who went out and reproved them with great severity ; but, find- 
 ing them quite disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them 
 half-a-guinea a-piece to drink his health, and raise their dejected 
 spirits. 
 
 Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, 
 which was dressed by Mr Thomhill's cook. And it may not be 
 improper to observe, with respect to that gentleman, that he now 
 resides in quality of companion at a relation's house, being very 
 well liked, and seldom sitting at the side-table, except when there 
 is no room at the other, for they make no stranger of him. His 
 time is pretty much taken up in keeping his relation, who is a 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 829 
 
 little melancholy, in spirits, and in learning to blow the French 
 horn. My eldest daughter, however, still remembers him with 
 regret ; and she has even told me, though I make a great secret 
 of itj that when he reforms she may be brought to relent. But 
 to return, for I am not apt to digress thus, when we were to sit 
 down to dinner our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The 
 question was, whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, 
 should not sit above the two young brides ; but the debate was 
 cut short by my son George, who proposed that the company 
 should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman by his lady. This 
 was received with great approbation by all, excepting my wife, who 
 I could perceive was not perfectly satisfied, as she expected to 
 have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table, and 
 carving all the meat for all the company. But notwithstanding 
 this, it is impossible to describe our good-humour. I can't say 
 whether we had more wit among us now than usual, but I am 
 certain we had more laughing, which answered the end as well. 
 One jest I particularly remember : old Mr Wilmot drinking to 
 Moses, whose head was turned another way, my son replied, 
 Madam, I thank you/ Upon which the old gentleman, wink- 
 ing upon the rest of the company, observed that he was thinking 
 of his mistress. At which jest I thought the two Miss Flam- 
 boroughs would have died with laughing. As soon as dinner 
 was over, according to my old custom, I requested that the table 
 might be taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my 
 family assembled once more by a cheerful fireside. My two little 
 ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the company by their part- 
 ners; I had nothing now on this side of the grave to wish for — 
 all my cares were over, my pleasure was unspeakable. It now 
 only remained that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed 
 my former submission in adversity. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
 
 THE PREFACE. 
 
 The following Essays have already appeared at different times> 
 and in different publications. The pamphlets in which they were 
 inserted being generally unsuccessful, these shared the common 
 fate, without assisting the bookseller's aims, or extending the 
 writer's reputation. The public were too strenuously employed 
 with their own follies to be assiduous in estimating mine, so that 
 many of my best attempts in this way have fallen victims to the 
 transient topic of the times — the Ghost in Cock Lane, or the Siege 
 of Ticonderago. 
 
 But though they have passed pretty silently into the world, I 
 can by no means complain of their circulation. The magazines 
 and papers of the day have indeed been liberal enough in this 
 respect. Most of these Essays have been regularly reprinted 
 twice or thrice a-year, and conveyed to the public through the 
 kennel of some engaging compilation. If there be a pride in 
 multiplied editions, I have seen some of my labours sixteen times 
 reprinted, and claimed by different parents as their own. I have 
 seen them flourished at the beginning with praise, and signed at 
 the end with the names of Philantos, Philalethes, Philaleutheros, 
 and Philanthropos. These gentlemen have kindly stood sponsors 
 to my productions, and, to flatter me more, have always passed 
 them as their own. 
 
 It is time, however, at last, ' to vindicate my claims ; and as 
 these entertainers of the public, as they call themselves, ha^e 
 partly lived upon me for some years, let me now try if I cannot 
 live a little upon myself. I would desire, in this case, to imitate 
 that fat man whom I have somewhere heard of in a shipwreck, 
 who, when the sailors, pressed by famine, were taking slices from 
 his posteriors to satisfy their hunger, insisted, with great justice, 
 on having the first cut for himself- 
 
MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 333 
 
 Yet, after all, I cannot be angry with any who have taken it 
 into their heads to think that whatever I write is worth reprint- 
 ing, particularly when I consider how great a majority will think 
 it scarcely worth reading. Trifling and superficial are terms of 
 reproach that are easily objected, and that carry an air of pene- 
 tration in the observer. These faults have been objected to the 
 following Essays ; and it must be owned, in some measure, that 
 the charge is true. However, I could have made them more 
 metaphysical, had I thought fit , but I would ask, whether, in a 
 short Essay, it is not necessary to be superficial? Before we 
 have prepared to enter into the depths of a subject in the usual 
 forms, we have arrived at the bottom of our scanty page, and 
 thus lose the honours of a victory by too tedious a preparation 
 for the combat. 
 
 There is another fault in this collection of trifles, which, I fear 
 will not be so easily pardoned. It will be alleged, that the 
 humour of them (if any be found) is stale and hackneyed. This 
 may be true enough, as matters now stand ; but I may with great 
 truth assert, that the humour was new when I wrote it. Since 
 that time, indeed, many of the topics, which were first started 
 here, have been hunted down, and many of the thoughts blown 
 upon. In fact, these Essays were considered as quietly laid in 
 the grave of oblivion ; and our modern compilers, like sextons 
 and executioners, think it their undoubted right to pillage the 
 dead. 
 
 However, whatever right I have to complain of the public, 
 they can, as yet, have no just reason to complain of me. If I 
 have written dull Essays, they have hitherto treated them as dull 
 Essays. Thus far we are at least upon par, and until they think 
 fit to make me their humble debtor by praise, I am resolved not 
 to lose a single inch of my self-importance. Instead, therefore, 
 of attempting to establish a credit amongst them, it will perhaps 
 be wiser to apply to some more distant correspondent ; and as my 
 drafts are in some danger of being protested at home, it may not 
 be imprudent, upon this occasion, to draw my bills upon Pos- 
 terity. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
 
 ESSAY I. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF VARIOUS CLUBS. 
 
 I remember to have read in some philosopher (I believe in Tom 
 Brown's works), that, let a man's character, sentiments, or com- 
 plexion, be what they will, he can find company in London tc 
 match them. If he be splenetic, he may every day meet com- 
 panions on the seats in St James's Park, with whose groans he 
 may mix his own, and pathetically talk of the weather. If he be 
 passionate, he may vent his rage among the old orators at 
 
 Slaughter's Coffee-house, and the nation, because it keeps 
 
 him from starving. If he be phlegmatic, he may sit in silence at 
 the Humdrum Club in Ivy Lane ; and if actually mad, he may 
 find very good company in Moorfields, either at Bedlam or the 
 Foundry, ready to cultivate a nearer acquaintance. 
 
 But, although such as have a knowledge of the town may easily 
 class themselves with tempers congenial to their own, a country- 
 man, who comes to live in London, finds nothing more difficult. 
 With regard to myself, none ever tried with more assiduity, or 
 came off with such indifferent success. I spent a whole season in 
 the search, during which time my name has been enrolled in 
 societies, lodges, convocations, and meetings, without number. 
 To some I was introduced by a friend, to others invited by an ad- 
 vertisement : to these I introduced myself, and to those I changed 
 my name to gain admittance. In short, no coquette was ever more 
 solicitous to match her ribands to her complexion, than I to suit 
 my club to my temper ; for I was too obstinate to bring my temper 
 to conform to it. 
 
 The first club I entered, upon coming to town, was that of the 
 Choice Spirits. The name was entirely suited to my taste, — I 
 was a lover of mirth, good-huirour, and even sometimes of fun, 
 from mv childhood. 
 
I J MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 338 
 
 As no other passport wa3 requisite but the payment of two 
 shillings at the door, I introduced myself without further ceremony 
 to the members, who were already assembled, and had for some 
 time begun upon business. The Grand, with a mallet in his hand, 
 presided at the head of the table. I could not avoid, upon my 
 entrance, making use of all my skill in physiognomy, in order to 
 discover that superiority of genius in men who had taken a title 
 so superior to the rest of mankind. I expected to see the lines of 
 every face marked with strong thinking : but though I had some 
 skill in this science, I could for my life discover nothing but a 
 pert simper, fat, or profound stupidity. 
 
 My speculations were soon interrupted by the Grand, who had 
 knocked down Mr Spriggins for a song. I was upon this whispered 
 by one of the company who sat next me, that I should now see 
 something touched off to a nicety, for Mr Spriggins was going to 
 give us Mad Tom in all its glory. Mr Spriggins endeavoured to 
 excuse himself ; for, as he was to act a madman and a king, it 
 was impossible to go through the part properly without a crown 
 and chains. His excuses were overruled by a great majority, 
 and with much vociferation. The president ordered up the jack- 
 chain, and instead of a crown our performer covered his brows 
 with an inverted Jordan. After he had rattled his chain and shook 
 his head, to the great delight of the whole company, he began his 
 song. As I have heard few young fellows offer to sing in company 
 that did not expose themselves, it was no great disappointment to 
 me to find Mr Spriggins among the number : however, not to seem 
 an odd fish, I rose from my seat in rapture, cried out * Bravo ! 
 Encore !' and slapped the table as loud as any of the rest. 
 
 The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly pleased with my 
 taste and the ardour of my approbation ; and whispering told me 
 that I had suffered an immense loss, for had I come a few minutes 
 sooner, I might have heard Gee-ho Dobbin, sung in a tip-top 
 manner by the pimple-nosed spirit at the president's right elbow, 
 but he was evaporated before I came. 
 
 As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappointment, I 
 found the attention of the company employed upon a fat figure, 
 who, with a voice more rough than the Staffordshire giant's, was 
 giving us the ■ Softly sweet in Lydian measure' of Alexander's 
 Feast After a short pause of admiration, to this succeeded a 
 Welsh dialogue, with the humours of Teague and Taffy ; after 
 that came on ' Old Jackson,' with a story between every stanza : 
 next was sung the * Dust Cart,' and then ' Solomon's Song.' 
 The glass began now to circulate pretty freely ; those who were 
 silent when sober, would now be heard in their turn ; every man 
 had his song, and he saw no reason why he should not be heard 
 
GOIDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 as well as any of the rest : one begged to be heard while he gave 
 'Death and the Lady' in high taste; another sang to a plate 
 which he kept trundling on the edges. Nothing was now heard but 
 singing ; voice rose above voice ; and the whole became one uni- 
 versal shout, when the landlord came to acquaint the company 
 that the reckoning was drunk out. Rabelais calls the moments 
 in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most melancholy of our 
 lives : never was so much noise so quickly quelled, as by this short 
 but pathetic oration of our landlord. * Drunk out !' was echoed 
 in a tone of discontent round the table : ' Drunk out already ! that 
 was very odd ! that so much punch could be drunk out already — 
 impossible !' The landlord, however, seeming resolved not to re- 
 treat from his first assurances, the company was dissolved, and a 
 president chosen for the night ensuing. 
 
 A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some time after 
 of the entertainment I have been describing, proposed to bring 
 me to the club that he frequented, which he fancied would suit 
 the gravity of my temper exactly. ' We have at the Muzzy Club/ 
 says he, ' no riotous mirth nor awkward ribaldry ; no confusion 
 or bawling : all is conducted with wisdom and decency : besides, 
 some of our members are worth forty thousand pounds — men of 
 prudence and foresight every one of them ; these are the proper 
 acquaintance, and to such I will to-night introduce you.' I was 
 charmed at the proposal : to be acquainted with men worth forty 
 thousand pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, were 
 offers that threw me into raptures. 
 
 At seven o'clock I was accordingly introduced by my friend, 
 not indeed to the company — for though I made my best bow, they 
 seemed insensible of my approach — but to the table at which they 
 were sitting. Upon my entering the room, I could not avoid 
 feeling a secret veneration, from the solemnity of the scene before 
 me ; the members kept a profound silence, each with a pipe in his 
 mouth and a pewter pot in his hand, and with faces that might 
 easily be construed into absolute wisdom. Happy society, thought 
 I to myself, where the members think before they speak, deliver 
 nothing rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other pregnant 
 with meaning, and matured by reflection ! 
 
 In this pleasing speculation I continued a full half-hour, expect- 
 ing each moment that somebody would begin to open his mouth : 
 every time the pipe was laid down, I expected it was to speak ; but 
 it was only to spit. At length, resolving to break the charm my- 
 self, and overcome their extreme diffidence — for to this I imputed 
 their silence — I rubbed my hands, and, looking as wise as possible, 
 observed that the nights began to grow a little coolish at this time 
 of the year. This, as it was directed to none of the company in par- 
 
I. J MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 885 
 
 ticular, none thought himself obliged to answer ; wherefore I con- 
 tinued still to rub my hands and look wise. My next effort was ad- 
 dressed to a gentleman who sat next me ; to whom I observed, that 
 the beer was extremely good : my neighbour made no reply, but 
 by a large puff of tobacco-smoke. 
 
 I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society, till one of them 
 a little relieved me, by observing, that bread had not risen these 
 three weeks. * Ay,' says another, still keeping the pipe in his 
 mouth, ' that puts me in mind of a pleasant story about that — 
 hem — very well ; you must know — but before I begin — sir, my 
 service to you — where was I ?' 
 
 My next club goes by the name of the Harmonical Society ; 
 probably from that love of order and friendship which every per- 
 son commends in institutions of this nature. The landlord was 
 himself the founder. The money spent is fourpence each ; and 
 they sometimes whip for a double reckoning. To this club few 
 recommendations are requisite, except the introductory fourpence, 
 and my landlord's good word, which, as he gains by it, he never 
 refuses. 
 
 We all here talked and behaved as everybody else usually does 
 on his club night : we discussed the topic of the day, drank each 
 other's healths ; snuffed the candles with our fingers ; and filled 
 our pipes from the same plate of tobacco. The company saluted 
 each other in the common manner. Mr Bellows-mender hoped 
 Mr Currycomb-maker had not caught cold going home the last 
 club-night ; and he returned the compliment by hoping that young 
 Master Bellows-mender had got well again of the chincough. Dr 
 Twist told us a story of a parliament-man, with whom he was in- 
 timately acquainted ; while the bug-man, at the same time, was 
 telling a better story of a noble lord with whom he could do any- 
 thing. A gentleman in a black wig and leather breeches, at the 
 other end of the table, was engaged in a long narrative of the 
 Ghost in Cock Lane : he had read it in the papers of the day, and 
 was telling it to some that sat next him, who could not read. 
 Near him, Mr Dibbins was disputing on the old subject of reli- 
 gion with a Jew pedlar, over the table ; while the president vainly 
 knocked down Mr Leathersides for a song. Besides the combina- 
 tions of these voices, which I could hear altogether, and which 
 formed an upper part to the concert, there were several others 
 playing underparts by themselves, and endeavouring to fasten on 
 some luckless neighbour's ear, who was himself bent upon the 
 same design against some rther. 
 
 We have often heard of the speech of a corporation, and this 
 induced me to transcribe a speech of this club, taken in short- 
 hand, word for word, as it was spoken by every member of the 
 
3U 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 company. It may be necessary to observe, that the man who told 
 »f the ghost had the loudest voice, and the longest story to tell, so 
 that his continuing narrative filled every chasm in the conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 ' So, sir, d'ye perceive me, the ghost giving three loud raps at 
 the bed-post — Says my lord to me, my dear Smokeum, you know 
 there is no man upon the face of the yearth for whom I have so 
 
 high — A false heretical opinion of all sound doctrine and 
 
 good learning ; for I'll tell it aloud, and spare not, that — Silence 
 for a song ; Mr Leathersides for a song — * As I was a walking 
 upon the highway, I met a young damsel ' — Then what brings 
 you here ? says the parson to the ghost — Sanconiathon, Manetho, 
 and Berosus — The whole way from Islington-turnpike to Dog- 
 house bar — Dam — As for Abel Drugger, sir, he's — low in it : 
 my 'prentice boy has more of the gentleman than he — For mur- 
 der will out one time or another ; and none but a ghost, you know, 
 
 gentlemen, can if I don't ; for my friend, whom you 
 
 know, gentlemen, and who is a parliament-man, a man of conse- 
 quence, a dear honest creature, to be sure ; we were laughing last 
 
 night at — Death and upon all his posterity, by simply 
 
 barely tasting — Sour grapes, as the fox said once when he could 
 not reach them : and I'll, I'll tell you a story about that, that will 
 make you burst your sides with laughing : a fox once — Will no- 
 body listen to the song — ' As I was a walking upon the highway, 
 I met a young damsel both buxom and gay,' — No ghost, gentle- 
 men, can be murdered ; nor did I ever hear of but one ghost killed 
 in all my life, and that was stabbed in the belly with a — My blood 
 and soul if I don't— Mr Bellows-mender, I have the honour of 
 drinking your very good health — blood — bugs — fire — whiz — blid 
 — tit — rat — trip.' The rest all riot, nonsense, and rapid confu- 
 sion. 
 
 Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I could here find 
 ample room for declamation ; but, alas ! I have been a fool my- 
 self , and why should I be angry with them for being something 
 so natural to every child of humanity ? 
 
 Fatigued with this society, I was introduced the following night 
 to a club of fashion. On taking my place, I found the conversa- 
 tion sufficiently easy, and tolerably good-natured : for my Lord 
 and Sir Paul were not yet arrived. I now thought myself com- 
 pletely fitted, and resolving to seek no farther, determined to take 
 up my residence here for the winter ; while my temper began to 
 open insensibly to the cheerfulness I saw diffused on every face in 
 the room : but the delusion soon vanished, when the waiter came 
 to apprise us that his Lordship and Sir Paul were just arrived. 
 
 From this moment all our felicity was at an end ; our new 
 
r.J MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 337 
 
 guests bustled into the room, and took their seats at the head of 
 the table. Adieu, now, all confidence ! every creature strove who 
 should most recommend himself to our members of distinction. 
 Each seemed quite regardless of pleasing any but our new guests ; 
 and what before wore the appearance of friendship, was now turned 
 into rivalry. 
 
 Yet I could not observe that, amidst all this flattery and ob- 
 sequious attention, our great men took any notice of the rest of 
 the company. Their whole discourse was addressed to each other, 
 .^ir Paul told his Lordship a long story of Moravia the Jew ; and 
 his Lordship gave Sir Paul a very long account of his new method 
 of managing silk-worms : he led him. and consequently the rest of 
 the company, through all the stages of feeding, sunning, and 
 hatching ; with an episode on mulberry trees, a digression upon 
 grass seeds, and a long parenthesis about his new postilion. In 
 this manner we travelled on, wishing every story to be the last; 
 but all in vain : 
 
 Hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arose. 
 
 The last club in which I was enrolled a member, was a society 
 of moral philosophers, as they called themselves, who assembled 
 twice a-week, in order to show the absurdity of the present mode 
 of religion, and establish a new one in its stead. 
 
 I found the members very warmly disputing when I arrived, 
 not indeed about religion or ethics, but about who had neglected 
 to lay down his preliminary sixpence upon entering the room. 
 The president swore that he had laid his own down, and so swore 
 all the company. 
 
 During this contest, I had an opportunity of observing the laws, 
 and also the members of the society. The president, who had 
 been, as I was told, lately a bankrupt, was a tall pale figure, with 
 a long black wig ; the next to him was dressed in a large white 
 wig, and a black cravat ; a third, by the brownness of complexion, 
 seemed a native of Jamaica ; and a fourth, by his hue, appeared 
 to be a blacksmith. But their rules will give the most just idea 
 of their learning and principles. 
 
 I. We, being a laudable society of moral philosophers, intends 
 to dispute twice a-week about religion and priestcraft ; leaving 
 behind us old wives' tales, and following good learning and sound 
 sense : and if so be, that any other persons has a mind to be of the 
 society, they shall be entitled so to do, upon paying the sum of 
 three shillings, to be spent by the company in punch. 
 
 II. That no member get drunk before nine of the clock, upon 
 pain of forfeiting threepence, to be spent by the company in punch. 
 
 III. That, as members are sometimes apt to go away without 
 paying, every person shall pay sixpence upon his entering the 
 
323 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 room ; and all disputes shall be settled by a majority ; and all 
 fines snail be paid in punch. 
 
 IV. That sixpence shall be every night given to the president, 
 in order to buy books of learning for the good of the society : the 
 president has already put himself to a good deal of expense in 
 buying books for the club ; particularly, the works of Tully, So- 
 crates, and Cicero, which he will soon read to the society. 
 
 V. All them who brings a new argument against religion, and 
 who being a philosopher, and a man of learning, as the rest of us 
 is, shall be admitted to the freedom of the society, upon paying 
 sixpence only, to be spent in punch. 
 
 VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary meeting, it shall 
 be advertised by some outlandish name in the newspapers. 
 
 Saunders Mac Wild, President. 
 
 Anthony Blewit, Vice-President, his | mark. 
 
 William Turpin, Secretary. 
 
 ESSAY II. 
 
 ASEM, AN EASTERN TALE ; OR A VINDICATION OF THE WISDOM OF PROVI- 
 DENCE IN THE MORAL GOVERNMENT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Where Tauris lifts its head above the storm, and presents no- 
 thing to the sight of the distant traveller but a prospect of nodding 
 rocks, falling torrents, and all the variety of tremendous nature ; 
 on the bleak bosom of this frightful mountain, secluded from 
 society, and detesting the ways of men, lived Asem the Man-hater. 
 
 Asem had spent his youth with men, had shared in their amuse- 
 ments, and had been taught to love his fellow-creatures with the 
 most ardent affections ; but from the tenderness of his disposi- 
 tion, he exhausted all his fortune in relieving the wants of the 
 distressed. The petitioner never sued in vain ; the weary travel- 
 ler never passed his door ; he only desisted from doing good when 
 he had no longer the power of relieving. 
 
 For a fortune thus spent in benevolence, he expected a grateful 
 return from those he had formerly relieved, and made his appli- 
 cation with confidence of redresg ; the ungrateful world soon grew 
 weary of his importunity ; for pity is but a short-lived passion. 
 He soon, therefore, began to view mankind in a very different 
 light from that in which he had before beheld them ; he perceived 
 a thousand vices he had never before suspected to exist ; wher- 
 ever he turned, ingratitude, dissimulation, and treachery, contri- 
 
II.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. o39 
 
 buted to increase his detestation of them. Resolved, therefore, to 
 continue no longer in a world which he hated, and which repaid 
 his detestation with contempt, he retired to this region of sterility, 
 in order to brood over his resentment in solitude, and converse 
 with the only honest heart he knew, — namely, with his own. 
 
 A cave was his only shelter from the inclemency of the weather ; 
 fruits, gathered with difficulty from the mountain's side, his only 
 food ; and his drink was fetched, with danger and toil, from the 
 headlong torrent. In this manner he lived, sequestered from so- 
 ciety, passing the hours in meditation, and sometimes exulting 
 that he was able to live independent of his fellow-creatures. 
 
 At the foot of the mountain, an extensive lake displayed its 
 glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad surface the impending hor- 
 rors of the mountain . To this capacious mirror he would some- 
 times descend, and, reclining on its steep banks, cast an eager look 
 on the smooth expanse that lay before him. ■ How beautiful, 
 he often cried, ' is Nature ! how lovely even in her wildest scenes ! 
 How finely contrasted is the level plain that lies beneath me, with 
 yon awful pile that hides its tremendous head in clouds ! But the 
 beauty of these scenes is no way comparable with their utility ; 
 hence a hundred rivers are supplied, which distribute health and 
 verdure to the various countries through which they flow. Every 
 part of the universe is beautiful, just, and wise ; but man, vile 
 man, is a solecism in nature, the only monster in the creation. 
 Tempests and whirlwinds have their use ; but vicious, ungrateful 
 man, is a blot in the fair page of universal beauty. "Why was I 
 born of that detested species, whose vices are almost a reproach 
 to the wisdom of the divine Creator ? Were men entirely free 
 from vice, all would be uniformity, harmony, and order. A world 
 of moral rectitude should be the result of a perfectly moral agent. 
 "Why, why then, O Alia ! must I be thus confined in darkness, 
 doubt, and despair V 
 
 Just as he uttered the word despair, he was going to plunge into 
 the lake beneath him, at once to satisfy his doubts, and put a 
 period to his anxiety, when he perceived a most majestic being 
 walking on the surface of the water, and approaching the bank 
 on which he stood. So unexpected an object at once checked his 
 purpose ; he stopped, contemplated, and fancied he saw something 
 awful and divine in his aspect. 
 
 1 Son of Adam,' cried the Genius, ' stop thy rash purpose ; the 
 Father of the Faithful has seen thy justice, thy integrity, thy 
 miseries, and hath sent me to afford and administer relief. Give 
 me thine hand, and follow without trembling wherever I shall 
 lead : in me behold the Genius of Conviction, kept by the Great 
 Prophet, to turn from their errors those who go astray, not from 
 
340 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PEOSE WORKS. 
 
 curiosity, but a rectitude of intention. Follow rne, and be 
 wise.' 
 
 Asem immediately descended upon the lake, and his guide con- 
 ducted him along the surface of the water, till, coming near the 
 centre of the lake, they both began to sink ; the waters closed over 
 their heads ; they descended several hundred fathoms, till Asem, 
 just ready to give up his life as inevitably lost, found himself, 
 with his celestial guide, in another world, at the bottom of the 
 waters, where human foot had never trod before. His astonish- 
 ment was beyond description, when he saw a sun like that he had 
 left, a serene sky over his head, and blooming verdure under his 
 feet, 
 
 1 1 plainly perceive your amazement,' said the Genius; 'but 
 suspend it for a while. This world was formed by Alia, at the re- 
 quest, and under the inspection, of our great Prophet, who once 
 entertained the same doubts which filled your mind when I found 
 you, and from the cons-equence of which you were so lately rescued. 
 The rational inhabitants of this world are formed agreeably to 
 your own ideas ; they are absolutely without vice. In other re- 
 spects, it resembles your earth, but differs from it in being wholly 
 inhabited by men who never do wrong. If you find this world 
 more agreeable than that you so lately left, you have free permis- 
 sion to spend the remainder of your days in it ; but permit me for 
 some time to attend you, that I may silence your doubts, and make 
 you better acquainted with your company and your new habita- 
 tion.' 
 
 1 A world without vice ! Rational beings without immorality!' 
 cried Asem, in a rapture ; ■ I thank thee, O Alia ! who hast at 
 length heard my petitions : this, this indeed will produce happi- 
 ness, ecstacy, and ease. Oh for an immortality, to spend it among 
 men who are incapable of ingratitude, injustice, fraud, violence, 
 and a thousand other crimes that render society miserable !' 
 
 ' Cease thine exclamations,' replied the Genius. ' Look around 
 thee : reflect on every object and action before us, and communi- 
 cate to me the result of thine observations. Lead wherever you 
 think proper, I shall be your attendant and instructor.' Asem 
 and his companion travelled on in silence for some time, the for- 
 mer being entirely lost in astonishment ; but at last recovering 
 his former serenity, he could not help observing, that the face of 
 the country bore a near resemblance to that he had left, except 
 that this subterranean world still seemed to retain its primeval 
 wildness. 
 
 ' Here,' cried Asem, ' I perceive animals of prey, and others 
 that seem only designed for their subsistence ; it is the very same 
 in the world over our heads. But had I been permitted to instruct 
 
n .] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 341 
 
 our Prophet, I would have removed this defect, and formed no 
 voracious or destructive animals, which only prey on the other 
 parts of the creation.' 
 
 1 Your tenderness for inferior animals is, I find, remarkable/ 
 said the Genius, smiling. ' But, with regard to meaner creatures, 
 this world exactly resembles the other, and indeed for obvious 
 reasons ; for the earth can support a more considerable number 
 of animals, by their thus becoming food for each other, than if 
 they had lived entirely on vegetable productions. So that ani- 
 mals of different natures thus formed, instead of lessening their 
 multitude, subsist in the greatest number possible. But let us 
 hasten on to the inhabited country before us, and see what that 
 offers for instruction.' 
 
 They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, and entered 
 the country inhabited by men without vice ; and Asem anticipated 
 in idea the rational delight he hoped to experience in such an in- 
 nocent society. But they had scarcely left the confines of the wood, 
 when they beheld one of the inhabitants flying with hasty steps, 
 and terror in his countenance, from an army of squirrels, that 
 closely pursued him. ' Heavens !' cried Asem, ' why does he 
 fly ? What can he fear from animals so contemptible V He had 
 scarcely spoken, when he perceived two dogs pursuing another of 
 the human species, who with equal terror and haste attempted to 
 avoid them. 'This,' cried Asem to his guide, ' is truly surpris- 
 ing ; nor can I conceive the reason for so strange an action.' — 
 ' Every species of animals,' replied the Genius, ; has of late 
 grown very powerful in this country ; for the inhabitants, at first, 
 thinking it unjust to use either fraud or force in destroying them, 
 they have insensibly increased, and now frequently ravage their 
 harmless frontiers.' — ' But they should have been destroyed,' 
 cried Asem ; ■ you see the consequence of such neglect.' — * Where 
 is, then, that tenderness you so lately expressed for subordinate 
 animals V replied the Genius, smiling ; ' you seem to have forgot 
 that branch of justice.' — c I must acknowledge my mistake,' re- 
 turned Asem ; ' I am now convinced that we must be guilty of 
 tyranny and injustice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy the 
 world ourselves. But let us no longer observe the duty of man to 
 these irrational creatures, but survey their connexions with one 
 another.' 
 
 As they walked farther up the country, the more he was sur- 
 prised to see no vestiges of handsome houses, no cities, nor any 
 mark of elegant design. His conductor, perceiving his surprise, 
 observed, that the inhabitants of this new world were perfectly 
 content with their ancient simplicity ; each had a house, which, 
 though homely, was sufficient to lodge his little family ; they were 
 
342 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 too good to build houses, which could only increase their own 
 pride, and the envy of the spectator : what they built was for con- 
 venience and not for show. * At least, then,' said Asem, ' they 
 have neither architects, painters, nor statuaries, in their society ; 
 but these are idle arts, and may be spared. However, before I 
 spend much more time here, you should have my thanks for in- 
 troducing me into the society of some of their wisest men : there 
 is scarcely any pleasure to me equal to a refined conversation ; 
 there is nothing of which I am so enamoured as wisdom.' — ' Wis- 
 dom !' replied his instructor ; ' how ridiculous ! We have no wis- 
 dom here, for we have no occasion for it ; true wisdom is only a 
 knowledge of our own duty, and the duty of others to us ; but of 
 what use is such wisdom here? each intuitively performs what is 
 right in himself, and expects the same from others. If by wisdom 
 you should mean vain curiosity, and empty speculation, as such 
 pleasures have their origin in vanity, luxury, or avarice, we are 
 too good to pursue them.' — ■ All this may be right,' says Asem ; 
 1 but methinks I observe a solitary disposition prevail among the 
 people ; each family keeps separately within their own precincts, 
 without society, or without intercourse.' — ' That indeed is true,' 
 replied the other; * here is no established society, nor should 
 there be any ; all societies are made either through fear or friend* 
 ship : the people we are among are too good to fear each other , 
 and there are no motives to private friendship where all are 
 equally meritorious.' — ' Well, then,' said the sceptic, ' as I am to 
 spend my time here, if I am to have neither the polite arts, nor 
 wisdom, nor friendship, in such a world, I should be glad at least 
 of an easy companion, who may tell me his thoughts, and to whom 
 I may communicate mine.' — ' And to what purpose should either 
 do this V says the Genius : ' flattery or curiosity are vicious mo- 
 tives, and never allowed of here ; and wisdom is out of the 
 question.' 
 
 ' Still, however/ said Asem, ' the inhabitants must be happy ; 
 each is contented with his own possessions, nor avariciously en- 
 deavours to heap up more than is necessary for his own subsis- 
 tence ; each has therefore leisure for pitying those that stand in 
 need of his compassion.' He had scarcely spoken when his ears 
 were assaulted with the lamentations of a wretch who sat by the 
 way-side, and in the most deplorable distress seemed gently to 
 murmur at his own misery. Asem immediately ran to his relief, 
 and found him in the last stage of a consumption. * Strange,' 
 cried the son of Adam, ' that men who are free from vice should 
 thus suffer so much misery without relief!' — ( Be not surprised,' 
 said the wretch who was dying : ' would it not be the utmost in- 
 justice for beings, who have only just sufficient to support them- 
 
II.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. ZVi 
 
 selves, and are content with a bare subsistence, to take it from 
 their own mouths to put it into mine ? They never are possessed 
 of a single meal more than is necessary ; and what is barely 
 necessary cannot be dispensed with.' — ' They should have been 
 supplied with more than is necessary/ cried Asem — ■ and yet 1 
 contradict my own opinion but a moment before— all is doubt, 
 perplexity, and confusion. Even the want of ingratitude is no 
 virtue here, since they never received a favour. They have, how- 
 ever, another excellence yet behind : the love of their country is 
 still, I hope, one of their darling virtues. 5 — * Peace, Asem/ re- 
 plied the Guardian, with a countenance not less severe than beau- 
 tiful, ' nor forfeit all thy pretensions to wisdom : the same selfish 
 motives, by which we prefer our own interest to that of others, 
 induce us to regard our country preferably to that of another. 
 N othing less than universal benevolence is free from vice, and that 
 you see is practised here.' — ' Strange V cries the disappointed 
 pilgrim, in an agony of distress ; ■ what sort of a world am I now 
 introduced to ? There is scarcely a single virtue, but that of 
 temperance, which they practise ; and in that they are no way 
 superior to the very brute creation. There is scarcely an amuse- 
 ment which they enjoy; fortitude, liberality, friendship, wisdom, 
 conversation, and love of country, all are virtues entirely unknown 
 here : thus it seems that to be unacquainted with vice is not to know 
 virtue. Take me, my Genius, back to that very world which I 
 have despised : a world which has Alia for its contriver, is much 
 more wisely formed than that which has been projected by Ma- 
 homet. Ingratitude, contempt, and hatred, I can now suffer, for 
 perhaps I have deserved them. AVhenI arraigned the wisdom 
 of Providence, I only showed my own ignorance ; henceforth let 
 me keep from vice myself, and pity it in others.' 
 
 He had scarcely ended, when the Genius, assuming an air of 
 terrible complacency, called all his thunders around him, and 
 vanished in a whirlwind. Asem, astonished at the terror of the 
 scene, looked for his imaginary world ; when, casting his eyes 
 around, he perceived himself in the very situation, and in the very 
 place, where he first began to repine and despair ; his right foot had 
 been just advanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet 
 withdrawn ; so instantly did Providence strike the series of truths 
 just imprinted on his soul. He now departed from the water-side 
 in tranquillity ; and, leaving his horrid mansion, travelled to Se- 
 gestan, his native city, where he diligently applied himself to 
 commerce, and put in practice that wisdom he had learned in so- 
 litude. The frugality of a few years soon produced opulence ; the 
 number of his domestics increased ; his friends came to him from 
 every part of the city; nor did he receive them with disdain : 
 
344 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 and a youth of misery was concluded with an old age of elegance, 
 affluence, and ease. 
 
 ESSAY III. 
 
 ON THE ENGLISH CLERGY, AND POPULAR PREACHERS. 
 
 It is allowed on all hands, that our English divines receive a 
 more liberal education, and improve that education by frequent 
 study, more than any others of this reverend profession in Europe. 
 In general, also, it may be observed, that a greater degree of 
 gentility is affixed to the character of a student in England than 
 elsewhere, by which means our clergy have an opportunity of see- 
 ing better company while young, and of sooner wearing off those 
 prejudices which they are apt to imbibe even in the best regulated 
 universities, and which may be justly termed the vulgar errors 
 of the wise. 
 
 Yet, with all these advantages, it is very obvious that the clergy 
 are nowhere so little thought of by the populace as here ; and 
 though our divines are foremost with respect to abilities, yet they 
 are found last in the effects of their ministry, the vulgar in gene- 
 ral appearing in no way impressed with a sense of religious duty. 
 I am not for whining at the depravity of the times, or for endea- 
 vouring to paint a prospect more gloomy than in nature ; but cer- 
 tain it is, no person who has travelled will contradict me when I 
 aver, that the lower orders of mankind in other countries, testify 
 on every occasion the profoundest awe of religion, while in Eng- 
 land they are scarcely awakened into a sense of its duties, even in 
 circumstances of the greatest distress. 
 
 This dissolute and fearless conduct, foreigners are apt to attri- 
 bute to climate and constitution. May not the vulgar being pretty 
 much neglected in our exhortations from the pulpit be a conspir- 
 ing cause ? Our divines seldom stoop to their mean capacities ; 
 and they who want instruction most, find least in our religious 
 assemblies. 
 
 Whatever may become of the higher orders of mankind, who 
 are generally possessed of collateral motives to virtue, the vulgar 
 should be particularly regarded, whose behaviour in civil life is 
 totally hinged upon their hopes and fears. Those who constitute 
 the basis of the great fabric of society should be particularly re- 
 garded ; for in policy, as in architecture, ruin is most fatal when 
 it begins from the bottom. 
 
 Men of real sense and understanding prefer a prudent medio- 
 crity to a precarious popularity ; and fearing to outdo their duty, 
 
i A I.J MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 345 
 
 leave it half done. Their discourses from the pulpit are generally 
 dry, methodical, and unaffecting ; delivered with the most insipid 
 calmness ; insomuch, that should the peaceful preacher lift his 
 head over the cushion, which alone he seems to address, he might 
 discover his audience, instead of being awakened to remorse, ac- 
 tually sleeping over his methodical and laboured composition. 
 
 Thi3 method of preaching is, however, by some called an ad- 
 dress to reason, and not to the passions ; this is styled the making 
 of converts from conviction : but such are indifferently acquainted 
 with human nature, who are not sensible that men seldom reason 
 about their debaucheries till they are committed. Reason is but 
 a weak antagonist when headlong passion dictates ; in all such 
 cases we should arm one passion against another : it is with the 
 human mind a§ in nature, from the mixture of two opposites the 
 result i3 most frequently neutral tranquillity. Those who attempt 
 to reason us out of our follies begin at the wrong end, since the 
 attempt naturally presupposes us capable of reason ; but to be 
 made capable of this, is one great point of the cure. 
 
 There are but few talents requisite to become a popular 
 preacher ; for the people are easily pleased, if they perceive any 
 endeavours in the orator to please them ; the meanest qualifica- 
 tions will work this effect, if the preacher sincerely sets about it. 
 Perhaps little, indeed very little, more is required than sincerity 
 and assurance ; and a becoming sincerity is always sure of pro- 
 ducing a becoming assurance. ■ Si vis me flere, dolendum est pri- 
 mum tibi ipsi,' is so trite a quotation, that it almost demands an 
 apology to repeat it : yet, though all allow the justice of the re- 
 mark, how few do we find put it in practice ! Our orators, with the 
 most faulty bashfulness, seem impressed rather with an awe of 
 their audience, than with a just respect for the truths they are 
 about to deliver ; they, of all professions, seem the most bashful, 
 who have the greatest right to glory in their commission. 
 
 The French preachers generally assume all that dignity which 
 becomes men who are ambassadors from Christ; the English 
 divines, like erroneous envoys, seem more solicitous not to of- 
 fend the court to which they are sent, than to drive home the in- 
 terests of their employer. Massillon, bishop of Clermont, in the 
 first sermon he ever preached, found the whole audience, upon his 
 getting into the pulpit, in a disposition no way favourable to his 
 intentions ; their nods, whispers, or drowsy behaviour, showed him 
 that there was no great profit to be expected from his sowing in 
 a soil so improper ; however, he soon changed the disposition of 
 his audience by his manner of beginning, * If,' says he, ' a cause, 
 the most important that could be conceived, were to be tried at 
 the bar before qualified judges — if this cause interested ourselves 
 
346 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 in particular — if the eyes of the whole kingdom were fixed upon the 
 event — if the most eminent counsel were employed on both sides — 
 and if we had heard from our infancy of this yet undetermined 
 trial, would you not all sit with due attention, and warm expecta- 
 tion to the pleadings on each side ? — would not all your hopes and 
 fears be hinged upon the final decision ? And yet let me tell you, 
 you have this moment a cause of much greater importance before 
 you— a cause where not one nation, but all the world, are specta- 
 tors ; tried, not before a fallible tribunal, but the awful throne of 
 Heaven ; where not your temporal and transitory interests are the 
 subject of debate, but your eternal happiness or misery ; where 
 the cause is still undetermined, but perhaps the very moment 1 
 am speaking may fix the irrevocable decree that shall last for ever ; 
 a?d yet, notwithstanding all this, you can hardly sit with patience 
 to hear the tidings of your own salvation : I plead the cause of 
 Heaven, and yet I am scarcely attended to/ &c. 
 
 The style, the abruptness of a beginning like this, in the closet 
 would appear absurd ; but in the pulpit it is attended with the 
 most lasting impressions : that style which in the closet might 
 justly be called flimsy, seems the true mode of eloquence here. I 
 never read a fine composition, under the title of a sermon, that I 
 do not think the author has miscalled his piece ; for the talents 
 to be used in writing well, entirely differ from those of speaking 
 well. The qualifications for speaking, as has been already ob- 
 served, are easily acquired ; they are accomplishments which may 
 be taken up by every candidate who will be at the pains of stoop- 
 ing. Impressed with a sense of the truths he is about to deliver, 
 a preacher disregards the applause or the contempt of his audience, 
 and he insensibly assumes a just and manly sincerity. With this 
 talent alone, we see what crowds are drawn around enthusiasts, 
 even destitute of common sense ; what numbers converted to 
 Christianity. Folly may sometimes set an example for wisdom 
 to practise ; and our regular divines may borrow instruction from 
 even Methodists, who go their circuits and preach prizes among 
 the populace. Even Whitfield may be placed as a model to some 
 of our younger divines ; let them join to their own good sense his 
 earnest manner of delivery. 
 
 It will be perhaps objected, that by confining the excellences of 
 a preacher to proper assurance, earnestness, and openness of style, 
 I make the qualifications too trifling for estimation : there will be 
 something called oratory brought up on this occasion ; action, at- 
 titude, grace, elocution, may be repeated as absolutely necessary 
 to complete the character. But let us not be deceived; common 
 sense is seldom swayed by fine tones, musical periods, just atti- 
 tudes, or the display of a white handkerchief ; oratorical beha* 
 
IT.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 34? 
 
 viour, except in very able hands indeed, generally sinks into awk- 
 ward and paltry affectation. 
 
 It must be observed, however, that these rules are calculated 
 only for him who would instruct the vulgar, who stand in most 
 need of instruction ; to address philosophers, and to obtain the 
 character of a polite preacher among the polite (a much more use- 
 less, though more sought-for character), requires a different mode 
 of proceeding. All I shall observe on this head is, to entreat the 
 polemic divine, in his controversy with the deists, to act rather 
 offensively than to defend ; to push home the grounds of his belief, 
 and the impracticability of theirs, rather than to spend time in 
 solving the objections of every opponent. 'It is ten to one/ says 
 a late writer on the art of war, ' but that the assailant who attacks 
 the enemy in his trenches is always victorious.' 
 
 Yet, upon the whole, our clergy might employ themselves more 
 to the benefit of society, by declining all controversy, than by ex- 
 hibiting even the profoundest skill in polemic disputes. Their 
 contests with each other often turn on speculative trifles ; and 
 their disputes with the deists are almost at an end, since they can 
 have no more than victory ; and that they are already possessed 
 of, as their antagonists have been driven into a confession of the 
 necessity of revelation, or an open avowal of atheism. To con- 
 tinue the dispute longer would only endanger it : the sceptic is 
 ever expert at puzzling a debate which he finds himself unable to 
 continue ; ' and, like an Olympic boxer, generally fights best wher- 
 undermost.' 
 
 ESSAY IV. 
 
 ADVENTURES OF A STROLLING PLAYEB. 
 
 I am fond of amusement, in whatever company it is to be found ; 
 and wit, though dressed in rags, is ever pleasing to me. I went 
 some days ago to take a walk in St James's Park, about the hour 
 in which company leave it to go to dinner. There were but few 
 in the walks, and those who stayed seemed, by their looks, rather 
 more willing to forget that they had an appetite, than gain one. 
 I sat down on one of the benches, at the other end of which was 
 seated a man in very shabby clothes. 
 
 We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as usual upon 
 such occasions ; and at last ventured upon conversation. ■ I beg 
 pardon, sir,' cried I, ' but I think I have seen you before ; y3ur 
 face is familiar to me/—' Yes, sir ' replied he, ■ I have a good fa- 
 
348 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 miliar face, as my friends tell me. I am as well known in every 
 town in England, as the dromedary or live crocodile. You must 
 understand, sir, that I have been these sixteen years Merry An- 
 drew to a puppet-show : last Bartholomew Fair my master and I 
 quarrelled, beat each other, and parted ; he to sell his puppets to 
 the pincushion-makers in Rosemary Lane, and I to starve in St 
 James's Park/ 
 
 ' I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appearance should labour 
 under any difficulties.' — ' Oh, sir, 5 returned he, ' my appearance 
 is very much at your service ; but though I cannot boast of eat- 
 ing much, yet there are few that are merrier : if I had twenty 
 thousand a-year I should be very merry : and, thank the Fates, 
 though not worth a groat, I am very merry still. If I have three- 
 pence in my pocket, I never refuse to be my three-halfpence ; and 
 if I have no money, I never scorn to be treated by any that are 
 kind enough to pay my reckoning. "What think you, sir, of a 
 steak and a tankard ? You shall treat me now ; and I will treat 
 you again, when I find you in the Park in love with eating, and 
 without money to pay for a dinner/ 
 
 As I never refuse a small expense for the sake of a merry com- 
 panion, we instantly adjourned to a neighbouring ale-house, and 
 in a few moments had a frothing tankard and a smoking steak 
 spread on the table before us. It is impossible to express how 
 much the sight of such good cheer improved my companion's vi- 
 vacity. ' I like this dinner, sir,' says he, * for three reasons : first, 
 because I am naturally fond of beef; secondly, because I am 
 hungry ; and, thirdly and lastly, because I get it for nothing : no 
 meat eats so sweet as that for which we do not pay.' 
 
 He therefore now fell to, and his appetite seemed to correspond 
 with his inclination. After dinner was over, he observed that the 
 steak was tough : * and yet, sir,' returns he, ' bad as it was, it 
 seemed a rump-steak to me. Oh, the delights of poverty and a 
 good appetite ! "We beggars are the very fondlings of Nature ; 
 the rich she treats like an arrant step-mother ; they are pleased 
 with nothing : cut a steak from what part you will, and it is in- 
 supportably tough ; dress it up with pickles, and even pickles can- 
 not procure them an appetite. But the whole creation is filled 
 with good things for the beggar ; Calvert's butt out-tastes Cham- 
 pagne, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels Tokay. Joy, joy, my 
 blood ! though our estates lie nowhere, we have fortunes wherever 
 we go. If an inundation sweeps away half the grounds of Corn- 
 wall, I am content — I have no lands there ; if the stocks sink, 
 that gives me no uneasiness — I am no Jew/ The fellow's vivacity, 
 joined to his poverty, I own, raised my curiosity to know some- 
 thing of his life and circumstances ; and I entreated that he would 
 
IV.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 349 
 
 indulge iny desire. ■ That I will, sir,' said he, ' and welcome ; 
 only let us drink to prevent our sleeping : let us have another 
 tankard while we are awake— let us have another tankard ; for 
 ah, how charming a tankard looks when full ! 
 
 * You must know, then, that I am very well descended ; my an« 
 cestors have made some noise in the world ; for my mother cried 
 oysters, and my father beat a drum : I am told we have even had 
 some trumpeters in our family. Many a nobleman cannot show 
 so respectable a genealogy ; but that is neither here nor there. 
 As I was their only child, my father designed to breed me up to 
 his own employment, which was that of a drummer to a puppet- 
 show. Thus the whole employment of my younger years was that 
 of interpreter to Punch and King Solomon in all his Glory. But 
 though my father was very fond of instructing me in beating all 
 the marches and points of war, I made no very great progress, 
 because I naturally had no ear for music ; so at the age of fifteen, 
 I went and listed for a soldier. As I had ever hated beating a 
 drum, so I soon found that I disliked carrying a musket also ; 
 neither the one trade nor the other was to my taste, for I was by 
 nature fond of being a gentleman : besides, I was obliged to obey 
 my captain : he has his will, I have mine, and you have yours ; 
 now I very reasonably concluded, that it was much more com- 
 fortable for a man to obey his own will than another's. 
 
 ' The life of a soldier soon, therefore, gave me the spleen. I 
 asked leave to quit the service, but as I was tall and strong, my 
 captain thanked me for my kind intention, and said,because he had 
 a regard for me, we should not part. I wrote to my father a very 
 dismal, penitent letter, and desired that he would raise money to 
 pay for my discharge ; but as the good old man was as fond of 
 drinking as I was, — sir, my service to you, — and those who are 
 fond of drinking never pay for other people's discharges ; in 
 short, he never answered my letter. What could be done ? If I 
 have not money, said I to myself, to pay for my discharge, 1 
 must find an equivalent some other way ; and that must be by 
 running away. I deserted, and that answered my purpose every 
 bit as well as if I had bought my discharge. 
 
 ' Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employment ; I sold 
 my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and, in order not to be over- 
 taken, took the most unfrequented roads possible. One evening, 
 as I was entering a village, I perceived a man, whom I after- 
 wards found to be the curate of the parish, thrown from his 
 horse in a miry road and almost smothered in the mud. He de- 
 sired my assistance ; I gave it, and drew him out with some 
 difficulty. He thanked me for my trouble, and was going off, 
 but I followed him home, for I loved always to have a man thank 
 
sso 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 rae at his own door. The curate asked a hundred questions ; as 
 whose son I was ; from whence I came ; and whether I would be 
 faithful. I answered him greatly to his satisfaction, and gave 
 myself one of the best characters in the world for sobriety, — sir, 
 I have the honour of drinking your health, — discretion, and 
 fidelity. To make a long story short, he wanted a servant, and 
 hired me. "With him I lived but two months ; we did not much 
 like each other : I was fond of eating, and he gave me but little 
 to eat ; I loved a pretty girl, and the old woman, my fellow-ser- 
 vant, was ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavoured to starve 
 me between them, I made a pious resolution to prevent their 
 committing murder : I stole the eggs as soon as they were laid ; 
 I emptied every unfinished bottle that I could lay my hands on ; 
 whatever eatable came in my way was sure to disappear, — in 
 short, they found I would not do ; so I was discharged one morn- 
 ing, and paid three shillings and sixpence for two months' 
 wages. 
 
 1 AVhile my money was getting ready, I employed myself in 
 making preparations for my departure. Two hens were hatching 
 in an outhouse — I went and took the eggs from habit ; and not to 
 separate the parents from the children, I lodged hens and all in 
 my knapsack. After this piece of frugality, I returned to receive 
 my money, and with my knapsack on my back, and a staff in my 
 hand, I bade adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old benefactor. 
 I had not gone far from the house when I heard behind me the 
 cry of " Stop thief !" but this only increased my despatch : it 
 would have been foolish to stop, as I knew the voice could not be 
 levelled at me — But hold, I think I passed those two months at 
 the curate's without drinking. Come, the times are dry, and may 
 this be my poison, if ever I spent two more pious, stupid months 
 in all my life ! 
 
 * "Well, after travelling some days, whom should I light upon 
 but a company of strolling players. The moment I saw them at 
 a distance, my heart warmed to them ; I had a sort of natural 
 love for everything of the vagabond order. They were employed 
 in settling their baggage, which had been overturned in a narrow 
 way : I offered my assistance, which they accepted ; and we soon 
 became so well acquainted, that they took me as a servant. This 
 was a paradise to me ; they sang, danced, drank, ate, and travel- 
 led, all at the same time. By the blood of all the Mirables ! I 
 thought I had never lived till then ; I grew as merry as a grig, 
 and laughed at every word that was spoken. They liked me as 
 much as I liked them : I was a very good figure, as you may see ; 
 and though I was poor, I was not modest. 
 
 4 1 love a straggling life above all things in the world ; some- 
 
IV.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 351 
 
 times gocd, sometimes bad ; to be warm to-day, and cold to-mor- 
 row ; to eat when one can get it, and drink when — the tankard is 
 out — it stands before me. We arrived that evening at Tenter- 
 den, and took a large room at the Greyhound, where we resolved 
 to exhibit Romeo and Juliet, with the funeral procession, the 
 grave, and the garden scene. Romeo was to be performed by a 
 gentleman from the Theatre-Royal in Drury Lane ; Juliet, by a 
 lady who never appeared on any stage before ; and I was to snuflf 
 the candles : all excellent in our way. We had figures enough, 
 but the difficulty was to dress them. The same coat that served 
 Romeo, turned with the blue lining outwards, served for his 
 friend Mercutio ; a large piece of crape sufficed at once for 
 Juliet's petticoat and pall ; a pestle and mortar, from a neigh- 
 bouring apothecary's answered all the purposes of a bell ; and 
 our landlord's own family, wrapped in white sheets, served to fill 
 up the procession. In short, there were but three figures among 
 us that might be said to be dressed with any propriety — I mean 
 the nurse, the starved apothecary, and myself. Our performance 
 gave universal satisfaction : the whole audience were enchanted 
 with our powers. 
 
 * There is one way by which a strolling player may be ever 
 secure of success ; that is, in our theatrical way of expressing it, 
 to make a great deal of the character. To speak and act as in 
 common life, is not playing, nor is it what people come to see : 
 natural speaking, like sweet wine, runs glibly over the palate, 
 and scarcely leaves any taste behind it ; but being high in a part 
 resembles vinegar, which grates upon the taste, and one feels it 
 while he is drinking. To please in town or country, the way is to 
 cry, wring, cringe into attitudes, mark the emphasis, slap the 
 pockets, and labour like one in a falling sickness ; that is the way 
 to work for applause — that is the way to gain it. 
 
 1 As we received much reputation for our skill on this first exhi- 
 bition, it was but natural for me to ascribe part of the success to 
 myself: I snuffed the candles, and let me tell you, that without 
 a candle-snuffer, the piece would lose half its embellishments. In 
 this manner we continued a fortnight, and drew tolerable houses, 
 but the evening before our intended departure, we gave out our 
 very best piece, in which all our strength was to be exerted. "We 
 had great expectations from this, and even doubled our prices, 
 when, behold ! one of the principal actors fell ill of a violent fever. 
 This was a stroke like thunder to our little company : they were 
 resulved to go in a body, to scold the man for falling sick at sc 
 inconvenient a time, and that, too, of a disorder that threatened 
 to be expensive : I seized the moment, and offered to act the part 
 myself in his stead. The case was desperate ; they accepted my 
 
352 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 offer ; and I accordingly sat down, with the part in my hand, and 
 a tankard before me, — sir, your health, — and studied the charac- 
 ter which was to be rehearsed the next day, and played soon after. 
 ' I found my memory excessively helped by drinking : I learned 
 ray part with astonishing rapidity, and bade adieu to snuffing 
 candles ever after. I found that Nature had designed me for more 
 noble employments, and I was resolved to take her when in the 
 humour. We got together, in order to rehearse ; and I informed 
 my companions — masters now no longer — of the surprising change 
 I felt within me. " Let the sick man," said I, " be under no un- 
 easiness to get well again : I'll fill his place to universal satisfac- 
 tion : he may even die if he thinks proper; I'll engage that he 
 shall never be missed." I rehearsed before them, strutted, ranted, 
 and received applause. They soon gave out that a new actor of 
 eminence was to appear, and immediately all the genteel places 
 were bespoke. Before I ascended the stage, however, I concluded 
 within myself, that as I brought money to the house I ought to 
 have my share in the profits. " Gentlemen," said I, addressing 
 our company, " I don't pretend to direct you : far be it from me 
 to treat you with so much ingratitude : you have published my 
 name in the bills with the utmost good-nature, and, as affairs 
 stand, cannot act without me : so, gentlemen, to show you my 
 gratitude, I expect to be paid for my acting as much as any of 
 you, otherwise I declare off; I'll brandish my snuffers and clip 
 candles as usual." This was a very disagreeable proposal, but 
 they found that it was impossible to refuse it ; it was irresistible 
 — it was adamant ; they consented, and I went on as King Bajazet 
 — my frowning brows bound with a stocking stuffed into a turban, 
 while on my captive arms I brandished a jack-chain. Nature 
 seemed to have fitted me for the part ; I was tall and had a loud 
 voice ; my very entrance excited universal applause ; I looked 
 round on the audience with a smile, and made a most low and 
 graceful bow, for that is the rule among us. As it was a very 
 passionate part, I invigorated my spirits with three full glasses — 
 the tankard is almost out — of brandy. By Alia ! it is almost 
 inconceivable how I went through it ; Tamerlane was but a fool 
 to me ; though he was sometimes loud enough too, yet I was still 
 louder than he ; but then, besides, I had attitudes in abundance : 
 in general I kept my arms folded up thus, upon the pit of my 
 stomach ; it is the way at Drury-Lane, and has always a fine effect. 
 The tankard would sink to the bottom before I could get through 
 half of my merits : in short, I came off like a prodigy ; and such 
 was my success, that I could ravish the laurels even from a sirloin 
 of beef. The principal ladies and gentlemen of the town came to 
 me, after the play was over, to compliment me upon my success; 
 
IV.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 353 
 
 one praised my voice, another my person. " Upon my word," says 
 the Squire's lady, " he will make one of the finest actors in Europe : 
 I say it, and I think I am something of a judge." Praise in the 
 beginning is agreeable enough, and we receive it as a favour ; 
 but when it comes in great quantities, we regard it only as a debt, 
 which nothing but our merit could extort : instead of thanking 
 them, I internally applauded myself. "We were desired to give 
 our piece a second time : we obeyed ; and I was applauded even 
 more than before. 
 
 * At last we left the town, in order to be at a horse-race at some 
 distance from thence. I shall never think of Tenterden without 
 tears of gratitude and respect. The ladies and gentlemen there, 
 take my word for it, are very good judges of plays and actors — 
 come, let us drink their healths, if you please, sir. We quitted 
 the town I say ; and there was a wide difference between my 
 coming in and going out : I entered the town a candle-snuffer, 
 and I quitted it a hero ! Such is the world : little to-day, and 
 great to-morrow. I could say a great deal more upon that subject 
 — something truly sublime, upon the ups and downs of fortune ; 
 but it would give us both the spleen, and so I shall pass it over. 
 
 ' The races were ended before we arrived at the next town, 
 which was no small disappointment to our company ; however, 
 we were resolved to take all we could get. I played capital cha- 
 racters there too, and came off with my usual brilliancy. I sin- 
 cerely believe I should have been the first actor in Europe, had 
 my growing merit been properly cultivated ; but there came an 
 unkindly frost, which nipped me in the bud, and levelled me once 
 more down to the common standard of humanity. I played Sir 
 Harry Wildair ; all the country ladies were charmed : if I but 
 drew out my snuff-box, the whole house was in a roar of rapture ; 
 when I exercised my cudgel, I thought they would have fallen 
 into convulsions. 
 
 1 There was here a lady who had received an education of nine 
 months in London, and this gave her pretensions to taste, which 
 rendered her the indisputable mistress of the ceremonies wher- 
 ever she came. She was informed of my merits ; everybody 
 praised me, yet she refused at first going to see me perform. 
 She could not conceive, she said, anything but stuff from a 
 stroller ; talked something in praise of Garrick, and amazed the 
 ladies with her skill in enunciations, tones, and cadences. She 
 was at last, however, prevailed upon to go ; and it was privately 
 intimated to me what a judge was to be present at my next ex- 
 hibition. However, in no way intimidated, I came on in Sir 
 Harry, one hand stuck in my breeches, and the other in my 
 bosom, as is usual at Drury-Lane ; but instead of looking at me, 
 
goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 I perceived the whole audience had their eyes turned upon the 
 lady who had been nine months in London ; from her they ex- 
 pected the decision which was to secure the general's truncheon 
 in my hand, or sink me down into a theatrical letter-carrier. I 
 opened my snuff-box, took snuff ; the lady was solemn, and so 
 were the rest : I broke my cudgel on Alderman Smuggler's back ; 
 still gloomy, melancholy all — the lady groaned and shrugged her 
 shoulders : I attempted, by laughing myself, to excite at least a 
 smile ; but not a cheek could I perceive wrinkled into sympathy : 
 I found it would not do. All my good-humour now became forced ; 
 my laughter was converted into hysteric grinning ; and while I 
 pretended spirits, my eye showed the agony of my heart : in 
 short, the lady came with an intention to be displeased, and dis- 
 pleased she was ; my fame expired ; I am here, and — the tankard 
 is no more !' 
 
 ESSAY V. 
 
 ON THE FRAILTY OF MAN— A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR, SUPPOSED TO BE 
 WRITTEN BY THE ORDINART OF NEWGATE. 
 
 Man is a most frail being, incapable of directing his steps, unac- 
 quainted with what is to happen in this life ; and perhaps no man 
 is a more manifest instance of the truth of this maxim than Mr 
 Theophilus Gibber, just now gone out of the world. Such a va- 
 * riety of turns of fortune, yet such a persevering uniformity of con- 
 duct, appears in all that happened in his short span, that the 
 whole may be looked upon as one regular confusion : every action 
 of his life was matter of wonder and surprise, and his death was an 
 astonishment. 
 
 This gentleman was born of creditable parents, who gave him 
 a very good education, and a great deal of good learning, so that 
 he could read and write before he was sixteen. However, he early 
 discovered an inclination to follow lewd courses ; he refused to 
 take the advice of his parents, and pursued the bent of his incli- 
 nation ; he played ^,t cards on Sundays ; called himself a gentle- 
 man ; fell out with his mother and laundress ; and, even in these 
 early days, his father was frequently heard to observe, that young 
 The. would be hanged. 
 
 As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of pleasure ; would 
 eat an ortolan for dinner, though he begged the guinea that bought 
 it ; and was once known to give three pounds for a plate of green 
 peas, which he had collected over-night as charity for a friend in 
 
V.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 855 
 
 distress : he ran into debt with everybody that would trust him, 
 and none could ' build a sconce' better than he ; so that at last 
 his creditors swore, with one accord, that The. would be hanged. 
 
 But as getting into debt by a man who had no visible mean3 
 out impudence for a subsistence, is a thing that every reader is 
 not acquainted with, I must explain this point a little, and that 
 to his satisfaction. 
 
 There are three ways of getting into debt ; first, by pushing a 
 face : as thus, * You, Mr Lutestring, send me home six yards of 
 
 that paduasoy ; but, harkee, don't think I ever intend to 
 
 pay you for it, .' At this the mercer laughs heartily, cuts 
 
 off the paduasoy, and sends it home ; nor is he, till too late, sur- 
 prised to find the gentleman had said nothing but the truth, and 
 kept his word. 
 
 The second method of running into debt is called fineering : 
 which is getting goods made up in such a fashion as to be unfit 
 for every other purchaser ; and if the tradesman refuses to give 
 them on credit, then threaten to leave them upon his hands. 
 
 But the third and best method is called, * being the good cus- 
 tomer.' The gentleman first buys some trifle, and pays for it in 
 ready money ; he comes a few days after with nothing about him 
 but bank-bills, and buys, we will suppose, a sixpenny tweezer- 
 case ; the bills are too great to be changed, so he promises to re- 
 turn punctually the day after and pay for what he has bought. 
 In this promise he is punctual, and this is repeated for eight or 
 ten times, till his face is well known, and he has got at last the 
 character of a good customer ; by this means he gets credit for 
 something considerable, and then never pays for it. 
 
 In all this, the young man who is the unhappy subject of our 
 present reflections was very expert ; and could face, fineer, and 
 bring custom to a shop with any man in England : none of his 
 companions could exceed him in this ; and his very companions 
 at last said, that The. would be hanged. 
 
 As he grew old, he grew never the better : he loved ortolans 
 and green peas as before : he drank gravy soup when he could 
 get it, and always thought his oysters tasted best when he got 
 them for nothing, or, which was just the same, when he bought 
 them upon tick : thus the old man kept up the vices of the youth, 
 and what he wanted in power, he made up by inclination ; so that 
 all the world thought that old The. would be hanged. 
 
 And now, reader, I have brought him to his last scene — a scene 
 where, perhaps, my duty should have obliged me to assist. You 
 expect, perhaps, his dying words, and the tender farewell he took 
 of his wife and children ; you expect an account of his coffin and 
 white gloves, his pious ejaculations, and the papers he left behind 
 
556 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 him. In this I cannot indulge your curiosity ; for, oh ! the mys- 
 teries of Fate, The. was drowned ! 
 
 ' Reader/ as Hervey saith, ' pause and ponder, and ponder and 
 pause ; who knows what thy own end may be !' 
 
 ESSAY VI. 
 
 FEMALE WAEKIORS. 
 
 I have spent the greater part of my life in making observations 
 on men and things, and in projecting schemes for the advantage 
 of my country ; and though my labours meet with an ungrateful 
 return, I will still persist in my endeavours for its service, like that 
 venerable, unshaken, and neglected patriot, Mr Jacob Henriquez, 
 who, though of the Hebrew nation, hath exhibited a shining ex- 
 ample of Christian fortitude and perseverance. And here my con- 
 science urges me to confess, that the hint upon which the follow- 
 ing proposals are built, was taken from an advertisement of the 
 said patriot Henriquez, in which he gave the public to understand, 
 that Heaven had indulged him with ' seven blessed daughters. 
 Blessed they are, no doubt, on account of their own and their fa- 
 ther's virtues ; but more blessed may they be, if the scheme I offer 
 should be adopted by the legislature. 
 
 The proportion which the number of females born in these king- 
 doms bears to the male children is, I think, supposed to be as 
 thirteen to fourteen ; but as women are not so subject as the other 
 sex to accidents and intemperance, in numbering adults we shall 
 find the balance on the female side. If, in calculating the num- 
 bers of the people, we take in the multitudes that emigrate to the 
 plantations, whence they never return ; those that die at sea, and 
 make their exit at Tyburn ; together with the consumption of the 
 present war, by sea and land, in the Atlantic, Mediterranean, in 
 the German and Indian Oceans, in Old France, New France, 
 North America, the Leeward Islands, Germany, Africa, and Asia, 
 we may fairly state the loss of men during the war at one hundred 
 thousand. If this be the case, there must be a superplus of the 
 other sex, amounting to the same number, and this superplus will 
 consist of women able to bear arms ; as I take it for granted, that 
 all those who are fit to bear children are likewise fit to-bear arms. 
 Now, as we have seen the nation governed by old women, I hope 
 to make it appear, that it may be defended by young women ; and 
 surely this scheme will not be rejected as unnecessary at such a 
 juncture, when our armies, in the four quarters of the globe, are 
 
VI.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 353 
 
 in want of recruits ; when we find ourselves entangled in a ne^ 
 war with Spain, on the eve of a rupture in Italy, and, indeed, in 
 a fair way of being obliged to make head against all the great 
 potentates of Europe. 
 
 But, before I unfold my design, it may be necessary to obviate, 
 from experience, as well as argument, the objections which may 
 be made to the delicate frame and tender disposition of the female 
 sex, rendering them incapable of the toils, and insuperably averse 
 to the horrors, of war. All the world has heard of the nation of 
 Amazons, who inhabited the banks of the river Thermodon, in 
 Cappadocia, who expelled their men by force of arms, defended 
 themselves by their own prowess, managed the reins of govern- 
 ment, prosecuted the operations of war, and held the other sex in 
 the utmost contempt. "We are informed by Homer, that Penthe- 
 silea, queen of the Amazons, acted as auxiliary to Priam, and fell, 
 valiantly fighting in his cause before the walls of Troy. Quintua 
 Curtius tells us, that Thalestris brought one hundred armed 
 Amazons in a present to Alexander the Great. Diodorus Siculus 
 expressly says, there was a nation of female warriors in Africa, 
 who fought against the Libyan Hercules. We read in the voyages 
 of Columbus, that one of the Caribbee Islands was possessed by a 
 tribe of female warriors who kept all the neighbouring Indians in 
 awe ; but we need not go further than our own age and country 
 to prove that the spirit and constitution of the fair sex are equal 
 to the dangers and fatigues of war. Every novice who has read 
 the authentic and impartial History of the Pirates is well ac- 
 quainted with the exploits of two heroines, called Mary Read and 
 Anne Bonny. I myself have had the honour to drink with Anne 
 Cassier, alias Mother Wade, who had distinguished herself among 
 the Buccaneers of America, and in her old age kept a punch- 
 house, in Port Royal, of Jamaica. I have likewise conversed with 
 Moll Davis, who had served as a dragoon in all Queen Anne's 
 wars, and was admitted on the pension of Chelsea. The late war 
 with Spain, and even the present, hath produced instances of 
 females enlisting both in the land and sea service, and behaving 
 with remarkable bravery in the disguise of the other sex. And 
 who has not heard of the celebrated Jenny Cameron, and some 
 other enterprising ladies of North Britain, who attended a certain 
 Adventurer in all his expeditions, and headed their respective 
 clans in a military character ? That strength of body is often 
 equal to the courage of mind implanted in the fair sex, will not 
 be denied by those who have seen the waterwomen of Plymouth ; 
 the female dredgers of Ireland, Wales, and Scotland ; the fish- 
 women of Billingsgate ; the weeders, podders, and hoopers, who 
 swarm in the fields ; and the bunters who swagger in the street? 
 
353 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 of London ; not to mention the indefatigable trulls who follow the 
 camp, and keep up with the line of march, though loaded with 
 bantlings and other baggage. 
 
 There is scarcely a street in this metropolis without one or more 
 viragos, who discipline their husbands and domineer over the 
 whole neighbourhood. Many months are not elapsed since I was 
 witness to a pitched battle between two athletic females, who 
 fought with equal skill and fury until one of them gave out, after 
 having sustained seven falls on the hard stones. They were both 
 stripped to the under petticoat; their breasts were carefully 
 swathed with handkerchiefs ; and as no vestiges of features were 
 to be seen in either when I came up, I imagined the combatants 
 were of the other sex, until a bystander assured me of the contrary. 
 When I see the avenues of the Strand beset every night with 
 troops of fierce Amazons, who with dreadful imprecations, stop and 
 beat and plunder passengers, I cannot help wishing that such 
 martial talents were converted to the benefit of the public ; and 
 that those who were so loaded with temporal fire, and so little 
 afraid of ruining the souls and bodies of their fellow-citizens, be 
 put in a way of turning their destructive qualities against the 
 enemies of the nation. 
 
 Having thus demonstrated that the fair sex are not deficient in 
 strength and resolution, I would humbly propose, thatasthere is an 
 excess on their side in quantity to the amount of one hundred thou- 
 sand, part of that number be employed in recruiting the army as 
 well as in raising thirty new Amazonian regiments, to be com- 
 manded by females, and serve in regimentals adapted to their sex. 
 The Amazons of old appeared with the left breast bare, an open 
 jacket, and trousers that descended no farther than the knee ; the 
 right breast was destroyed, that it might not impede them in bend- 
 ing the bow, or darting the javelin ; but there is no occasion for 
 this cruel excision in the present discipline, as we have seen in- 
 stances of women who handle the musket, without finding any in- 
 convenience from that protuberance. 
 
 As the sex love gaiety, they may be clothed in vests of pink 
 satin, and open drawers of the same, with buskins on their feet 
 and legs, their hair tied behind, and floating on their shoulders, 
 and their hats adorned with white feathers : they may be armed 
 with light carbines and long bayonets, without the encumbraRCr 
 of swords or shoulder-belts. I make no doubt but many ladies of 
 figure and fashion will undertake to raise companies at their own 
 expense, provided they like their colonels ; but I must insist upon 
 it, if this scheme should be embraced, that Mr Henriquez' ' seven 
 blessed daughters' maybe provided with commissions, as the project 
 Is in some measure owing to the hints of that venerable patriot. 
 
VII.] 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
 
 359 
 
 A female brigade, properly disciplined and accoutred, would not, 
 I am persuaded, be afraid to charge a numerous body of the 
 enemy, over whom they would have a manifest advantage ; for if 
 the barbarous Scythians were ashamed to fight with the Amazons 
 who invaded them, surely the French, who pique themselves on 
 their sensibility and devotion to the fair sex, would not act upon 
 the offensive against a band of female warriors, arrayed in all the 
 charms of youth and beauty ! 
 
 ESSAY VII. 
 
 Amidst the frivolous pursuits and pernicious dissipations of the 
 present age, a respect for the qualities of the understanding still 
 prevails to such a degree, that almost every individual pretends 
 to have a taste for the belles-lettres. The spruce apprentice sets 
 up for a critic, and the puny beau piques himself upon being a 
 connoisseur. Without assigning causes for this universal pre- 
 sumption, we shall proceed to observe, that if it was attended 
 with no other inconvenience than that of exposing the pretender 
 to the ridicule of those few who can sift his pretensions, it might 
 be unnecessary to undeceive the public, or to endeavour at the 
 reformation of innocent folly, productive of no evil to the com- 
 monwealth. But in reality, this folly is productive of manifold 
 evils to the community. If the reputation of taste can be acquired, 
 without the least assistance of literature, by reading modern 
 poems, and seeing modern plays, what person will deny himself 
 the pleasure of such an easy qualification ? Hence the youth of 
 both sexes are debauched to diversion, and seduced from much 
 more profitable occupations into idle endeavours after literary 
 fame ; and a superficial false taste, founded on ignorance and 
 conceit, takes possession of the public. The acquisition of learn- 
 ing, the study of nature, is neglected as superfluous labour ; and 
 the best faculties of the mind remain unexercised, and indeed 
 unopened, by the power of thought and reflection. False taste 
 will not only diffuse itself through ail our amusements, but even 
 influence our moral and political conduct ; for what is false taste, 
 but want of perception to discern propriety and distinguish 
 beauty ! 
 
 It has often been alleged, that taste is a natural talent, as in- 
 dependent of art as strong eyes, or a delicate sense of smelling ; 
 and, without all doubt, the principal ingredient in the composi* 
 
360 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 tion of taste, is a natural sensibility, without which it cannot 
 exist ; but it differs from the senses in this particular, that they 
 are finished by nature, whereas taste cannot be brought to per- 
 fection without proper cultivation ; for taste pretends to judge, 
 not only of nature, but also of art; and that judgment is founded 
 upon observation and comparison. 
 
 What Horace has said of genius is still more applicable to 
 taste : — 
 
 Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
 
 Quassitum est. Ego nee studium sine divite vena, 
 
 Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium ; alterius sic 
 
 Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. — Hok. Ars Poet. 
 
 Tis long disputed, whether poets claim 
 From art or nature their best right to fame : 
 But arty if not enrich'd by nature's vein, 
 And a rude genius of uncultured strain, 
 Are useless both ; but when in friendship join'd, 
 A mutual succour in each other find.— Francis. 
 
 We have seen genius shine without the help of art, but taste must 
 be cultivated by art, before it will produce agreeable fruit. This, 
 however, we must still inculcate with Quintilian, that study, pre- 
 cept, and observation, will nought avail, without the assistance of 
 nature : — * Illud tamen imprimis testandum est, nihil praecepta 
 at que artes valere, nisi adjuvante natura. 5 
 
 Yet even though nature has done her part, by implanting the 
 seeds of taste, great pains must be taken, and great skill exerted, 
 in raising them to a proper pitch of vegetation. The judicious 
 tutor must gradually and tenderly unfold the mental faculties of 
 the youth committed to his charge. He must cherish his delicate 
 perception ; store his mind with proper ideas ; point out the dif- 
 ferent channels of observation ; teach him to compare objects ; to 
 establish the limits of right and wrong, of truth and falsehood ; 
 to distinguish beauty from tinsel, and grace from affectation : in 
 a word, to strengthen and improve by culture, experience, and 
 instruction, those natural powers of feeling and sagacity, which 
 constitute the faculty called taste, and enable the professor to en- 
 joy the delights of the belles-lettres. 
 
 We cannot agree in opinion with those who imagine, that na- 
 ture has been equally favourable to all men, in conferring upon 
 them a fundamental capacity, which may be improved to all the 
 refinement of taste and criticism. Every day's experience con- 
 vinces us of the contrary. Of two youths educated under the 
 same preceptor, instructed with the same care, and cultivated 
 with the same assiduity, one shall not only comprehend, but even 
 anticipate, the lessons of his master, by dint of natural discern- 
 
VII,] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 361 
 
 ment, while the other toils in vain to imbibe the least tincture of 
 instruction. Such, indeed, is the distinction between genius and 
 stupidity, which every man has an opportunity of seeing among 
 his friends and acquaintance. Not that we ought too hastily to 
 decide upon the natural capacities of children, before we have 
 maturely considered the peculiarity of disposition, and the bias 
 by which genius may be strangely warped from the common path 
 of education. A youth incapable of retaining one rale of gram- 
 mar, or of acquiring the least knowledge of the classics, may 
 nevertheless make great progress in mathematics — nay, he may 
 have a strong genius for the mathematics without being able to 
 comprehend a demonstration of Euclid ; because his mind con- 
 ceives in a peculiar manner, and is so intent upon contemplating 
 the object in one particular point of view, that it cannot perceive 
 it in any other. We have known an instance of a boy, who, while 
 his master complained that he had not capacity to comprehend 
 the properties of a right-angled triangle, had actually, in private, 
 by the power of his genius, formed a mathematical system of his 
 own, discovered a series of curious theorems, and even applied his 
 deductions to practical machines of surprising construction. Be- 
 sides, in the education of youth, we ought to remember, that some 
 capacities are like the pyra prcccocia, — they soon blow, and soon 
 attain to all the degree of maturity which they are capable of 
 acquiring ; while, on the other hand, there are geniuses of slow 
 growth, that are late in bursting the bud, and long in ripening. 
 Yet the first shall yield a faint blossom and insipid fruit ; where- 
 as the produce of the other shall be distinguished and admired 
 for its well concocted juice and exquisite flavour. We have known a 
 boy of five years of age surprise everybody by playing on the violin 
 in such a manner as seemed to promise a prodigy in music. He 
 had all the assistance that art could afford ; by the age of ten his 
 genius was at the un^n ; yet after that period, notwithstanding 
 the most intense application, he never gave the least signs of im- 
 provement. At six he was admired as a miracle of music ; at 
 six-and-twenty he was neglected as an ordinary fiddler. The 
 celebrated Dean Swift was a remarkable instance in the other 
 extreme. He was long considered as an incorrigible dunce, and 
 did not obtain his degree at the university but ex speciali gratia : 
 yet when his powers began to unfold, he signalised himself by a 
 very remarkable superiority of genius. When a youth therefore 
 appears dull of apprehension, and seems to derive no advantage 
 from study and instruction, the tutor must exercise his sagacity 
 in discovering whether the soil be absolutely barren, or sown with 
 seed repugnant to its nature, or of such a quality as requires 
 repeated culture and length of time to set its juices in fermenta- 
 
362 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 tion. These observations, however, relate to capacity in general, 
 which we ought carefully to distinguish from taste. Capacity 
 implies the power of retaining what is received ; taste is the power 
 of relishing or rejecting whatever is offered for the entertainment 
 of the imagination. A man may have capacity to acquire what 
 is called learning and philosophy ; but he must have also sensi- 
 bility, before he feels those emotions with which taste receives the 
 impressions of beauty. 
 
 Natural taste is apt to be seduced and debauched by vicious 
 precept and bad example. There is a dangerous tinsel in false 
 taste, by which the unwary mind and young imagination are often 
 fascinated. Nothing has been so often explained, and yet so little 
 understood, as simplicity in writing. Simplicity, in this accepta- 
 tion, has a larger signification than either the ccttXoou of the Greek?, 
 or the simplex of the Latins ; for it implies beauty. It is the »«*.«•! 
 xa) vdv* of Demetrius Phalereus, the simplex munditiis of Horace 
 and expressed by one word, naivete, in the French language. It 
 is, in fact, no other than beautiful nature, without affectation or 
 extraneous ornament. In statuary, it is the Venus of Medicis ; 
 in architecture, the Pantheon. It would be an endless task to 
 enumerate all the instances of this natural simplicity that occur 
 in poetry and painting, among the ancients and moderns. We 
 shall only mention two examples of it, the beauty of which consists 
 in the pathetic. 
 
 Anaxagoras the philosopher, and preceptor of Pericles, being 
 told that both his sons were dead, laid his hand upon his heart, 
 and, after a short pause, consoled himself with a reflection couched 
 in three words, ffiuv favrovs ytytv^xus, * I knew they were mortal.' 
 The other instance we select from the tragedy of Macbeth. The 
 gallant Macduff, being informed that his wife and children were 
 murdered by order of the t} r rant, pulls his hat over his eyes, and 
 his internal agony bursts out into an exclamation of four words, 
 the most expressive perhaps that ever were uttered : * He has no 
 children.' This is the energetic language of simple nature, which 
 is now grown into disrepute. By the present mode of education, 
 we are forcibly warped from the bias of nature, and all simplicity 
 in manners is rejected. AVe are taught to disguise and distort our 
 sentiments, until the faculty of thinking is diverted into an un- 
 natural channel ; and we not only relinquish and forget, but also 
 become incapable of our original dispositions. AVe are totally 
 changed into creatures of art and affectation. Our perception is 
 abused, and even our senses are perverted. Our minds lose their 
 native force and flavour. The imagination, sweated by artificial 
 fire, produces nought but vapid bloom. The genius, instead of 
 growing like & vigorous tree, extending its branches on every side. 
 
VII.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 363 
 
 and bearing delicious fruit, resembles a stunted yew, tortured in- 
 to some wretched form, projecting no shade, displaying no flower, 
 diffusing no fragrance, yielding no fruit, and affording nothing but 
 a barren conceit for the amusement of the idle spectator. 
 
 Thus debauched from Nature, how can we relish her genuine 
 productions ? As well might a man distinguish objects through 
 a prism, that presents nothing but a variety of colours to the eye ; 
 or a maid pining in the green sickness prefer a biscuit to a cinder. 
 It has been often alleged, that the passions can never be wholly 
 deposited ; and that, by appealing to these, a good writer will al- 
 ways be able to force himself into the hearts of his readers : but 
 even the strongest passions are weakened — nay, sometimes totally 
 extinguished — by mutual opposition, dissipation, and acquired in- 
 sensibility. How often at the theatres is the tear of sympathy 
 and the burst of laughter repressed by a ridiculous species of pride, 
 refusing approbation to the author and actor, and renouncing so- 
 ciety with the audience ! This seeming insensibility is not owing 
 to any original defect. Nature has stretched the string, though 
 it has long ceased to vibrate. It may have been displaced and 
 distracted by the violence of pride ; it may have lost its tone 
 through long disuse ; or be so twisted or overstrained as to pro- 
 duce the most jarring discords. 
 
 If so little regard is paid to nature when she knocks so power- 
 fully at the breast, she must be altogether neglected and despised 
 in her calmer mood of serene tranquillity, when nothing appears 
 to recommend her but simplicity, propriety, and innocence. A 
 person must have delicate feelings, that can taste the celebrated 
 repartee in Terence : — f I am a man ; therefore think I have an 
 interest in every thing that concerns humanity.' A clear blue 
 sky, spangled with stars, will prove an insipid object to eyes ac- 
 customed to the glare of torches and tapers, gilding and glitter ; 
 eyes that will turn with disgust from the green mantle of the 
 spring, so gorgeously adorned with buds and foliage, flowers and 
 blossoms, to contemplate a gaudy silken robd, striped and inter- 
 sected with unfriendly tints, that fritter the masses of light, and 
 distract the vision, pinked into the most fantastic forms, flounced 
 and furbelowed, and fringed with all the littleness of art unknown 
 to elegance. 
 
 Those ears that are offended by the notes of the thrush, the 
 blackbird, and the nightingale, will be regaled and ravished by 
 the squeaking fiddle, touched by a musician who has no other 
 genius than that which lies in his fingers : they will even be en- 
 tertained with the rattling of coaches, and the alarming knock by 
 which the doors of fashionable people are so loudly distinguished. 
 The sense of smelling, that delights in the scent of excrementi- 
 
goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 tious animal juices, such as musk, civet, and urinous salts, will 
 loath the fragrance of new-mown hay, the sweet-brier, the honey- 
 suckle, and the rose. The organs that are gratified with the taste 
 of sickly veal bled into a palsy, crammed fowls, and dropsical 
 brawn, peas without substance, peaches without taste, and pine- 
 apples without flavour, will certainly nauseate the native, genuine, 
 and salutary taste of Welch beef, Banstead mutton, and barn-door 
 fowls, whose juices are concocted by a natural digestion, and whose 
 flesh is consolidated by free air and exercise. In such a total per- 
 version of the senses the ideas must be misrepresented, the powers 
 of the imagination disordered, and the judgment, of consequence, 
 unsound. The disease is attended with a false appetite, which the 
 natural food of the mind will not satisfy. It will prefer Ovid to 
 Tibullus, and the rant of Lee to the tenderness of Otway. The 
 soul sinks into a kind of sleepy idiotism, and is diverted by toys 
 and baubles, which can only be pleasing to the most superficial 
 curiosity. It is enlivened by a quick succession of trivial objects, 
 that glisten and dance before the eye ; and, like an infant, is kept 
 awake and inspirited by the sound of a rattle. It must not only 
 be dazzled and aroused, but also cheated, hurried, and perplexed, 
 by the artifice of deception, business, intricacy, and intrigue, — a 
 kind of low juggle, which may be termed the legerdemain of 
 genius. 
 
 In this state of depravity the mind cannot enjoy, nor indeed 
 distinguish, the charms of natural and moral beauty and decorum. 
 The ingenuous blush of native innocence, the plain language of 
 ancient faith and sincerity, the cheerful resignation to the will of 
 Heaven, the mutual affection of the charities, the voluntary re- 
 spect paid to superior dignity or station, the virtue of beneficence, 
 extended even to the brute creation — nay, the very crimson glow of 
 health, and swelling lines of beauty, are despised, detested, 
 scorned, and ridiculed, as ignorance, rudeness, rusticity, and 
 superstition. Thus we see how moral and natural beauty are 
 connected ; and of what importance it is, even to the formation 
 of taste, that the manners should be severely superintended. This 
 is a task which ought to take the lead of science ; for we will 
 venture to say, that virtue is the foundation of taste ; or rather, 
 that virtue and taste are built upon the same foundation of sensi- 
 bility, and cannot be disjoined without offering violence to both. 
 But virtue must be informed, and taste instructed, otherwise they 
 will both remain imperfect and ineffectual : 
 
 The critic, who with nice discernment knows 
 What to his country and his Mends he owes ; 
 How various nature warms the human breast, 
 To love the parent, brother, friend, or guest ; 
 
VIII.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 365 
 
 Y\~hat the great functions of our judges are, 
 Of senators, and generals sent to war : 
 He can distinguish, with unerring art, 
 The strokes peculiar to each different part- 
 Thus we see taste is composed of nature improved by art ; of 
 feeling tutored by instruction. 
 
 essay vni. 
 
 CULTIVATION OF TASTE. 
 
 Having explained what we conceive to be true taste, and in some 
 measure accounted for the prevalence of vitiated taste, we should 
 proceed to point out the most effectual manner in which a natural 
 capacity may be improved into a delicacy of judgment, and an 
 intimate acquaintance with the belles-lettres. We shall take it 
 for granted, that proper means have been used to form the 
 manners, and attach the mind to virtue. The heart, cultivated 
 by precept, and warmed by example, improves in sensibility, 
 which is the foundation of taste. By distinguishing the influence 
 and scope of morality, and cherishing the ideas of benevolence, it 
 acquires a habit of sympathy, which tenderly feels responsive, 
 like the vibration of unisons, every touch of moral beauty. Hence 
 it is that a man of a social he-art, entendered by the practice of 
 virtue, is awakened to the most pathetic emotions by every un- 
 common instance of generosity, compassion, and greatness of soul. 
 Is there any man so dead to sentiment, so lost to humanity, as to 
 read unmoved the generous behaviour of the Romans to the 
 states of Greece, as it is recounted by Livy, or embellished by 
 Thomson in his poem of ( Liberty V Speaking of Greece in the 
 decline of her power, when her freedom no longer existed, be 
 says, — 
 
 As at her Isthmian games — a fading pomp, 
 
 Her full assembled youth innumerous swarm'd, 
 
 On a tribunal raised Flamtnius sat ; 
 
 A victor he, from the deep phalanx pierced 
 
 Of iron-coated Macedon, and back 
 
 The Grecian tyrant to his bounds repell'd 
 
 In the high thoughtless gaiety of game, 
 
 While sport alone their unambitious hearts 
 
 Possess'd, the sudden trumpet, sounding hoarse, 
 
 Bade silence o'er the bright assembly reign. 
 
 Then thus a herald, — ' To the states of Greece 
 
8G3 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 The Roman people, unconflned, restore 
 
 Their countries, cities, liberties, and laws ; 
 
 Taxes remit, and garrisons withdraw.' 
 
 The crowd astonish'd half, and half inform'd, 
 
 Stared dubious round ; some question' d, some exclaim' <L 
 
 (Like one who, dreaming between hope and fear, 
 
 Is lost in anxious joy), * Be that again — 
 
 Be that again proclaim'd distinct and loud !* 
 
 Loud and distinct it was again proclaim'd ; 
 
 And, still as midnight in the rural shade, 
 
 When the gale slumbers, they the words devour'd. 
 
 Awhile severe amazement held them mute, 
 
 Then bursting broad, the boundless shout to heaven 
 
 From many a thousand hearts ecstatic sprung I 
 
 On every hand rebellow'd to their joy 
 
 The swelling sea, the rocks and vocal hills. 
 
 Like Bacchanals they flew, 
 
 Each other straining in a strict embrace, 
 
 Nor strain'd a slave ; and loud acclaims, till night, 
 
 Round the proconsul's tent repeated rung. 
 
 To one acquainted with the genius of Greece, the character 
 and disposition of that polished people, admired for science, 
 renowned for an unextinguishable love of freedom, nothing can 
 be more affecting than this instance of generous magnanimity of 
 the Roman people, in restoring them unasked to the full fruition 
 of those liberties which they had so unfortunately lost. 
 
 The mind of sensibility is equally struck by the generous con- 
 fidence of Alexander, who drinks, without hesitation, the potion 
 presented by his physician Philip, even after he had received in- 
 timation that poison was contained in the cup : a noble and 
 pathetic scene, which hath acquired new dignity and expression 
 under the inimitable pencil of a Le Sueur. Humanity is melted 
 into tears of tender admiration, by the deportment of Henry IV. 
 of France, while his rebellious subjects compelled him to form 
 the blockade of his capital. In chastising his enemies, he could 
 not but remember they were his people ; and knowing they were 
 reduced to the extremity of famine, he generously connived at 
 the methods practised to supply them with provision. Chancing 
 one day to meet two peasants, who had been detected in these 
 practices, as they were led to execution they implored his cle- 
 mency, declaring in the sight of Heaven, they had no other way 
 to procure subsistence for their wives and children ; he pardoned 
 them on the spot, and giving them all the money that was in his 
 purse, ■ Henry of Beam is poor/ said he ; * had he more money 
 to afford, you should have it : go home to your families in peace ; 
 and remember your duty to God, and your allegiance to your 
 sovereign .* Innumerable examples of the same kind may be 
 
VIII. J MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 367 
 
 selected from history, both ancient and modern, the study of 
 which we would therefore strenuously recommend. 
 
 Historical knowledge, indeed, becomes necessary on many other 
 accounts, which in its place we will explain : but as the forma- 
 tion of the heart is of the first consequence, and should precede 
 the cultivation of the understanding, such striking instances of 
 superior virtue ought to be culled for the perusal of the young 
 pupil, who will read them with eagerness, and revolve them with 
 pleasure. Thus the young mind becomes enamoured of moral 
 beauty, and the passions are listed on the side of humanity. 
 Meanwhile, knowledge of a different species will go hand in hand 
 with the advances of morality, and the understanding be gradu- 
 ally extended. Yirtue and sentiment reciprocally assist each 
 other, and both conduce to the improvement of perception. 
 "While the scholar's chief attention is employed in learning the 
 Latin and Greek languages, and this is generally the task of 
 childhood and early youth, it is even then the business of the pre- 
 ceptor to give his mind a turn for observation, to direct his 
 powers of discernment, to point out the distinguishing marks of 
 character, and dwell upon the charms of moral and intellectual 
 beauty, as they may chance to occur in the classics that are used 
 for his instruction. In reading Cornelius Nepos, and Plutarch's 
 Lives, even with a view to grammatical improvement only, he will 
 insensibly imbibe, and learn to compare, ideas of great importance. 
 He will become enamoured of virtue and patriotism, and acquire 
 a detestation for vice, cruelty, and corruption. The perusal of the 
 Roman story in the works of Florus, Sallust, Livy, and Tacitus, 
 will irresistibly engage his attention, expand hi3 conception, 
 cherish his memory, exercise his judgment, and warm him with a 
 noble spirit of emulation. He will contemplate with love and 
 admiration the disinterested candour of Aristides, surnamed the 
 Just, whom the guilty cabals of his rival Themistocles exiled 
 from his ungrateful country, by a sentence of ostracism. He will 
 be surprised to learn, that one of his fellow-citizens, an illiterate 
 artizan, bribed by his enemies, chancing to meet him in the 
 street without knowing his person, desired he would write 
 Aristides on his shell (which was the method those plebeians used 
 to vote against delinquents), when the innocent patriot wrote his 
 own name without complaint or expostulation. He will with equal 
 astonishment applaud the inflexible integrity of Fabricius, who 
 preferred the poverty of innocence to all the pomp of affluence, 
 with which Pyrrhus endeavoured to seduce him from the arms of 
 his country. He will approve with transport the noble generosity 
 of his soul in rejecting the proposal of that prince's physician, 
 who offered to take him off by poison ; and in sending the caitiff 
 
363 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 bound to his sovereign, whom he would have so basely and cruelly 
 betrayed. 
 
 In reading the ancient authors, even for the purposes of school 
 education, the unformed taste will begin to relish the irresistible 
 energy, greatness, and sublimity of Homer; the serene majesty, 
 the melody, and pathos of Virgil ; the tenderness of Sappho and 
 Tibullus ; the elegance and propriety of Terence ; the grace, viva- 
 city, satire, and sentiment of Horace. 
 
 Nothing will more conduce to the improvement of the scholar 
 in his knowledge of the languages, as well as in taste and morality, 
 than his being obliged to translate choice parts and passages of 
 the most approved classics, both poetry and prose, especially the 
 latter ; such as the Orations of Demosthenes and Isocrates, the 
 treatise of Longinus on the Sublime, the Commentaries of Czesar, 
 the Epistles of Cicero and the younger Pliny, and the two cele- 
 brated speeches in the Catilinarian conspiracy* by Sallust. By 
 this practice he will become more intimate with the beauties of 
 the writing, and the idioms of the language, from which he trans- 
 lates ; at the same time, it will form his style, and, by exercising 
 his talent of expression, make him a more perfect master of his 
 mother tongue. Cicero tells us, that in translating two orations, 
 which the most celebrated orators of Greece pronounced against 
 each other, he performed this task, not as a servile interpreter, 
 but as an orator, preserving the sentiments, forms, and figures of 
 the original, but adapting the expression to the taste and manners 
 of the Romans : — * In which I did not think it was necessary to 
 translate literally word for word, but I preserved the natural and 
 full scope of the whole.' Of the same opinion was Horace, who 
 says, in his Art of Poetry, — 
 
 Nor word for word translate with painful care 
 
 Nevertheless, in taking the liberty here granted, we are apt to 
 run into the other extreme, and substitute equivalent thoughts 
 and phrases, till hardly any features of the original remain. The 
 metaphors of figures, especially in poetry, ought to be as religious- 
 ly preserved as the images of painting, which we cannot alter or 
 exchange without destroying, or injuring at least the character 
 and style of the original. 
 
 In this manner the preceptor will sow the seeds of that taste 
 which will soon germinate, rise, blossom, and produce perfect 
 fruit by dint of future care and cultivation. In order to restrain the 
 luxuriancy of the young imagination, which is apt to run riot, to 
 enlarge the stock of ideas, exercise the reason and ripen the judg- 
 ment, the pupil must be engaged in the severer study of science. He 
 
 * The speeches of Cato and Csesar. 
 
VIII.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 869 
 
 must learn geometry, which Plato recommends for strengthening 
 the mind,and enabling it to think with precision. He must be made 
 acquainted with geography and chronology and trace philosophy 
 through all her branches. Without geography and chronology he 
 will not be able to acquire a distinct idea of history ; nor judge of 
 the propriety of many interesting scenes, and a thousand allusions, 
 that present themselves in the works of genius. Nothing opens 
 the mind so much as the researches of philosophy ; they inspire us 
 with sublime conceptions of the Creator, and subject, as it were, 
 all nature to our command. These bestow that liberal turn of 
 thinking, and in a great measure contribute to that universality 
 in learning, by which a man of taste ought to be eminently dis- 
 tinguished. But history is the inexhaustible source from which 
 he will derive his most useful knowledge respecting the progress 
 of the human mind, the constitution of government, the rise and 
 decline of empires, the revolution of arts, the variety of character, 
 and the vicissitudes of fortune. 
 
 The knowledge of history enables the poet not only to paint 
 characters, but also to describe magnificent and interesting scenes 
 of battle and adventure. Not that the poet or painter ought to 
 be restrained to the letter of historical truth. History represents 
 what has really happened in nature ; the other arts exhibit what 
 might have happened, with such exaggeration of circumstance 
 and feature as may be deemed an improvement on nature : but 
 this exaggeration must not be carried beyond the bounds of pro- 
 bability ; and these, generally speaking, the knowledge of history 
 will ascertain. It would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, 
 to find a man actually existing, whose proportions should answer 
 to those of the Greek statue distinguished by the name of the 
 Apollo of Belvidere ; or to produce a woman similar in proportion 
 of parts to the other celebrated piece called the Venus de Medicis ; 
 therefore it may be truly affirmed, that they are not conformable 
 to the real standard of nature : nevertheless every artist will own, 
 that they are the very archetypes of grace, elegance, and sym- 
 metry ; and every judging eye must behold them with admiration, 
 as improvements on the lines and lineaments of nature. The 
 truth is, the sculptor or statuary composed the various proportions 
 in nature from a great number of different subjects, every indi- 
 vidual of which he found imperfect or defective in some one par- 
 ticular, though beautiful in all the rest ; and from these observa- 
 tions, corroborated by taste and judgment, he formed an ideal 
 pattern, according to which his idea was modelled, and produced 
 in execution. 
 
 Everybody knows the story of Zeuxis, the famous painter of 
 Heraclea, who, according tc Pliny, invented the chiaro oscuro, or 
 
 2a 
 
176 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 disposition of light and shade, among the ancients, and excelled 
 all his contemporaries in the chromatique, or art of colouring. 
 This great artist being employed to draw a perfect beauty in the 
 character of Helen, to be placed in the temple of Juno, culled out 
 five of the most beautiful damsels the city could produce, and 
 selecting what was excellent in each, combined them in one pic- 
 ture according to the predisposition of his fancy, so that it shone 
 forth an amazing model of perfection. In like manner, every man 
 of genius, regulated by true taste, entertains in his imagination 
 an ideal beauty, conceived and cultivated as an improvement 
 upon nature : and this we refer to the article of invention. 
 
 It is the business of art to imitate nature, but not with a servile 
 pencil ; and to choose those attitudes and dispositions only, which 
 are beautiful and engaging. "With this view, we must avoid all 
 disagreeable prospects of nature which excite the ideas of abhor- 
 rence and disgust. For example, a painter would not find his ac- 
 count in exhibiting the resemblance of a dead carcase half con- 
 sumed by vermin, or of swine wallowing in ordure, or of a beggar 
 lousing himself on a dunghill, though these scenes should be 
 painted never so naturally, and all the world must allow that the 
 scenes were taken from nature, because the merit of the imitation 
 would be greatly overbalanced by the vile choice of the artist, 
 There are nevertheless many scenes of horror, which please in the 
 representation, from a certain interesting greatness, which we 
 shall endeavour to explain, when we come to consider the sublime. 
 
 Were we to judge every production by the rigorous rules of 
 nature, we should reject the Iliad of Homer, the ^Eneid of Virgil, 
 and every celebrated tragedy of antiquity and the present times, 
 because there is no such thing in nature as a Hector or Turnus 
 talking in hexameter, or an Othello in blank verse : we should 
 condemn the Hercules of Sophocles, and the Miser of Moliere, 
 because we never knew a hero so strong as the one, or a wretch 
 so sordid as the other. But if we consider poetry as an elevation 
 of natural dialogue, as a delightful vehicle for conveying the 
 noblest sentiments of heroism and patriot virtue, to regale the 
 sense with the sounds of musical expression, while the fancy is 
 ravished with enchanting images, and the heart warmed to rap- 
 ture and ecstacy, we must allow that poetry is a perfection to 
 which nature would gladly aspire ; and that, though it surpasses, 
 it does not deviate from her, provided the characters are marked 
 with propriety and sustained by genius. Characters, therefore, 
 both in poetry and painting, may be a little overcharged, or ex- 
 aggerated, without offering violence to nature ; nay, they must be 
 exaggerated in order to be striking, and to preserve the idea of 
 imitation, whence the reader and spectator derive, in many 
 
VIII.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 371 
 
 instances, their chief delight. If we meet a common acquaintance 
 in the street, we see him without emotion ; but should we chance 
 to spy his portrait well executed, we are struck with pleasing ad- 
 miration. In this case, the plea-sure arises entirely from the imi- 
 tation. We every day hear unmoved the natives of Ireland and 
 Scotland speaking their own dialects ; but should an Englishman 
 mimic either, we are apt to burst out into a loud laugh of applause, 
 being surprised and tickled by the imitation alone ; though at the 
 same time, we cannot but allow that the imitation is imperfect. 
 We are more affected by reading Shakspeare's description of Dover 
 Cliff, and Ot way's picture of the Old Hag,* than we should be 
 were we actually placed on the summit of the one, or met in 
 reality with such a beldame as the other ; because, in reading 
 these descriptions, we refer to our own experience, and perceive 
 with surprise, the justness of the imitations. But if it is so close 
 as to be mistaken for nature, the pleasure then will cease, because 
 the pi(jt,9i<ri$, or imitation no longer appears. 
 
 Aristotle says, that all poetry and music is imitation, whether 
 epic, tragic, or comic, whether vocal or instrumental, from the 
 pipe or the lyre. He observes, that in man there is a propen- 
 sity to imitate, even from his infancy ; that the first perceptions 
 of the mind are acquired by imitation ; and seems to think that 
 the pleasure derived from imitation is the gratification of an ap- 
 petite implanted by nature. We should rather think the pleasure 
 it gives arises from the mind's contemplating that excellency 
 of art which thus rivals nature, and seems to vie with her in 
 creating such a striking resemblance of her works. Thus the 
 arts may be justly termed imitative, even in the article of inven- 
 tion : for, in forming a character, contriving an incident, and de- 
 scribing a scene, he must still keep nature in view, and refer every 
 particular of his invention to her standard ; otherwise his pro- 
 duction will be destitute of truth and probability, without which 
 the beauties of imitation cannot subsist. It will be a monster of 
 incongruity, such as Horace alludes to, in the beginning of his 
 Epistle to the Pisos : 
 
 Suppose a painter, to a human head 
 Should join a horse's neck, and -vrildly spread, 
 The various plumage of the feather'd kind 
 O'er lhnhs of different beasts, absurdly join'd; 
 Or if he gave to view a beauteous maid, 
 Above the waist with every charm array'd, 
 Should a foul fish her lower parts unfold, 
 Would you not laugh such pictures to behold? 
 
 The magazine of nature supplies all those images which com- 
 
 * Tn The Orphan. 
 
872 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 pose the most beautiful imitations. This the artist examines oc- 
 casionally, as he would consult a collection of masterly sketches ; 
 and selecting particulars for his purpose, mingles the ideas with 
 a kind of enthusiasm, or ro fo'iov, which is that gift of Heaven we 
 call genius, and finally produces such a whole, as commands ad- 
 miration and applause. 
 
 ESSAY IX. 
 
 ORIGIN OF POETRY. 
 
 The study of polite literature is generally supposed to include all 
 the liberal arts of poetry, painting, sculpture, music, eloquence, 
 and architecture. All these are founded on imitation ; and all 
 of them mutually assist and illustrate each other. But as paint- 
 ing, sculpture, music, and architecture, cannot be perfectly at- 
 tained without long practice of manual operation, we shall distin- 
 guish them from poetry and eloquence, which depend entirely on 
 the faculties of the mind ; and on these last, as on the arts which 
 immediately constitute the belles-lettres, employ our attention in 
 the present enquiry : or, if it should run to a greater length than 
 we propose, it shall be confined to poetry alone ; a subject that 
 comprehends in its full extent the province of taste, or what is 
 called polite literature ; and differs essentially from eloquence, 
 both in its end and origin. 
 
 Poetry sprang from ease, and was consecrated to pleasure ; 
 whereas eloquence arose from necessity, and aims at conviction. 
 When we say poetry sprang from ease, perhaps we ought to except 
 that species of it which owed its rise to inspiration and enthusi- 
 asm, and properly belonged to the culture of religion. In the 
 first ages of mankind, and even in the original state of nature, 
 the unlettered mind must have been struck with sublime concep- 
 tions, with admiration and awe, by those great phenomena, which, 
 though every day repeated, can never be viewed without internal 
 emotion. Those would break forth in exclamations expressive of 
 the passion produced, whether surprise or gratitude, terror or 
 exultation. The rising, the apparent course, the setting, and 
 seeming renovation of the sun ; the revolution of light and dark- 
 ness ; the splendour, change, and circuit of the moon, and the 
 canopy of heaven bespangled with stars, must have produced 
 expressions of wonder and adoration. ' O glorious luminary ! 
 great eye of the world ! source of that light which guides my 
 steps ! of that heat which warms me when chilled with cold ! of 
 that influence which cheers the face of nature ! whither dost thou 
 
IX.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 37 S 
 
 retire every evening with the shades ? Whence dost thou spring 
 every morning with renovated lustre, and never-fading glory? 
 Art not thou the ruler, the creator, the god, of all that I behold ? 
 I adore thee, as thy child, thy slave, thy suppliant ! I crave thy 
 protection, and the continuance of thy goodness ! Leave me not 
 to perish with cold, or to wander solitary in utter darkness ! Re- 
 turn, return, after thy wonted absence : drive before thee the 
 gloomy clouds that would obscure the face of nature. The birds 
 begin to warble, and every animal is filled with gladness at thy 
 approach : even the trees, the herbs, and the flowers, seem to 
 rejoice with fresher beauties, and send forth a grateful incense to 
 thy power, whence their origin is derived !' A number of indivi- 
 duals, inspired with the same ideas, would join in these orisons, 
 which would be accompanied with corresponding gesticulations of 
 the body. They would be improved by practice, and grow regular 
 from repetition. The sounds and gestures would naturally fall 
 into measured cadence. Thus the song and dance would be pro- 
 duced ; and a system of worship being formed, the muse would be 
 consecrated to the purposes of religion. 
 
 Hence those forms of thanksgivings, and litanies of supplication, 
 with which the religious rites of all nations, even the most bar* 
 barous, are at this day celebrated in every quarter of the known 
 world. Indeed, this is a circumstance in which all nations sur- 
 prisingly agree, how much soever they may differ in every other 
 article of laws, customs, manners, and religion. The ancient 
 Egyptians celebrated the festivals of their god Apis with hymns 
 and dances. The superstition of the Greeks, partly derived from 
 the Egyptians, abounded with poetical ceremonies, such as cho- 
 ruses and hymns, sung and danced at their apotheoses, sacrifices, 
 games, and divinations. The Romans had their Carmen Seculare, 
 and Salian priests, who on certain festivals sung and danced 
 through the streets of Rome. The Israelites were famous for this 
 kind of exultation : ' And Miriam, the prophetess, the sister of 
 Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out 
 after her, with timbrels and with dances, and Miriam answered 
 them, Sing ye to the Lord,' &c. — ' And David danced before the 
 Lord with all his might.' The psalms composed by this monarch, 
 the songs of Deborah and Isaiah, are farther confirmations of 
 what we have advanced. 
 
 From the Phoenicians the Greeks borrowed the cursed Ortnyan 
 song, when they sacrificed their children to Diana. The poetry 
 of the bards constituted great part of the religious ceremonies 
 among the Gauls and Britons ; and the carousals of the Goths 
 were religious institutions, celebrated with songs of triumph. The 
 Mahometan Dervise dances to the sound of the flute, and whirl* 
 
874 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 himself round until he grows giddy, and falls into a trance. The 
 Marabouts compose hymns in praise of Alia. The Chinese cele- 
 brate their grand festivals with processions of idols, songs, and 
 instrumental music. The Tartars, Samoiedes, Laplanders, Ne- 
 groes, even the Caffres called Hottentots, solemnize their worship 
 (such as it is), with songs and dancing ; so that we may venture 
 to say, poetry is the universal vehicle in which all nations have 
 expressed their most sublime conceptions. 
 
 Poetry was, in all appearance, previous to any concerted plan 
 of worship, and to every established system of legislation. When 
 certain individuals, by dint of superior prowess or understanding, 
 had acquired the veneration of their fellow savages, and erected 
 themselves into divinities on the ignorance and superstition of 
 mankind ; then mythology took place, and such a swarm of deities 
 arose, as produced a religion replete with the most shocking 
 absurdities. Those whom their superior talents had deified, were 
 found to be still actuated by the most brutal passions of human 
 nature ; and, in all probability, their votaries were glad to find 
 such examples, to countenance their own vicious inclinations. 
 Thus, fornication, incest, rape, and even bestiality, were sanctified 
 by the amours of Jupiter, Pan, Mars, Venus, and Apollo. Theft 
 was patronized by Mercury, drunkenness by Bacchus, and cruelty 
 by Diana. The same heroes and legislators, those who delivered 
 their country, founded cities, established societies, invented useful 
 arts, or contributed, in any eminent degree, to the security and 
 happiness of their fellow-creatures, were inspired by the same lusts 
 and appetites which domineered among the inferior classes of man- 
 kind ; therefore every vice incident to human nature was cele- 
 brated in the worship of one or other of these divinities, and every 
 infirmity consecrated by public feast and solemn sacrifice. In 
 these institutions, the Poet bore a principal share. It was his 
 genius that contrived the plan, that executed the form of worship, 
 and recorded in verse the origin and adventures of their gods and 
 demigods. Hence the impurities and horrors of certain rites ; 
 the groves of Paphos and Baal-Peor ; the orgies of Bacchus ; the 
 human sacrifices to Moloch and Diana. Hence the theogony of 
 Hesiod ; the theology of Homer ; and those innumerable maxims 
 scattered through the ancient poets, inviting mankind to gratify 
 their sensual appetites, in imitation of the gods, who were cer- 
 tainly the best judges of happiness. It is well known, that Plato 
 expelled Homer from his commonwealth, on account of the infa- 
 mous characters by which he has distinguished his deities, as well 
 as for some depraved sentiments which he found diffused through 
 the course of the Iliad and Odyssey. Cicero enters into the spirit 
 of Plato, and exclaims, in his first book De Natura Deorum f— 
 
IX.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 374 
 
 1 Nor are those thing3 much more absurd, which, flowing from 
 the poet's tongue, have done mischief even by the sweetness of his 
 expression. The Poets have introduced gods inflamed with anger 
 and enraged with lust ; and even produced before our eyes their 
 wars, their wrangling, their duels, and their wounds. They have 
 exposed, besides, their antipathies, animosities, and dissensions ; 
 their origin and death ; their complaints and lamentations ; their 
 appetites indulged to all manner of excess, their adulteries, their 
 fetters, their amorous commerce with the human species, and 
 from immortal parents derived a mortal offspring.' 
 
 As the festivals of the gods necessarily produced good cheer, 
 which often carried to riot and debauchery, mirth of consequence 
 prevailed ; and this was always attended with buffoonery. Taunts 
 and jokes, and raillery and repartee, would necessarily ensue ; 
 and individuals would contend for the victory in wit and genius. 
 These contests would in time be reduced to some regulations, for 
 the entertainment of the people thus assembled, and some prize 
 would be decreed to him who was judged to excel his rivals. The 
 candidates for fame and profit being thus stimulated, would task 
 their talents, and naturally recommend these alternate recrimina- 
 tions to the audience, by clothing them with a kind of poetical 
 measure, which should bear a near resemblance to prose. Thus, 
 as the solemn service of the day was composed in the most sublime 
 species of poetry, such as the ode or hymn, the subsequent alter- 
 cation was carried on in iambics, and gave rise to satire. "We are 
 told by the Stagyrite, that the highest species of poetry was em- 
 ployed in celebrating great actions, but the humbler sort used in 
 this kind of contention ; and that in the ages of antiquity, there 
 were some bards that professed heroics, and some that pretended 
 to iambics only. 
 
 To these rude beginnings we not only owe the birth of satire, 
 but likewise the origin of dramatic poetry. Tragedy herself, which 
 afterwards attained to such dignity as to rival the epic muse, was 
 at first no other than a trial of crambo, or iambics, between two 
 peasants, and a goat was the prize, as Horace calls it, vile eertamen 
 ob hircum, ' a mean contest for a he-goat.' Hence the name 
 rpwytfila, signifying the goat song, from rpayos hircus, and ?<N 
 carmen. 
 
 Carmine qui tragico vilem certavit oh hircum, 
 Mox etiam agrestes satyros nudavit, et asper 
 Incolumi gravitate jocum tentavit, eo quod 
 Ulecebris erat et grata novitate morandus 
 Spectator, functusque sacris, et potus et exlex. 
 
 am 
 
176 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S prose works. 
 
 The tragic bard, a goat his humble prize, 
 Bade satyrs naked and uncouth arise ; 
 His muse severe, secure and undismay'd, 
 The rustic joke in solemn strain convey'd; 
 For novelty alone he knew could charm 
 A lawless crowd, with wine and feasting warm. 
 
 Satire, then, was originally a clownish dialogue in loose iambics, 
 so called because the actors were disguised like satyrs, who not 
 only recited the praises of Bacchus, or some other deity, but in- 
 terspersed their hymns with sarcastic jokes and altercation. Of 
 this kind is the Cyclop of Euripides, in which Ulysses is the prin- 
 cipal actor. The Romans also had their Atellance, or interludes, 
 of the same nature, so called from the city of Atella, where they 
 were first acted ; but these were highly polished in comparison of 
 the original entertainment, which was altogether rude and inde- 
 cent. Indeed the Cyclop itself, though composed by the accom- 
 plished Euripides, abounds with such impurity as ought not to ap- 
 pear on the stage of any civilised nation. 
 
 It is very remarkable, that the Atellance, which were in effect 
 tragi-comedies, grew into such esteem among the Romans, that 
 the performers in these pieces enjoyed several privileges which 
 were refused to the ordinary actors. They were not obliged to 
 unmask, like the other players, when their action was disagreeable 
 to the audience. They were admitted into the army, and enjoyed 
 the privileges of free citizens, without incurring that disgrace 
 which was affixed to the characters of other actors. The poet 
 Laberius, who was of equestrian order, being pressed by Julius 
 Caesar to act a part in his own performance, complied with great 
 reluctance, and complained of the dishonour he had incurred, in 
 his prologue preserved by Macrobius, which is one of the most 
 elegant morsels of antiquity. 
 
 Tragedy and comedy flowed from the same fountain, though 
 their streams were soon divided. The same entertainment which, 
 under the name of tragedy, was rudely exhibited by clowns, for 
 the prize of a goat, near some rural altar of Bacchus, assumed the 
 appellation of comedy when it was transferred into cities, and re- 
 presented with a little more decorum in a cart or waggon that 
 strolled from street to street, as the name xofifiU implies, being 
 derived from *upn a street, and fin a poem. To this origin Horace 
 alludes in these lines : — 
 
 Thespis, inventor of dramatic art, 
 
 Convey'd his vagrant actors in a cart ; 
 
 High o'er the crowd the mimic tribe appear'd, 
 
 And play'd and sung, with lees of wine besmear'd. 
 
 Thespis is called the inventor of the dramatic art, because he 
 
IX.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 377 
 
 raised the subject from clownish altercation to the character and 
 exploits of some hero : he improved the language and versifica- 
 tion, and relieved the chorus by the dialogue of two actors. This 
 was the first advance towards that consummation of genius and 
 art, which constitutes what is now called a perfect tragedy. The 
 next great improver was -^Eschylus, of whom the same critic says, — 
 Then jEschylus a decent vizard used, 
 Built a low stage, the flowing robe diffused : 
 In language more sublime the actors rage 
 And in the graceful buskin tread the stage. 
 
 The dialogue which Thespis introduced was called the Episode, 
 because it was an addition to the former subject, namely, the 
 praises of Bacchus ; so that now tragedy consisted of two distinct 
 parts, independent of each other ; the old recitative, which was the 
 chorus, sung in honour of the gods ; and the episode, which turned 
 upon the adventures of some hero. This episode being found very 
 agreeable to the people, ^Eschylus, who lived about half a century 
 after Thespis, still improved the drama, united the chorus to the 
 episode, so as to make them both parts or members of one fable, 
 multiplied the actors, contrived the stage, and introduced the deco- 
 rations of the theatre ; so th*\t Sophocles, who succeeded ^schylus, 
 had but one step to surmount in order to bring the drama to per- 
 fection. Thus tragedy was gradually detached from its original 
 institution, which was entirely religious. The priests of Bacchus 
 loudly complained of this innovation by means of the episode, 
 which was foreign to the intention of the chorus ; and hence arose 
 the proverb Nihil ad Dionysium, ' nothing to the purpose.' Plu- 
 tarch himself mentions the Episode, as a perversion of tragedy from 
 the honour of the gods to the passions of men. But notwithstanding 
 all opposition, the New Tragedy succeeded to admiration ; because 
 it was found the most pleasing vehicle of conveying moral truths, 
 of meliorating the heart, and extending the interests of humanity. 
 
 Comedy, according to Aristotle, is the younger sister of Tragedy. 
 As the first originally turned upon the praises of the gods, the 
 latter dwelt on the follies and vices of mankind. Such, we mean, 
 was the scope of that species of poetry which acquired the name 
 of comedy, in contradistinction to the tragic muse ; for in the be- 
 ginning they were the same. The foundation upon which comedy 
 was built, we have already explained to be the practice of satirical 
 repartee or altercation, in which individuals exposed the follies 
 and frailties of each other on public occasions of worship and fes- 
 tivity. 
 
 The first regular plan of comedy is said to have been the Mar- 
 gites of Homer, exposing the idleness and folly of a worthless cha- 
 racter ; but of this performance we have no remains. That divi- 
 
J78 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 Bion which is termed the ancient comedy, belongs to the labours 
 of Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristophanes, who were contemporaries, 
 and nourished at Athens about four hundred and thirty years be- 
 fore the Christian era. Such was the licence of the muse at this 
 period, that, far from lashing rice in general characters, she boldly 
 exhibited the exact portrait of every individual who had rendered 
 himself remarkable or notorious by his crimes, folly, or debauchery. 
 She assumed every circumstance of his external appearance, — his 
 very attire, air, manner, and even his name ; according to the ob- 
 servation of Horace, — 
 
 The comic poets, in its earliest age, 
 Who form'd the manners of the Grecian stage- 
 Was there a -villain who might justly claim 
 A better right of being damn'd to fame, 
 Rake, cut-throat, thief, whatever \ras his crime, 
 They boldly stigmatized the wretch in rhyme. 
 
 Eupolis is said to have satirized Alcibiades in this manner, and 
 to have fallen a sacrifice to the resentment of that powerful Athe- 
 nian ; but others say he was drowned in the Hellespont, during a 
 war against the Lacedemonians ; and that in consequence of this 
 accident, the Athenians passed a decree, that no poet should ever 
 bear arms. 
 
 The comedies of Cratinus are recommended by Quintilian for 
 their eloquence ; and Plutarch tells us, that even Pericles himself 
 could not escape the censure of this poet. 
 
 Aristophanes, of whom there are eleven comedies still extant, 
 enjoyed such a pre-eminence of reputation, that the Athenians, 
 by a public decree, honoured him with a crown made of a conse- 
 crated olive-tree, which grew in the citadel, for his care and suc- 
 cess in detecting and exposing the vices of those who governed 
 the commonwealth. Yet this poet, whether impelled by mere 
 wantonness of genius, or actuated by malice and envy, could not 
 refrain from employing the shafts of his ridicule against Socrates, 
 the most venerable character of Pagan antiquity. In the comedy 
 of The Clouds, this virtuous philosopher was exhibited on the stage, 
 under his own name, in a cloak exactly resembling that which 
 Socrates wore, in a mask modelled from his features, disputing 
 publicly on the nature of right and wrong. This was undoubtedly 
 an instance of the most flagrant licentiousness ; and what renders 
 it the more extraordinary, the audience received it with great ap- 
 plause, even while Socrates himself sat publicly in the theatre. 
 The truth is, the Athenians were so fond of ridicule, that they 
 relished it even when employed against the gods themselves, some 
 of whose characters were very roughly handled by Aristophanes 
 and his rivals in reputation. 
 
IX.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS, 3f9 
 
 We might here draw a parallel between the inhabitants of 
 Athens and the natives of England, in point of constitution, genius, 
 and disposition. Athens was a free state, like England, that piqued 
 itself upon the influence of the democracy. Like England, ita 
 wealth and strength depended upon its maritime rower ; and it 
 generally acted as umpire in the disputes that arose among its 
 neighbours. The people of Athens, like those of England, were 
 remarkably ingenious, and made great progress in the arts and 
 sciences. They excelled in poetry, history, philosophy, mechanics, 
 and manufactures ; they were acute, discerning, disputatious, 
 fickle, wavering, rash, and combustible, and, above all other na- 
 tions in Europe, addicted to ridicule — a character which the En- 
 glish inherit in a very remarkable degree. 
 
 If we may judge from the writings of Aristophanes, his chief 
 aim was to gratify the spleen and excite the mirth of his audience ; 
 of an audience, too, that would seem to have been uninformed by 
 taste, and altogether ignorant ef decorum ; for his pieces are re- 
 plete with the most extravagant absurdities, virulent slander, im- 
 piety, impurities, and low buffoonery. The comic muse, not con- 
 tented with being allowed to make free with the gods and philo- 
 sophers, applied her scourge so severely to the magistrates of the 
 commonwealth, that it was thought proper to restrain her within 
 bounds by a law, enacting, that no person should be stigmatized 
 under his real name ; and thus the chorus was silenced. In order 
 to elude the penalty of this law, and gratify the taste of the people, 
 the poets began to substitute fictitious names, under which they 
 exhibited particular characters in such lively colours, that the re- 
 semblance could not possibly be mistaken or overlooked. This 
 practice gave rise to what is called the Middle Comedy, which was 
 but of short duration ; for the legislature, perceiving that the first 
 law had not removed the grievance against which it was provided, 
 issued a second ordinance, forbidding, under severe penalties, any 
 real or family occurrences to be represented. This restriction wa3 
 the immediate cause of improving comedy into a general mirror, 
 held forth to reflect the various follies and foibles incident to hu- 
 man nature ; a species of writing called the New Comedy, intro- 
 duced by Diphilus and Menander, of whose works nothing but a 
 few fragments remain. 
 
880 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 ESSAY X. 
 
 POETRY DISTINGUISHED FROM OTHER WRITING. 
 
 Having communicated our sentiments touching the origin of 
 poetry, by tracing tragedy and comedy to their common source, 
 we shall now endeavour to point out the criteria by which poetry 
 is distinguished from every other species of writing. In common 
 with other arts, such as statuary and painting, it comprehends 
 imitation, invention, composition, and enthusiasm. Imitation is 
 indeed the basis of all the liberal arts ; invention and enthusiasm 
 constitute genius, in whatever manner it may be displayed. 
 Eloquence of all sorts admits of enthusiasm. Tully says, an 
 orator should be * violent as a tempest, impetuous as a torrent, 
 and, glowing intense as the red bolt of heaven, he thunders, 
 lightens, overthrows, and bears down all before him, by the irre- 
 sistible tide of eloquence.' This is the mens divinior atque os 
 magna sonaturum of Horace. This is the talent, 
 
 With passions not my own who fires my heart ; 
 Who with unreal terrors fills my breast, 
 As with a magic influence possess'cL 
 
 We are told that Michael Angelo Buonaroti used to work at his 
 statues in a fit of enthusiasm, during which he made the fragments 
 of the stone fly about him with surprising violence. The cele- 
 brated Lully being one day blamed for setting nothing to music 
 but the languid verses of Quinault, was animated with the re- 
 proach, and running in a fit of enthusiasm to his harpsichord, 
 sung in recitative, and accompanied four pathetic lines from the 
 Iphigenia of Racine, with such expression as filled the hearers 
 with astonishment and horror. 
 
 Though versification be one of the criteria that distinguish 
 poetry from prose, yet it is not the sole mark of distinction. 
 Were the histories of Polybius and Livy simply turned into verse, 
 they would not become poems ; because they would be destitute 
 of those figures, embellishments, and flights of imagination, 
 which display the poet's art and invention. On the other hand, 
 we have many productions that justly lay claim to the title of 
 poetry, without having the advantage of versification ; witness the 
 Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, with many beautiful 
 hymns, descriptions, and rhapsodies, to be found in different 
 parts of the Old Testament, some of them the immediate produc- 
 tion of Divine inspiration ; witness the Celtic fragments * which 
 
 * Macpherson's Ossian. 
 
X.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 381 
 
 have lately appeared in the English language, and are certainly 
 replete with poetical merit. But though good versification alone 
 will not constitute poetry, bad versification alone will certainly 
 degrade and render disgustful the sublimest sentiments and finest 
 flewers of imagination. This humiliating power of bad verse 
 appears in many translations of the ancient poets ; in Ogilby's 
 Homer, Trapp's Virgil, and frequently in Creech's Horace. This 
 last indeed is not wholly devoid of spirit; but it seldom rises 
 above mediocrity, and, as Horace says, 
 
 • Mediocribus esse poetis 
 
 Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnse. 
 
 But God and man, and letter'd post denies, 
 That poets ever are of middling size. 
 
 How is that beautiful ode, beginning with Justum et tenacem pro- 
 poiiti virum, chilled and tamed by the following translation : — 
 
 He who by principle is sway'd, 
 
 In truth and justice still the same, 
 
 Is neither of the crowd afraid, 
 
 Though civil broils the state inflame ; 
 
 Nor to a haughty tyrant's frown will stoop, 
 
 Nor to the raging storm, when all the winds are up. 
 
 Should nature with convulsions shake, 
 Struck with the fiery bolts of Jove, 
 The final doom and dreadful crack 
 Cannot his constant courage move. 
 
 That long Alexandrine — ' Nor to the raging storm, when all the 
 winds are up/ is drawling, feeble, swoln with a pleonasm or tau« 
 tology, as well as deficient in the rhyme ; and as for the ■ dreadful 
 crack/ in the next stanza, instead of exciting terror, it conveys a 
 low and ludicrous idea. How much more elegant and energetic 
 is this paraphrase of the same ode, inserted in one of the volumea 
 of Hume's History of England : — 
 
 The man whose mind, on virtue bent, 
 Pursues some greatly good intent 
 
 With undiverted aim, 
 Serene beholds the angry crowd ; 
 Nor can their clamours fierce and loud 
 
 His stubborn honour tame. 
 
 Nor the proud tyrant's fiercest threat, 
 Nor storms that from their dark retreat 
 
 The lawless surges wake ; 
 Nor Jove's dread bolt that shakes the polo, 
 The firmer purpose of his soul 
 
 With all 'ts power can shake. 
 
382 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 Should nature's frame in ruins fall, 
 And chaos o'er the sinking hall 
 
 Resume primeval sway, 
 His courage chance and fate defies. 
 Nor feels the wreck o* earth and skies 
 
 Obstruct its destined way. 
 
 If poetry exists independent of versification, it will naturally 
 be asked, how then is it to be distinguished ? Undoubtedly by its 
 own peculiar expression : it has a language of its own, which 
 speaks so feelingly to the heart, and so pleasingly to the imagina- 
 tion, that its meaning cannot possibly be misunderstood by any 
 person of delicate sensations. It is a species of painting with 
 words, in which the figures are happily conceived, ingeniously 
 arranged; affectingly expressed, and recommended with all the 
 warmth and harmony of colouring : it consists of imagery, 
 description, metaphors, similes, and sentiments, adapted with 
 propriety to the subject, so contrived and executed as to soothe 
 the ear, surprise and delight the fancy, mend and melt the heart; 
 elevate the mind, and please the understanding. According to 
 Flaccus : 
 
 Poets would profit or delight mankind, 
 And with th' amusing show th' instructive join'cL 
 Profit and pleasure mingled thus with art, 
 To soothe the fancy and improve the heart 
 
 Tropes and figures are likewise liberally used in rhetoric ; and 
 some of the most celebrated orators have owned themselves much 
 indebted to the poets. Theophrastus expressly recommends the 
 poets for this purpose. From their source, the spirit and energy 
 of the pathetic, the sublime, and the beautiful are derived. But 
 these figures must be more sparingly used in rhetoric than in 
 poetry, and even than mingled with argumentation, and a detail 
 of facts altogether different from poetical narration. The poet, 
 instead of simply relating the incident, strikes off a glowing pic- 
 ture of the scene, and exhibits it in the most lively colours to the 
 eye of the imagination. ' It is reported that Homer was blind,' 
 says Tully, in his Tusculan Questions, ' yet his poetry is no other 
 than painting. What country, what climate, what ideas, battles, 
 commotions, and contests of men, as well as of wild beasts, has he 
 not painted in such a manner, as to bring before our eyes those 
 very scenes which he himself could not behold !' We cannot, 
 therefore, subscribe to the opinion of some ingenious critics, who 
 have blamed Mr Pope for deviating in some instances from the 
 simplicity of Homer, in his translation of the Iliad and the 
 Odyssey. For example, the Grecian bard says simply, the sun 
 rose ; his translator gives us a beautiful picture of the sun rising. 
 
X.] 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
 
 383 
 
 Homer mentions a person who played upon the lyre ; his trans- 
 lator sets him before us warbling to the silver strings. If this be 
 a deviation, it is at the same time an improvement. Homer 
 himself, as Cicero observes above, is full of this kind of painting, 
 and particularly fond of description, even in situations where the 
 action seems to require haste. Neptune, observing from Samo* 
 thrace the discomfiture of the Grecians before Troy, flies to their 
 assistance, and might have been wafted thither in half a line : 
 but the bard describes him, first, descending the mountain on 
 which he sat ; secondly, striding towards his palace at ^Egae, and 
 yoking his horses ; thirdly, he describes him putting on his 
 armour ; and, lastly, ascending his car, and driving along the 
 surface of the sea. Far from being disgusted by these delays, we 
 are delighted with the particulars of the description. Nothing 
 can be more sublime than the circumstance of the mountain's 
 trembling beneath the footsteps of an immortal : — 
 
 Hooviv vt* oc^ecveiroto'i Uoffu^tLuvos tovros* 
 
 But his passage to the Grecian fleet is altogether transporting. 
 Bii V ikoiotv i-rt xu/ackt, x. r. A. 
 
 He mounts the car, the golden scourge applies, 
 
 He sits superior, and the chariot flies ; 
 
 His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep ; 
 
 Th' enormous monsters, rolling o'er the deep, 
 
 Gambol around him on the watery way, 
 
 And heavy whales in awkward measures play : 
 
 The sea subsiding, spreads a level plain, 
 
 Exults and crowns the monarch of the main ; 
 
 The parting waves before his coursers fly ; 
 
 The wond'ring waters leave his axle dry. 
 With great veneration for the memory of Mr Pope, we cannot 
 help objecting to some lines of this translation. "We have no idea 
 of the sea exulting and crowning Neptune, after it had subsided 
 into a level plain. There is no such image in the original. 
 Homer says, the whales exulted, and knew or owned their king ; 
 and that the sea parted with joy : yn6o<rvvn %t tiaXucrtrti Itta-TOiro. 
 Neither is there a word of the wondering waters : we therefore 
 think the lines might be thus altered to advantage : — 
 
 They knew and own'd the monarch of the main. 
 
 The sea subsiding spreads a level plain ; 
 
 The curling waves before his coursers fly ; 
 
 The parting surface leaves his brazen axle dry. 
 
 Besides the metaphors, similes, and allusions of poetry, there is 
 an infinite variety of tropes, or turns of expression, occasionally 
 disseminated through works of genius, which serve to animate 
 
384 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 the whole, and distinguish the glowing effusions of real inspira« 
 tion from the cold efforts of mere science. These tropes consist oi 
 a certain happy choice and arrangement of words, by which ideas 
 are artfully disclosed in a great variety of attitudes ; of epithets, 
 and compound epithets ; of sounds collected in order to echo the 
 sense conveyed ; of apostrophes ; and, above all, the enchanting 
 use of the prosopopoeia, which is a kind of magic, by which the 
 poet gives life and motion to every inanimate part of nature. 
 Homer, describing the wrath of Agamemnon, in the first book of 
 the Iliad, strikes off a glowing image in two words : — 
 
 And from his eyeballs flash 1 d the living fire. 
 
 This indeed is a figure which has been copied by Virgil, and 
 almost all the poets of every age — oculis micat acribus ignis — 
 ignescunt irae : auris dolor ossibus ardet. Milton describing Satan 
 in hell, says, — 
 
 With head uplift above the wave, and eye 
 That sparkling blazed. 
 
 — He spake : and to confirm his words out flew 
 Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
 Of mighty cherubim. The sudden blaze 
 Far round illumined helL 
 
 There are certain words in every language particularly adapted 
 to the poetical expression ; some from the image or idea they 
 convey to the imagination, and some from the effect they have upon 
 the ear. The first are truly figurative ; the others may be called 
 emphatical. Rollin observes, that Virgil has, upon many occa- 
 sions, poetized (if we may be allowed the expression) a whole 
 sentence by means of the same word, which is pendere, 
 
 Ite mese, felix quondam pecus, ite capellas, 
 Non ego vos posthac, viridi projectus in antro, 
 Dumosa pendere procul de rape videbo. 
 
 At ease reclined beneath the verdant shade, 
 No more shall I behold my happy flock 
 Aloft hang browsing on the tufted rock. 
 
 Here the word pendere wonderfully improves the landscape, and 
 renders the whole passage beautifully picturesque. The same 
 figurative verb we meet with in many different parts of the 
 
 ^Eneid. 
 
 Hi summo fluctu pendent, his unda dehiscens 
 Terrain inter fluctus aperit. 
 These on the mountain billow hung ; to those 
 The yawning waves the yellow sand disclose. 
 
 In this instance, the words pendent and dehiscens, hung and yawn* 
 ing, are equally poetical. Addison seems to have had this passage 
 
X-j MIfcCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 885 
 
 in his eye, when he wrote his hymn, which is inserted in the 
 Spectator : — 
 
 — For though in dreadful whirls we hung, 
 
 High on the broken wave. 
 
 And, in another piece of a like nature in the same collection : — 
 Thy Providence my life sustain'd, 
 
 And all my wants redress'd, 
 "When in the silent womb I lay, 
 
 And hung upon the breast. 
 
 Shakspeare, in his admired description of Dover cliff, uses the 
 same expression : 
 
 half way down 
 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire — dreadful trade S 
 Nothing can be more beautiful than the following picture, in 
 which Milton has introduced the same expressive tint : 
 
 he, on his side, 
 
 Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love, 
 Hung over her enamour'd. 
 We shall give one example more from Virgil, to show in what a 
 variety of scenes it may appear with propriety and effect. In 
 describing the progress of Dido's passion for ^Eneas, the poet says, 
 Iliacos iterum demens audire labores 
 Exposcit, pendetque iterum narrantes ab ore. 
 The woes of Troy once more she begg'd to hear ; 
 Once more the mournful tale employ'd his tongue, 
 While in fond rapture on his lips she hung. 
 
 The reader will perceive, in all these instances, that no other 
 word could be substituted with equal energy ; indeed no other 
 word could be used, without degrading the sense and defacing the 
 image. 
 
 There are many other verbs of poetical import fetched from 
 nature and from art, which the poet uses to advantage, both in 
 the literal and metaphorical sense ; and these have been always 
 translated for the same purpose from one language to another ; 
 such as quasso, concutio, cio, suscito, lenio, scevio, mccno, ftuo, ardeo, 
 mico, aro, to shake, to wake, to rouse, to soothe, to rage, to flow, 
 to shine or blaze, to plough. Quassantia tectum limina — jEneas 
 casu concussus acerbo — jEre ciere viros, Martemque accendere can- 
 tu — JEneas acuit Martem et se suscitat ira — Impium lenite clamo- 
 rem, Lenibant euros — Ne ssevi magne sacerdos — Sudor ad imos 
 manabat solos — Suspensaque diu lachrymvc fluxere per ora— Juven- 
 ali ardebat amore — Micat cereus ensis — Nullum maris cequor aran- 
 dum. It will be unnecessary to insert examples of the same 
 nature from the English poets. 
 
 The words we term emphatical are such as by their sound ex- 
 
S86 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 press the sense they are intended to convey ; and with these the 
 Greek abounds, above all other languages, not only from its natu- 
 ral copiousness, flexibility, and significance, but also from the va- 
 riety of its dialects, which enables a writer to vary his termina- 
 tions occasionally as the nature of the subject requires, without 
 offending the most delicate ear, or incurring the imputation of 
 adopting vulgar provincial expressions. Every smatterer in Greek 
 can repeat 
 
 BjJ tfetKicuv -ruga, 07va <roXi>$Xot<?pOio $cx.\a,<?<rr,;) 
 in which the two last words wonderfully echo to the sense, con- 
 veying the idea of the sea dashing on the shore. How much more 
 significant in sound than that beautiful image of Shakspeare — 
 The sea that on the unnumber'd pebbles beats. 
 
 And yet, if we consider the strictness of propriety, this last ex- 
 pression would seem to have been selected on purpose to concur 
 with the other circumstances, which are brought together to as- 
 certain the vast height of Dover-cliff; for the poet adds, ■ cannot 
 be heard so high.' The place where Glo'ster stood was so high 
 above the surface of the sea, that the <p*.o7rfios, or dashing, could 
 not be heard ; and therefore an enthusiastic admirer of Shak- 
 speare might with some plausibility affirm the poet had chosen 
 an expression in which that sound is not at all conveyed. 
 
 In the very same page of Homer's Iliad we meet with two 
 other striking instances of the same sort of beauty. Apollo, in- 
 sensed at the insults his priest had sustained, descends from 
 the top of Olympus, with his bow and quiver rattling on his 
 shoulder as he moved along : 
 
 w Kx.\xyt,a.v & ceo oi<rro) X'Zup.Mi/. 
 Here the sound of the word *ExXc:y£av admirably expresses the 
 clanking of armour ; as the third line after this surprisingly imi- 
 tates the twanging of a bow. 
 
 As<v« 1\ xkayyh y'tvir aoyv^ioio $to7o* 
 In shrill-toned murmurs sung the twanging bow. 
 
 Many beauties of the same kind are scattered throuh Homer, 
 Pindar, and Theocritus, such a3 the ^o^ivtra. pi\i<r<riz, susur- 
 rans apicula ; the aob •^tQvourptx., dulcem susurrum; and the /us- 
 T^ifftirtu for the sighing of the pine. 
 
 The Latin language teems with sounds adapted to every situa- 
 tion, and the English is not destitute of this significant energy. 
 We have the cooing turtle, the sighing reed, the warbling rivulet, 
 the nliding stream, the whispering breeze, the glance, the gleam, 
 the flash, the bickering flame, the das hing wave, the gushing spring, 
 the howling blast, the rattling storm, the pattering shower, the 
 
XI.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 38? 
 
 crimp earth, the mouldering tower, the twanging bow-striDg, the 
 clanging arms, the clanking chains, the tivinkling stars, the tinkling 
 chords, the trickling drops, the twittering swallow, the cawing rook, 
 the screeching owl ; and a thousand other words and epithets, 
 wonderfully suited to the sense they imply. Among the select pas- 
 sages of poetry which we shall insert by way of illustration, the 
 reader will find instances of all the different tropes and figures 
 which the best authors have adopted in the variety of their 
 poetical works, as well as of the apostrophe, abrupt transition, 
 repetition, and prosopopoeia. 
 
 In the mean time, it will be necessary still further to analyse 
 those principles which constitute the essence of poetical merit ; 
 to display those delightful parterres that teem with the fairest 
 flowers of imagination ; and distinguish between the gaudy off- 
 spring of a cold insipid fancy, and the glowing progeny, diffusing 
 sweets, produced and invigorated by the sun of genius. 
 
 ESSAY XI. 
 
 METAPHOR. 
 
 Of all the implements of Poetry, the metaphor is the most gene- 
 rally and successfully used, and indeed may be termed the Muse's 
 caduceus, by the power of which she enchants all nature. The 
 metaphor is a shorter simile, or rather a kind of magical coat, by 
 which the same idea assumes a thousand different appearances. 
 Thus the word plough, which originally belongs to agriculture, 
 being metaphorically used, represents the motion of a ship at 
 sea, and the effects of old age upon the human countenance : — 
 
 Ploughed the bosom of the deep— 
 
 And time had plough' d his venerable front 
 
 Almost every verb, noun substantive, or term of art in any lan- 
 guage, may be in this manner applied to a variety of subjects with 
 admirable effect ; but the danger is in sowing metaphors too thick, 
 so as to distract the imagination of the reader, and incur the im- 
 putation of deserting nature, in order to hunt after conceits. 
 Every day produces poems of all kinds, so inflated with metaphor, 
 that they may be compared to the gaudy bubbles blown up from 
 a solution of soap. Longinus is of opinion, that a multitude of 
 metaphors is never excusable, except in those cases when the pas- 
 sions are roused, and like a winter torrent, rush down impetuous, 
 sweeping them with collective force ak>ng. He brings an instance 
 
38S 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 in the following quotation from Demosthenes : — * Men,' says he, 
 1 profligates, miscreants, and flatterers, who having severally preyed 
 upon the bowels of their country, at length betrayed her liberty, 
 first to Philip, and now again to Alexander : who, placing the 
 chief felicity of life in the indulgence of infamous lusts and ap- 
 petites, overturned in the dust that freedom and independence 
 which was the chief aim and end of all our worthy ancestors.' 
 
 Aristotle and Theophrastus seem to think it is rather too bold 
 and hazardous to use metaphors so freely, without interposing some 
 mitigating phrase, such as, ' if I may be allowed the expression,' 
 or some equivalent excuse. At the same time Longinus finds fault 
 with Plato for hazarding some metaphors, which, indeed, appear 
 to be equally affected and extravagant, when he says, ' the go- 
 vernment of a state should not resemble a bowl of hot fermenting 
 wine, but a cool and moderate beverage chastised by the sober deity J 
 — a metaphor that signifies nothing more than ■ mixed or lowered 
 with water.' Demetrius Phalereus justly observes, that though a 
 judicious use of metaphors wonderfully raises, sublimes, and adorns 
 oratory or elocution, yet they should seem to flow naturally from 
 the subject ; and too great a redundancy of them inflates the dis- 
 course to a mere rhapsody. The same observation will hold in 
 poetry ; and the more liberal or sparing use of them will depend, 
 in a great measure, on the nature of the subject. 
 
 Passion itself is very figurative, and often bursts out into meta- 
 phors ; but, in touching the pathos, the poet must be perfectly 
 well acquainted with the emotions of the human soul, and care- 
 fully distinguish between those metaphors which rise glowing from 
 the heart, and those cold conceits which are engendered in the 
 fancy. Should one of these last unfortunately intervene, it will 
 be apt to destroy the whole effect of the most pathetical incident 
 or situation. Indeed, it requires the most delicate taste, and a 
 consummate knowledge of propriety, to employ metaphors in such 
 a manner as to avoid what the ancients call the to ypvxpov, the 
 frigid or false sublime. Instances of this kind were frequent even 
 among the correct ancients. Sappho herself is blamed for using 
 the hyperbole Xtuzoripot %iovo$, whiter than snow. Demetrius is 
 so nice as to be disgusted at the simile of swift as tlie wind; though, 
 in speaking of a race-horse, we know from experience that this is 
 not even an hyperbole. He would have had more reason to cen- 
 sure that kind of metaphor which Aristotle styles xar' ivipyum, 
 exhibiting things inanimate as endued with sense and reason ; 
 such as that of the sharp-pointed arrow, eaga to take wing among 
 the crowd: o %u$i\h$ xoctf opiXov ivrmria&ou /Lcsviuivcov. Not but 
 that, in descriptive poetry, this figure is often allowed and ad- 
 mired. The cruel sword, the ruthless dagger, the ruffian blast, are 
 
XI ] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 389 
 
 epithets which frequently occur. The faithful bosom of the earth, 
 the joyous boughs, the trees that admire their images reflected in 
 the stream, and many other examples of this kind, are found dis- 
 seminated through the works of our best modern poets : yet still 
 they must be sheltered under the privilege of the poetica licentia ,- 
 and, except in poetry, they would give offence. 
 
 More chaste metaphors are freely used in all kinds of writing ; 
 more sparingly in history, and more abundantly in rhetoric : we 
 have seen that Plato indulges in them even to excess. The ora- 
 tions of Demosthenes are animated, and even inflamed with meta- 
 phors, some of them so bold as even to entail upon him the censure 
 of the Critics. Tors rou Ilvdcovt too pr,rcgi piovri xcttf ufcav. — * Then 
 I did not yield to Python the orator, when he overflowed you with 
 a tide of eloquence.' Cicero is still more liberal in the use of them ; 
 he ransacks all nature, and pours forth a redundancy of figures 
 even with a lavish hand. Even the chaste Xenophon, who gene- 
 rally illustrates his subject by way of simile, sometimes ventures 
 to produce an expressive metaphor, such as ' part of the phalanx 
 fluctuated in the march ;' and indeed nothing can be more signifi- 
 cant than this word l^ixvf^vh to represent a body of men stag- 
 gered, and on the point of giving way. Armstrong has used the 
 word fluctuate with admirable efficacy, in his philosophical poem, 
 entitled The Art of Preserving Health : 
 
 Oh ! when the growling winds contend, and all 
 
 The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm, 
 
 To sink in warm repose, and hear the din 
 
 Howl o'er the steady battlements 
 
 The word fluctuate, on this occasion, not only exhibits an idea 
 of struggling, but also echoes to the sense like the €<p^£sv T% p&%n 
 of Homer ; which, by the by, it is impossible to render into Eng- 
 lish, for the verb (poi<?<ru signifies not only to stand erect like 
 prickles, as a grove of lances, but also to make a noise like a 
 crashing of armour, the hissing of javelins, and the splinters o* 
 spears. 
 
 Over and above an excess of figures, a young author is apt to 
 run into a confusion of mixed metaphors, which leave the sense 
 disjointed, and distract the imagination: Shakspeare himself is 
 often guilty of these irregularities. The soliloquy in Hamlet, 
 which we have so often heard extolled in terms of admiration, is, 
 in our opinion, a heap of absurdities, whether we consider the 
 situation, the sentiment, the argumentation, or the poetry. Harn* 
 . let is informed by the Ghost, that his father was murdered, and 
 therefore he is tempted to murder himself, even after he had pro- 
 mised to take vengeance on the usurper, and expressed the utmost 
 eagerness to achieve this enterprise. It does not appear that he 
 
GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 had the least reason to wish for death ; but every motive which 
 may be supposed to influence the mind of a young prince con- 
 curred to render life desirable, — revenge towards the usurper, 
 love for the fair Ophelia, and the ambition of reigning. Besides, 
 when he had an opportunity of dying without being accessary to 
 his own death — when he had nothing to do but, in obedience to 
 his uncle's command, to allow himself to be conveyed quietly to 
 England, where he was sure of suffering death, — instead of amus- 
 ing himself with meditations on mortality, he very wisely consulted 
 the means of self-preservation, turned the tables upon his atten- 
 dants, and returned to Denmark. But granting him to have been 
 reduced to the lowest state of despondence, surrounded with no- 
 thing but horror and despair, sick of this life, and eager to tempt 
 futurity, we shall see how far he argues like a philosopher. 
 
 In order to support this general charge against an author so 
 universally held in veneration, whose very errors have helped to 
 sanctify his character among the multitude, we will descend to 
 particulars, and analyse this famous soliloquy. 
 
 Hamlet having assumed the disguise of madness as a cloak 
 under which he might the more effectually revenge his father's 
 death upon the murderer and usurper, appears alone upon the 
 stage, in a pensive and melancholy attitude, and communes with 
 himself in these words : 
 
 To be, or not to be ? that is the question : — 
 "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
 And, by opposing, end them ?— &c 
 
 We have already observed, that there is not any apparent cir- 
 cumstance in the fate or situation of Hamlet, that should prompt 
 him to harbour one thought of self-murder ; and therefore these 
 expressions of despair imply an impropriety in point of character. 
 But supposing his condition was truly desperate, and he saw no 
 possibility of repose but in the uncertain harbour of death, let us 
 see in what manner he argues on that subject. The question is, 
 1 To be, or not to be ;' to die by my own hand, or live and suffer 
 the miseries of life. He proceeds to explain the alternative in 
 these terms : * whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer, or endure, 
 the frowns of fortune, or to take arms, and, by opposing, end them. , 
 Here he deviates from his first proposition, and death is no longer 
 the question. The only doubt is, whether he will stoop to misfor- 
 tune, or exert his faculties in order to surmount it. This surely 
 is the obvious meaning, and indeed the only meaning that can be 
 implied in these words, 
 
XI.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 391 
 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
 
 And, by opposing, end them. 
 He now drops this idea, and reverts to his reasoning on death, 
 in the course of which he owns himself deterred from suicide by 
 the thoughts of what may follow death : 
 
 the dread of something after death, — 
 
 That undiscover'd country, fro m whose bourne 
 
 No traveller returns. 
 This might be a good argument in a heathen or pagan, and 
 such indeed Hamlet really was ; but Shakspeare has already 
 represented him as a good catholic, who must have been ac- 
 quainted with the truths of revealed religion, and says expressly 
 in this very play, 
 
 had not the Everlasting fix'd 
 
 His canon 'gainst self-murder. 
 
 Moreover, he had just been conversing with his father's spirit 
 piping hot from purgatory, which we presume is not within the 
 bourne of this world. The dread of what may happen after death, 
 says he, 
 
 Makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
 Than fly to others that we know not of. 
 
 This declaration at least implies some knowledge of the other 
 world, and expressly asserts, that there must be ills- in that world, 
 though what kind of ills they are we do not know. The argument, 
 therefore, may be reduced to this dilemma: this world abounds 
 with ills which I feel : the other world abounds with ills, the 
 nature of which I do not know; therefore, I will rather bear those 
 ills I have, ' than fly to others which I know not of:' a deduction 
 amounting to a certainty, with respect to the only circumstance 
 that could create a doubt, namely, whether in death he should 
 rest from his misery ; and if he was certain there were evils in 
 the next world, as well as in this, he had no room to reason at all 
 about the matter. What alone could justify his thinking on this 
 subject, would have been the hope of flying from the ills of this 
 world, without encountering any others in the next. 
 
 Nor is Hamlet more accurate in the following reflection : 
 
 Thus conscience does make cowards of us alL 
 
 A bad conscience will make us cowards ; but a good conscience 
 will make us brave. It does not appear that anything lay heavy 
 on his conscience ; and from the premises we cannot help infer- 
 ring that conscience in this case was entirely out of the question. 
 Hamlet was deterred from suicide by a full conviction, that, in 
 
392 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE "WORKS. 
 
 flying from one sea of troubles which he did know, he should fall 
 into another which he did not know. 
 
 His whole chain of reasoning, therefore, seems inconsistent and 
 incongruous. ' I am doubtful whether I should live, or do violence 
 upon my own life ; for I know not whether it is more honourable 
 to bear misfortune patiently, than to exert myself in opposing 
 misfortune, and, by opposing, end it.' Let us throw it into the 
 form of a syllogism, it will stand thus : ' I am oppressed with ills ; 
 I know not whether it is more honourable to bear those ills pati- 
 ently, or to end them by taking arms against them : ergo, I am 
 doubtful whether I should slay myself or live. To die, is no more 
 than to sleep ; and to say that by a sleep we end the heartache/ 
 &c. ' 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.' Now to say 
 it, was of no consequence unless it had been true. * I am afraid of 
 the dreams that may happen in that sleep of death ; and I choose 
 rather to bear those ills I have in this life, than to fly to other ills in 
 that undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveller ever re- 
 turns. I have ills that are almost insupportable in this life. I know 
 not what is in the next, because it is an undiscovered country: ergo, 
 I'd rather bear those ills I have, than fly to others which I know 
 not of.' Here the conclusion is by no means warranted by the 
 premises. ' I am sore afflicted in this life : but I will rather bear 
 the afflictions of this life, than plunge myself in the afflictions of 
 another life : ergo, conscience makes cowards of us all.' But this 
 conclusion would justify the logician in saying, negatur consequens ,• 
 for it is entirely detached both from the major and minor proposi- 
 tion. 
 
 This soliloquy is not less exceptionable in the propriety of ex- 
 pression, than in the chain of argumentation. ' To die— to sleep — 
 no more,' contains an ambiguity, which all the art of punctuation 
 cannot remove ; for it may signify that ' to die,' is to sleep no 
 more ; or the expression ' no more,' may be considered as an 
 abrupt apostrophe in thinking, as if he meant to say ' no more of 
 that reflection.' 
 
 1 Ay, there's the rub,' is a vulgarism beneath the dignity of 
 Hamlet's character, and the words that follow leave the sense 
 imperfect : 
 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coiL 
 Must give us pause. 
 Not the dreams that might come, but the fear of what dream? 
 might come, occasioned the pause or hesitation. Respect in the 
 same line may be allowed to pass for consideration : but 
 
 The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
 according to the invariable acceptation of the words wrong and 
 
XI.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 393 
 
 contumely, can signify nothing but the wrongs sustained by the op- 
 pressor, and the contumely or abuse thrown upon the proud man ; 
 though it is plain that Shakspeare used them in a different sense : 
 neither is the word spurn a substantive, yet a3 such he has in- 
 serted it in these lines : 
 
 The insolence of office, and the spurns 
 That patient merit of th' unworthy takes. 
 
 If we consider the metaphors of the soliloquy, we shall find them 
 jumbled together in a strange confusion. 
 
 If the metaphors were reduced to painting, we should find it a 
 very difficult task, if not altogether impracticable, to represent 
 with any propriety outrageous Fortune using her slings and ar- 
 rows, between which indeed there is no sort of analogy in nature. 
 Xeither can any figure be more ridiculously absurd than that of 
 a man taking arms against a sea, exclusive of the incongruous 
 medley of slings, arrows, and seas, justled within the compass of 
 one reflection. What follows i3 a strange rhapsody of broken 
 images of sleeping, dreaming, and shifting off a coil, which last 
 conveys no idea that can be represented on canvas. A man may 
 be exhibited shuffling off his garments, or his chains ; but how he 
 should shuffle off 2, coil, which is another term for noise and tumult, 
 we cannot comprehend. Then we have ' long-lived calamity,' 
 and ■ time armed with whips and scorns f and ■ patient merit 
 spurned at by unworthiness / and ' misery with a bare bodkin 
 going to make his own quietus,' which at best is but a mean me- 
 taphor. These are followed by figures, ' sweating under fardels 
 of burdens/ ' puzzled with doubts/ * shaking with fears/ and 
 * flying from evils.' Finally, we see ' resolution sicklied o'er with 
 pale thought/ a conception like that of representing health by 
 sickness ; and a * current of pith turned awry so as to lose the 
 name of action/ which is both an error in fancy, and a solecism 
 in sense. In a word, the soliloquy may be compared to the JEgri 
 somnia, and the Tabula, cujus vanoe fingentur species. 
 
 But while we censure the chaos of broken, incongruous meta- 
 phors, we ought also to caution the young poet against the oppo- 
 site extreme of pursuing a metaphor, until the spirit is quite ex- 
 hausted in a succession of cold conceits ; such as we see in the fol- 
 lowing letter, said to be sent by Tamerlane to the Turkish Em- 
 peror Bajazet : — ' Where is the monarch that dares oppose our 
 arms ? "Where is the potentate who doth not glory in being num- 
 bered among our vassals ? As for thee, descended from a Turco- 
 man mariner, since the vessel of thy unbounded ambition hath 
 been wrecked in the gulf of thy self-love, it would be proper that 
 thou shouldst furl the sails of thy temerity, and cast the anchor 
 of repentance in the port of sincerity and justice, which is the har- 
 
394 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 bour of safety; lest the tempest of our vengeance make thee perish 
 in the sea of that punishment thou hast deserved.' 
 
 But if these laboured conceits are ridiculous in poetry, they are 
 still more inexcusable in prose : such as we find them frequently 
 occur in Strada's Bellum Belgicum : — ' Caesar had scarcely set his 
 foot on shore, when a terrible tempest arising, shattered the fleet 
 even in the harbour, and sent to the bottom the Praetorian ship, 
 as if he resolved it should no longer carry Caesar and his fortunes.' 
 
 Yet this is modest in comparison of the following flowers : — 
 * Others, dissevered and cut in twain by chain-shot, fought with 
 one half of their bodies that remained, in revenge of the other half 
 that was slain.' 
 
 Homer, Horace, and even the chaste Virgil, is not free from 
 conceits. The latter, speaking of a man's hand cut off in battle, 
 says, — 
 
 Te decisa suum, Laride, dextera quserit : 
 Semianimesque micant digiti, ferrumque retractant ; 
 
 thus enduing the amputated hand with sense and volition. This 
 to be sure is a violent figure, and hath been justly condemned by 
 some accurate critics ; but we think they are too severe in ex- 
 tending the same censure to some other passages in the most ad- 
 mired authors. 
 Virgil, in his sixth Eclogue, says, — 
 
 Whate'er, when Phoebus bless'd the Arcadian plain, 
 Eurotas heard and taught his bays the strain, 
 The senior sung — 
 
 And Pope has copied the conceit in his Pastorals : — 
 
 Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along, 
 
 And bade his willows learn the mourning song. 
 Vida thus begins his first Eclogue : — 
 
 Say, heavenly muse, their youthful frays rehearse ; 
 
 Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse ; 
 
 Exulting rocks have own'd the power of song, 
 
 And rivers listen' d as they flow'd along. 
 Racine adopts the same bold figure in his Phaedra :— 
 
 The wave that bore him, backward shrunk appall' d. 
 Even Milton has indulged himself in the same licence of ex- 
 pression : — 
 
 As when to them who sail 
 
 Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 
 
 Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow 
 
 Sabaean odour from the spicy shore 
 
 Of Araby the blest ; with such delay 
 
 Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league, 
 
 Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 
 
XT.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 395 
 
 Shakspeare says, — 
 
 — I've seen 
 Th' ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, 
 To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds. 
 
 And indeed more correct writers, both ancient and modern, 
 abound with the same kind of figure, which is reconciled to pro- 
 priety, and even invested with beauty, by the efficacy of the pro- 
 sopopoeia, which personifies the object. Thus, when Virgil say3 
 Enipeus heard the songs of Apollo, he raises up, as by enchant- 
 ment, the idea of a river-god crowned with sedges, his head raided 
 above the stream, and in his countenance the expression of pleased 
 attention. By the same magic we see, in the couplet quoted from 
 Pope's Pastorals, old Father Thames leaning upon his urn, and 
 listening to the poet's strain. 
 
 Thus, in the regions of poetry, all nature, even the passions and 
 affections of the mind, may be personified into picturesque figures 
 for the entertainment of the reader. Ocean smiles or frowns, as 
 the sea is calm or tempestuous ; a Triton rules on every angry 
 billow ; every mountain has its nymph ; every stream its naiad ; 
 every tree its hamadryad ; and every art its genius. We cannot, 
 therefore, assent to those who censure Thomson as licentious for 
 using the following figure : — 
 
 vale of bliss ! softly swelling hills ! 
 On which the power of cultivation lies, 
 And joys to see the wonders of his toiL 
 
 We cannot conceive a more beautiful image than that of the 
 Genius of Agriculture, distinguished by the implements of his art, 
 imbrowned with labour, glowing with health, crowned with a gar- 
 land of foliage, flowers, and fruit, lying stretched at his ease on the 
 brow of a gentle swelling hill, and contemplating with pleasure 
 the happy effects of his own industry. 
 
 Neither can we join issue against Shakspeare for this compari- 
 son, which hath likewise incurred the censure of the critics ! 
 
 - The noble sister of Poplicola, 
 
 The moon of Eonie ; chaste as the icicle 
 That's curdled by the frost from purest snow, 
 And hangs on Dian's temple 
 
 This is no more than illustrating a quality of the mind, by com- 
 paring it with a sensible object. If there is no impropriety in 
 saying such a man is true as steel, firm as a rock, inflexible as an 
 oak, unsteady as the ocean ; or in describing a disposition cold as 
 ice, or fickle as the wind ; — and these expressions are justified bv 
 constant practice ; — we shall hazard an assertion, that the com- 
 parison of a chaste woman to an icicle is proper and picturesque, 
 
396 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 as it obtains only in the circumstances of cold and purity ; but 
 that the addition of its being curdled from the purest snow, and 
 hanging on the temple of Diana, the patroness of virginity, 
 heightens the whole into a most beautiful simile, that gives a very 
 respectable and amiable idea of the character in question. 
 
 The simile is no more than an extended metaphor, introduced 
 to illustrate and beautify the subject ; it ought to be apt, striking, 
 properly pursued, and adorned with all the graces of poetical 
 melody. But a simile of this kind ought never to proceed from 
 the mouth of a person under any great agitation of spirit ; such 
 as a tragic character overwhelmed with grief, distracted by con- 
 tending cares, or agonizing in the pangs of death. The language 
 of passion will not admit simile, which is always the result of 
 study and deliberation. We will not allow a hero the privilege of 
 a dying swan, which is said to chant its approaching fate in the 
 most melodious strain ; and therefore nothing can be more 
 ridiculously unnatural, than the representation of a lover dying 
 upon the stage with a laboured simile in his mouth. 
 
 The orientals, whose language was extremely figurative, have 
 been very careless in the choice of their similes ; provided the 
 resemblance obtained in one circumstance, they minded not 
 whether they disagreed with the subject in every other respect. 
 Many instances of this defect in congruity may be culled from 
 the most sublime parts of Scripture. 
 
 Homer has been blamed for the bad choice of his similes on 
 some particular occasions. He compares Ajax to an ass, in the 
 Iliad, and Ulysses to a steak broiling on the coals, in the Odyssey. 
 His admirers have endeavoured to excuse him, by reminding us 
 of the simplicity of the age in which he wrote ; but they have 
 not been able to prove that any ideas of dignity or importance 
 were, even in those days, affixed to the character of an ass, or the 
 quality of a beef collop ; therefore they were very improper 
 illustrations for any situation in which a hero ought to be 
 represented. 
 
 Virgil has degraded the wife of king Latinus, by comparing 
 her, when she was actuated by the Fury, to a top which the boys 
 lash for diversion. This, doubthss, is a low image, though in 
 other respects the comparison is not destitute of propriety : but 
 he is much more justly censured for the following simile, which 
 has no sort of reference to the subject. Speaking of Turnus, he 
 says,— 
 
 But Turnus, chief amidst the warrior train, 
 In armour towers the tallest on the plain. 
 The Ganges, thus by seven rich streams supplied. 
 A mighty mass devolves in silent piide ; 
 
XT.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 307 
 
 Thus Nilus pours from his prolific urn, 
 When from the fields o'erflow'd his vagrant streams return. 
 These, no doubt, are majestic images ; but they bear no sort of 
 resemblance to a hero glittering in armour at the head of his 
 forces. 
 
 Horace has been ridiculed by some shrewd critics for this com- 
 parison, which, however, we think is more defensible than the 
 former. Addressing himself to Munatius Plancus, he says, — 
 As Notus often, when the welkin lowers, 
 Sweeps off the clouds, nor teems perpetual showers, 
 So let thy wisdom, free from anxious strife, 
 In mellow wine dissolve the cares of life. — Dunkin 
 The analogy, it must be confessed, is not very striking ; but, 
 nevertheless, it is not altogether void of propriety. The poet 
 reasons thus : as the south wind, though generally attended with 
 rain, is often known to dispel the clouds, and render the weather 
 serene ; so do you, though generally on the rack of thought, re- 
 member to relax sometimes, and drown your cares in wine. As 
 the south wind is not always moist, so you ought not always to be 
 dry. 
 
 A few instances of inaccuracy, or mediocrity, can never derogate 
 from the superlative merit of Homer and Virgil, whose poems are 
 the great magazines, replete with every species of beauty and 
 magnificence, particularly abounding with similes, which astonish, 
 delight, and transport the reader. 
 
 Every simile ought not only to be well adapted to the subject, 
 but also to include every excellence of description, and to be 
 coloured with the warmest tints of poetry. Nothing can be more 
 happily hit off than the following in the Georgics, to which the 
 poet compares Orpheus lamenting his lost Eurydice : 
 
 So Philomela, from th' umbrageous wood, 
 In strains melodious mourns her tender brood, 
 Snatch'd from the nest by some rude ploughman's hand, 
 On some lone bough the warbler takes her stand : 
 The live-long night she mourns the cruel wrong, 
 And kill and dale resound the plaintive song. 
 
 Here we not only find the most scrupulous propriety, and the 
 happiest choice, in comparing the Thracian bard to Philomel, 
 the poet of the grove ; but also the most beautiful description, 
 containing a fine touch of the pathos — in which last particular, 
 indeed, Virgil, in our opinion, excels all other poets, whether 
 ancient or modern. 
 
 One would imagine that nature had exhausted itself, in order 
 to embellish the poems of Homer, Virgil, and Milton, with similes 
 and metaphors. The first of these very often uses the ccrrparison 
 
393 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 of the wind, the whirlwind, the hail, the torrent, to express the 
 rapidity of his combatants ; but when ho comes to describe the 
 velocity of the immortal horses that drew the chariot of Juno, he 
 raises his ideas to the subject, and, as Longinus observes, measures 
 every leap by the whole breadth of the horizon. 
 
 For, as a watchman, from some rock on high, 
 
 O'er the wide main extends his boundless eye ; 
 
 Through such a space of air, with thund'ring sound, 
 
 At ev'ry leap th' immortal coursers hound. 
 
 The celerity of this goddess seems to be a favourite idea with the 
 poet ; for, in another place, he compares it to the thought of a 
 traveller revolving in his mind the different places he had seen, 
 and passing through them, in imagination, more swift than the 
 lightning flies from east to west. 
 
 Homer's best similes have been copied by Virgil, and almost 
 every succeeding poet, howsoever they may have varied in the 
 manner of expression. In the third book of the Iliad, Menelaus 
 seeing Paris, is compared to a hungry lion espying a hind or goat ' 
 
 So joys the lion, if a branching deer 
 
 Or mountain goat his bulky prize appear ; 
 
 In vain the youths oppose, the mastiffs bay — 
 
 The lordly savage rends the panting prey. 
 
 Thus, fond of vengeance, with a furious bound, 
 
 In clanging arms he leaps upon the ground. 
 The Mantuan bard, in the tenth book of the yEneid, applies 
 the same simile to Mezentius, when he beholds Acron in the battle : 
 
 Then, as a hungry lion, who beholds 
 
 A gamesome goat who frisks about the folds, 
 
 Or beamy stag that grazes on the plain ; 
 
 He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane : 
 
 He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws, 
 
 The prey lies panting underneath his paws ; 
 
 He fills his famish'd maw, his mouth runs o'er 
 
 With unchew'd morsels, while he chums the gore. 
 
 Drtden. 
 
 The reader will perceive, that Virgil has improved the simile 
 in one particular, and in another fallen short of his original. The 
 description of the lion shaking his mane, opening his hideous jaws 
 distained with the blood of his prey, is great and picturesque ; 
 but, on the other hand, he has omitted the circumstance of devour- 
 ing it without being intimidated, or restrained by the dogs and 
 youths that surround him — a circumstance that adds greatly to 
 our idea of his strength, intrepidity, *snd importance. 
 
211.] 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
 
 3S9 
 
 ESSAY XII. 
 
 VERSIFICATION. 
 
 Verse is an harmonious arrangement of long and short syllables, 
 adapted to different kinds of poetry, and owes its origin entirely 
 to the measured cadence, or music, which was used when the first 
 songs and hymns were recited. This music, divided into differ- 
 ent parts, required a regular return of the same measure, and 
 thus every strophe, anti-strophe, stanza, contained the same num- 
 ber of feet. To know what constituted the different kinds of 
 rhythmical feet among the ancients, with respect to the number 
 and quantity of their syllables, we have nothing to do but to con- 
 sult those who have written on grammar and prosody ; it is the 
 business of a schoolmaster, rather than the accomplishment of a 
 man of taste. 
 
 Various essays have been made in different countries to com- 
 pare the characters of ancient and modern versification, and to 
 point out the difference beyond any possibility of mistake. But 
 they have made distinctions, where, in fact, there was no differ- 
 ence, and left the criterion unobserved. They have transferred 
 the name of rhyme to a regular repetition of the same sound at 
 the end of the line, and set up this vile monotony as the charac- 
 teristic of modern verse, in contradistinction to the feet of the 
 ancients, which they pretend the poetry of modern languages will 
 not admit. 
 
 Rhyme, from the Greek word pufyos, is nothing else but num- 
 ber, which was essential to the ancient, as well as to the modern 
 versification. As to the jingle of similar sounds, though it was 
 never used by the ancients in any regular return in the middle, 
 or at the end of the line, and was by no means deemed essential 
 to the versification, yet they did not reject it as a blemish, where 
 it occurred without the appearance of constraint. V» T e meet with 
 it often in the epithets of Homer ; a^yvouoto $io7o — «va£ avhou* 
 Ayapipvaiv— almost the whole first ode of Anacreon is what we 
 call rhyme. The following line of Virgil has been admired for 
 the similitude of sound in the first two words. 
 
 Ore Jrethusa tuo Siculis confunditur undis. 
 
 Rhythmus, or number, is certainly essential to verse, whether 
 in the dead or living languages ; and the real difference between 
 the two is this : the number in ancient verse relates to the feet, 
 and in modern poetry to the syllables ; for to assert that modern 
 poetry has no feet, is a ridiculous absurdity. The feet that prin- 
 cipally enter into the composition of Greek and Latin verses, are 
 
400 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 either of two or three syllables : those of two syllables are either 
 both long, as the spondee ; or both short, as the pyrrhic ; or one 
 short and the other long, as the iambic ; or one long and the 
 other short, as the trochee. Those of three syllables are the 
 dactyl, of one long and two short syllables ; the anapest, of two 
 short and one long ; the tribrachium, of three short ; and the 
 molossus, of three long. 
 
 From the different combinations of these feet, restricted to cer- 
 tain numbers, the ancients formed their different kinds of verses, 
 such as the hexameter, or heroic, distinguished by six feet dactyls 
 and spondees, the fifth being always a dactyl, and the last a spon- 
 dee : exempli gratid, 
 
 12 3 4 5 6 
 
 Principi-is obs-ta, se-ro medi-cina pa-ratur. 
 
 The pentameter of five feet, dactyls and spondees, or of six, reck- 
 oning two ccesuras. 
 
 12 3 4 5 6 
 
 Cum mala per Ion-gas invalu-ere mo-ras. 
 
 They had likewise the iambic of three sorts, the diameter, the 
 trimeter, and the tetrameter, and all the different kinds of lyric 
 verse specified in the odes of Sappho, Alcaeus, Anacreon, and 
 Horace. Each of these was distinguished by the number, as well 
 as by the species of their feet ; so that they were doubly restricted. 
 Now all the feet of the ancient poetry are still found in the ver- 
 sification of living languages : for as cadence was regulated by the 
 ear, it was impossible for a man to write melodious verse without 
 naturally falling into the use of ancient feet, though perhaps he 
 neither knows their measure nor denomination. Thus Spenser, 
 Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Pope, and all our poets, abound with 
 dactyls, spondees, trochees, anapests, &c, which they use indis- 
 criminately in all kinds of composition, whether tragic, epic, pas- 
 toral, or ode ; having in this particular greatly the advantage of 
 the ancients, who were restricted to particular kinds of feet in 
 particular kinds of verse. If we, then, are confined with the fetters 
 of what is called rhyme, they were restricted to particular species 
 of feet ; so that the advantages and disadvantages are pretty 
 equally balanced : but indeed the English are more free, in this 
 particular, than any other modern nation. They not only use 
 blank verse in tragedy and the epic, but even in lyric poetry* 
 Milton's translation of Horace's ode to Pyrrha is universally 
 known and generally admired, in our opinion much above its merit. 
 There is an ode extant without rhyme addressed to Evening, by 
 the late Mr Collins, much more beautiful ; and Mr War ton, with 
 some others, has happily succeeded in divers occasional pieces, 
 
SII.J 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
 
 401 
 
 that are free of this restraint ; but the number in all of these de- 
 pends upon the syllables, and not upon the feet, which are un- 
 limited. 
 
 It is generally supposed that the genius of the English lan- 
 guage will not admit of Greek or Latin measure ; but this, we ap- 
 prehend, is a mistake, owing to the prejudice of education. It 
 is impossible that the same measure, composed of the same times, 
 should have a good effect upon the ear in one language, and a 
 bad effect in another. The truth is, we have been accustomed 
 from our infancy to the numbers of English poetry, and the very 
 sound and signification of the words dispose the ear to receive 
 them in a certain manner ; so that its disappointment must be at- 
 tended with a disagreeable sensation. In imbibing the first rudi- 
 ments of education, we acquire, as it were, another ear for the 
 numbers of Greek and Latin poetry, and this being reserved en- 
 tirely for the sounds and significations of the words that constitute 
 those dead languages, will not easily accommodate itself to the 
 sounds of our vernacular tongue, though conveyed in the same 
 time and measure. In a word, Latin and Greek have annexed to 
 them the ideas of the ancient measure, from which they are not 
 easily disjoined. But we will venture to say, this difficulty might 
 be surmounted by an effort of attention and a little practice ; and 
 in that case we should in time be as well pleased with English as 
 with Latin hexameters. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney is said to have miscarried in his essays ; but 
 his miscarriage was no more than that of failing in an attempt to 
 introduce a new fashion. The failure was not owing to any 
 defect or imperfection in the scheme, but to the want of taste, to 
 the irresolution and ignorance of the public. "Without all doubt, 
 the ancient measure, so different from that of modern poetry, 
 must have appeared remarkably uncouth to people in general, who 
 were ignorant of the classics ; and nothing but the countenance 
 and perseverance of the learned could reconcile them to the altera- 
 tion. We have seen several late specimens of English hexameters 
 and sapphics, so happily composed, that by attaching them to the 
 idea of ancient measure, we found them in all respects as melo- 
 dious and agreeable to the ear, as the works of Virgil and Ana- 
 creon or Horace. 
 
 Though the number of syllables distinguishes the nature of the 
 English verse from that of the Greek and Latin, it constitutes 
 neither harmony, grace, nor expression. These must depend upon 
 the choice of words, the seat of the accent, the pause and the 
 cadence. The accent or tone is understood to be an elevation or 
 sinking of the voice in reciting : the pause is a rest, that divides the 
 verse into two parts, each of them called an hemistich. The pause 
 
 2c 
 
*02 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 and accent in English poetry vary occasionally, according to the 
 meaning of the words ; so that the hemistich does not always con- 
 sist of an equal number of syllables : and this variety is agreeable, 
 as it prevents a dull repetition of regular stops, like those in tho 
 French versification, every line of which is divided by a pause 
 exactly in the middle. The cadence comprehends that poetical 
 style which animates every line, that propriety which gives 
 strength and expression, that numerosity which renders the verse 
 smooth, flowing, and harmonious, that significancy which marks 
 the passions, and in many cases makes the sound an echo of the 
 sense. The Greek and Latin languages, in being copious and 
 ductile, are susceptible of a vast variety of cadences, which the 
 living languages will not admit ; and of these a reader of any ear 
 will judge for himself. 
 
 ESSAY XIII. 
 
 SCHOOLS OF MUSIC. 
 
 A school, in the polite arts, properly signifies that succession of 
 artists, which has learned the principles of the art from some 
 eminent master, either by hearing his lessons, or studying his 
 works, and consequently who imitate his manner either through 
 design or from habit. Musicians seem agreed in making only 
 three principal schools in music ; namely, the school of Pergolese 
 in Italy, of Lully in France, and of Handel in England ; though 
 some are for making Rameau the founder of a new school, differ- 
 ent from those of the former, as he is the inventor of beauties pe- 
 culiarly his own. 
 
 Without all doubt, Pergolcse's music deserves the first rank ; 
 though excelling neither in variety of movements, number of 
 parts, nor unexpected flights, yet he is universally allowed to be 
 the musical Raphael of Italy. This great master's principal art 
 consisted in knowing how to excite our passions by sounds, which 
 seem frequently opposite to the passion they would express : by 
 slow solemn sounds he is sometimes known to throw us into all the 
 rage of battle; and even by faster movements, he excites melan- 
 choly in every heart that sounds are capable of affecting. This 
 is a talent which seems born with the artist. We are unable to 
 tell why such sounds affect us : they seem no way imitative of the 
 passion they would express, but operate upon us by an inexpres- 
 sible sympathy ; the original of which is as inscrutable as the 
 secret springs of life itself. To this excellence he adds another, 
 
XIII.J MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 408 
 
 in which he is superior to every other artist of the profession, — 
 the happy transition from one passion to another. No dramatic 
 poet better knows to prepare his incidents than he : the audience 
 are pleased in those intervals of passion with the delicate, the 
 simple harmony, if I may so express it, in which the parts are all 
 thrown into fugues, or often are barely unison. His melodies also, 
 where no passion is expressed, give equal pleasure from this 
 delicate simplicity : and I need only instance that song in the 
 Serva Padrona, which begins, Lo conosco a quegl' occelli,' as 
 one of the finest instances of excellence in the duo. 
 
 The Italian artists in general have followed his manner, yet 
 seem fond of embellishing the delicate simplicity of the original. 
 Their style in music seems somewhat to resemble that of Seneca 
 in writing, where there are some beautiful starts of thought ; but 
 the whole is filled with studied elegance and unaffecting affecta- 
 tion. 
 
 Lully in France first attempted the improvement of their mu- 
 sic, which in general resembled that of our old solemn chants in 
 churches. It is worthy of remark, in general, that the music in 
 every country is solemn in proportion as the inhabitants are 
 merry ; or, in other words, the merriest sprightliest nations are 
 remarked for having the slowest music ; and those whose charac- 
 ter it is to be melancholy, are pleased with the most brisk and 
 airy movements. Thus in France, Poland, Ireland, and Switzer- 
 land, the national music is slow, melancholy, and solemn ; in Italy, 
 England, Spain, and Germany, it is faster, proportionally as the 
 people are grave. Lully only changed a bad manner, which he 
 found, for a bad one of his own. His drowsy pieces are played 
 still to the most sprightly audience that can be conceived ; and 
 even though Rameau, who is at once a musician and a philoso- 
 pher, has shown, both by precept and example, what improvements 
 French music may still admit of, yet his countrymen seem little 
 convinced by his reasonings ; and the Pont-xseuf taste, as it is 
 called, still prevails in their best performances. 
 
 The English school was first planned by Purcel : he attempted 
 to unite the Italian manner, that prevailed in his time, with the 
 ancient Celtic carol and the Scottish ballad, which probably had 
 also its origin in Italy ; for some of the best Scottish ballads, — 
 1 The Broom of Cowdenknows,' for instance, — are still ascribed 
 to David Rizzio. But be that as it will, his manner was some- 
 thing peculiar to the English ; and he might have continued as 
 head of the English school, had not his merits been entirely 
 eclipsed by Handel. Handel, though originally a German, yet 
 adopted the English manner : he had long laboured to please by 
 Italian composition, but without success ; and though his Englkh 
 
GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 oratorios are accounted inimitable, yet his Italian operas are fallen 
 into oblivion. Pergolese excelled in passionate simplicity : Lully 
 was remarkable for creating a new species of music, where all is 
 elegant, but nothing passionate or sublime. Handel's true cha- 
 racteristic is sublimity ; he has employed all the variety of sounds 
 and parts in all his pieces : the performances of the rest may be 
 pleasing, though executed by few performers : his require the 
 full band. The attention is awakened, the soul is roused up at 
 his pieces ; but distinct passion is seldom expressed. In this par- 
 ticular he has seldom found success ; he has been obliged, in order 
 to express passion, to imitate words by sounds, which, though it 
 gives the pleasure which imitation always produces, yet it fails of 
 exciting those lasting affections which it is in the power of sounds 
 to produce. In a word, no man ever understood harmony so well 
 as he ; but in melody he has been exceeded by several. 
 
 The following Objections, by an anonymous Correspondent, were addressed 
 to the Editor of the British Magazine, in which the preceding Essay 
 appeared. Dr Smollett, before printing it, sent the communication 
 to Goldsmith, who answered the objector in the notes annexed. 
 
 Permit me to object against some things advanced in the paper on the 
 subject of l The different Schools of Music.' The author of this article 
 seems too hasty in degrading the harmonious * Purcel, from the head oi 
 the English school, to erect in his room a foreigner (Handel), who has not 
 yet formed any school t The gentleman, when he comes to communicate 
 
 * Had the Objector said melodious Purcel, it had testified at 
 least a greater acquaintance with music, and Purcel's peculiar 
 excellence. Purcel in melody is frequently great : his song made 
 in his last sickness, called Rosy Bowers, is a fine instance of this ; 
 but in harmony he is far short of the meanest of our modern com- 
 posers, his fullest harmonies being exceedingly simple. His opera 
 of Prince Arthur, the words of which were Dryden's, is reckoned 
 his finest piece. But what is that in point of harmony, to what 
 we every day hear from modern masters ? In short, with respect 
 to genius, Purcel had a fine one : he greatly improved an art but 
 little known in England before his time ; for this he deserves our 
 applause ; but the present prevailing taste in music is very differ- 
 ent from what he left it, and who was the improver since his time, 
 we shall see by and by. 
 
 f Handel may be said as justly as any man, not Pergolese ex- 
 cepted, to have founded a new school of music. When he first 
 came into England his music was entirely Italian : he composed 
 for the opera ; and though even then his pieces were liked, yet 
 
Xlir.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 405 
 
 his thoughts upon the different schools of painting, may as well place 
 Rubens at the head of the English painters, because he left some monu- 
 ments of his art in England.* He says that Handel, though originally a 
 German (as most certainly he was, and continued so to his last breath), 
 yet adopted the English manner.! Yes, to be sure, just as much as 
 Rubens the painter did. Your correspondent, in the course of his disco- 
 veries, tells us, besides, that some of the best Scottish ballads, — ; The 
 
 did they not meet with universal approbation. In those he has 
 too servilely imitated the modern vitiated Italian taste, by plac- 
 ing what foreigners call the point d'orgue too closely and injudi- 
 ciously. But in his oratorios, he is perfectly an original genius. 
 In these, by steering between the manners of Italy and England, 
 he has struck out new harmonies, and formed a species of music 
 different from all others. He has left some excellent and eminent 
 scholars, particularly Worgan and Smith, who compose nearly in 
 his manner, — a manner as different from Purcel's as from that of 
 modern Italy. Consequently Handel may be placed at the head 
 of the English school. 
 
 * The Objector will not have Handel's school to be called an 
 English school, because he was a German. Handel, in a great 
 measure, found in England those essential differences which cha- 
 racterize his music : we have already shown that he had them not 
 upon his arrival. Had Rubens come over to England but mode- 
 rately skilled in his art ; had he learned here all his excellency in 
 colouring and correctness of designing ; had he left several scholars 
 excellent in his manner behind him ; I should not scruple to call 
 the school erected by him the English school of painting. Not 
 the country in which a man is born, but his peculiar style either 
 in painting or in music, constitutes him of this or that school. 
 Thus Champagne, who painted in the manner of the French school, 
 is always placed among the painters of that school, though he was 
 born in Flanders, and should, consequently, by the Objector's rule, 
 be placed among the Flemish painters. Kneller is placed in the 
 German school and Ostade in the Dutch, though born in the same 
 city. Primatice, who may be truly said to have founded the Ro- 
 man school, was born in Bologna ; though, if his country was to 
 determine his school, he should have been placed in the Lombard. 
 There might several other instances be produced ; but these it is 
 hoped will be sufficient to prove that Handel, though a German, 
 may be placed at the head of the English school. 
 
 f Handel was originally a German ; but by a long continuance 
 in England, he might have been looked upon as naturalized to the 
 country. I do not pretend to be a fine writer : however, if the 
 gentleman dislikes the expression (although he must be convinced 
 it is a common one), I wish it were mended. 
 
406 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 Broom of Cowdenknows,' for instance, are still ascribed to David Rizzio.* 
 This Rizzio must have been a most original genius, or have possessed 
 extraordinary imitative powers, to have come, so advanced in life as he 
 did, from Italy, and strike so far out of the common road of his own 
 country's music 
 
 A mere fiddler, f a shallow coxcomb, a giddy, insolent, worthless fellow, 
 to compose such pieces, as nothing but genuine sensibility of mind, and 
 an exquisite feeling of those passions which animate only the finest souls 
 could dictate ; and in a manner, too, so extravagantly distant from that 
 to which he had all his life been accustomed ! It is impossible. He might 
 indeed have had presumption enough to add some flourishes to a few 
 
 * I said that they were ascribed to David Rizzio. That they 
 are, the Objector need only look into Mr Oswald's Collection oj 
 Scottish Tunes, and he will there find not only ' The Broom of Cow- 
 denknows,' but also * The Black Eagle,' and several other of the 
 best Scottish tunes, ascribed to him. Though this might be a suf- 
 ficient answer, yet I must be permitted to go farther, to tell the 
 Objector the opinion of our best modern musicians in this parti- 
 cular. It is the opinion of the melodious Geminiani, that we have 
 in the dominions of Great Britain no original music except the 
 Irish ; the Scottish and English being originally borrowed from 
 the Italians. And that his opinion in this respect is just (for I 
 would not be swayed merely by authorities), it is very reasonable 
 to suppose, first, from the conformity between the Scottish and 
 ancient Italian music. They who compare the old French vaude- 
 villes, brought from Italy by Rinuccini, with those pieces ascribed 
 to David Rizzio, who was pretty nearly contemporary with him, 
 v\ill find a strong resemblance, notwithstanding the opposite cha- 
 racters of the two nations which have preserved those pieces. 
 When I would have them compared, I mean I would have their 
 basses compared, by which the similitude may be most exactly 
 seen. Secondly, it is reasonable from the ancient music of the 
 Scottish, which is still preserved in the. Highlands, and which bears 
 no resemblance at all to the music of the Low country. The High- 
 land tunes are sung, to Irish words, and flow entirely in the Irish 
 manner. On the other hand, the Lowland music is always sung 
 to English words. 
 
 f David Rizzio was neither a mere fiddler, nor a shallow cox- 
 comb, nor a worthless fellow, nor a stranger in Scotland. He had 
 indeed been brought over from Piedmont, to be put at the head 
 of a band of music, by King James V., one of the most elegant 
 princes of his time, an exquisite judge of music, as well as of poetry, 
 architecture, and all the fine arts. Rizzio, at the time of bis death, 
 had been above twenty years in Scotland ; he was secretary to the 
 Queen, and, at the same time, an agent from the Pope ; so that 
 he could not be so obscure as he has been represented. 
 
saw] 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
 
 407 
 
 favourite airs, like a cobbler of old plays vrben lie takes it upon bim to 
 mend Shakspeare. So far he migbt go ; but farther it is impossible for 
 any one to believe, that has but just ear enough to distinguish between 
 the Italian and Scottish music, and is disposed to consider the subject with 
 the least degree of attention. S. R. 
 
 March 18, 1760. 
 
 ESSAY XIV. 
 
 SCOTTISH MARRIAGES. 
 
 As I see you are fond of gallantry, and seem willing to set young 
 people together as soon as you ean, I cannot help lending my 
 assistance to your endeavours, as I am greatly concerned in the 
 attempt. You must know, sir, that I am landlady of one of the 
 most noted inns on the road to Scotland, and have seldom less 
 than eight or ten couples a-week, who go down rapturous lovers, 
 and return man and wife. 
 
 If there be in this world an agreeable situation, it must be that 
 in which a young couple find themselves, when just let loose from 
 confinement, and whirling off to the land of promise. When the 
 post-chaise is driving off, and the blinds are drawn up, sure no» 
 thing can equal it. And yet, I do not know how, what with th* 
 fears of being pursued, or the wishes for greater happiness, not 
 one of my customers but seems gloomy and out of temper. The 
 gentlemen are all sullen, and the ladies discontented. 
 
 But if it be so going down, how is it with them coming back ? 
 Having been for a fortnight together, they are then mighty good 
 company to be sure ! It is then the young lady's indiscretion 
 stares her in the face, and the gentleman himself finds that much 
 is to be done before the money comes in. 
 
 For my own part, sir, I was married in the usual way ; all my 
 friends were at the wedding ; and I do not find that it any ways 
 diminished my happiness with my husband, while, poor man ! he 
 continued with me. For my part, I am entirely for doing things 
 in the old family way ; I hate your new-fashioned manners, and 
 never loved an outlandish marriage in my life. 
 
 As I have had numbers call at my house, you may be sure I 
 was not idle in inquiring who they were, and how they did in the 
 world after they left me. I cannot say that I ever heard much 
 good come of them : and of a history of twenty-five that I noted 
 down in my ledger, I do not know a single couple that would not 
 have been full as happy if they had gone the plain way to work, 
 and asked the consent of their parents. To convince you of it, I 
 
GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 will mention the names of a few, and refer the rest to some fitter 
 opportunity. • 
 
 Imprimis, Miss Jenny Hastings went down to Scotland with a 
 tailor, who, to be sure, for a tailor, was a very agreeable sort of a 
 man. But I do not know how, he did not take proper measure of 
 the young lady's disposition : they quarrelled at my house on their 
 return ; so she left him for a coronet of dragoons, and he went 
 back to his shop-board. 
 
 Miss Rachel Runfort went off with a grenadier. They spent 
 all their money going down ; so that he carried her down in a 
 post-chaise, and coming back, she helped to carry his knapsack. 
 
 Miss Racket went down with her lover in their own phaeton ; 
 but upon their return, being very fond of driving, she would be 
 every now and then for holding the whip. This bred a dispute ; 
 and before they were a fortnight together, she felt that he could 
 exercise the whip on somebody else besides the horses. 
 
 Miss Meekly, though all compliance to the will of her lover, 
 could never reconcile him to the change of his situation. It seems 
 he married her supposing she had a large fortune ; but being de- 
 ceived in their expectations, they parted ; and they now keep 
 separate garrets in Rosemary Lane. 
 
 The next couple of whom I have any account, actually lived 
 together in great harmony and uncloying kindness for no less 
 than a month ; but the lady, who was a little in years, having 
 parted with her fortune to her dearest life, he left her to make 
 love to that better part of her which he valued more. 
 
 In this manner we see that all those marriages, in which there 
 is interest on one side, and disobedience on the other, are not 
 likely to promise a long harvest of delights. If our fortune-hunt- 
 ing gentlemen would but speak out, the young lady, instead of a 
 lover, would often find a sneaking rogue, that only wanted the 
 lady's purse, and not her heart. For my own part, I never saw 
 anything but design and falsehood in every one of them ; and my 
 blood has boiled in my veins, when I saw a young fellow of 
 twenty kneeling at the feet of a twenty thousand pounder, pro- 
 fessing his passion, while he was taking aim at her money. I do 
 not deny but there may be love in a Scottish marriage, but it is 
 generally all on one side. 
 
 Of all the sincere admirers I ever knew, a man of my acquaint- 
 ance, who, however, did not run away with his mistress to Scot- 
 land, was the most so. An old exciseman of our town, who, as 
 you may guess, was not very rich, had a daughter who, as you shall 
 see, was not very handsome. It was the opinion of every body that 
 this young woman would not soon be married, as she wanted two 
 main articles, beauty and fortune. But for all this, a very well- 
 
XV.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 409 
 
 looking man, that happened to be travelling those parts, came 
 and asked the exciseman for his daughter in marriage. The 
 exciseman, willing to deal openly by him, asked if he had seen 
 the girl ; ' for,' says he, ' she is humpbacked.' — * Yery well,' cried 
 the stranger, ' that will do for me.' * Ay/ says the exciseman, 
 ' but my daughter is as brown as a berry.' — ' So'much the better,' 
 cried the stranger, ' such skins wear well.' — ■ But she is bandy- 
 legged,' says the exciseman. — * No matter,' cries the other ; ' her 
 petticoats will hide that defect.' ' But then she is very poor, and 
 wants an eye.' — ' Your description delights me,' cries the stranger ; 
 ' I have been looking out for one of her make ; for I keep an exhi- 
 bition of wild beasts, and intend to show her off for a Chimpanzee.' 
 
 ESSAY XV. 
 
 LETTEK, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COililOX-COUNCILilAN AT THE 
 TIME OP THE CORONATION*. 
 
 Sir, — I have the honour of being a common-councilman, and 
 am greatly pleased with a paragraph from Southampton in yours 
 - of yesterday. There we learn that the mayor and alderman of 
 that loyal borough had the particular satisfaction of celebrating 
 the royal nuptials by a magnificent turtle-feast. By this means 
 the gentlemen had the pleasure of filling their bellies and showing 
 their loyalty, together. I must confess it would give me pleasure 
 to see some such method of testifying our loyalty practised in this 
 metropolis, of which I am an unworthy member. Instead of pre- 
 senting his majesty (God bless him) on every occasion with our 
 formal addresses, we might thus sit comfortably down to dinner, 
 and wish him prosperity in a sirloin of beef ; upon our army 
 levelling the walls of a town or besieging a fortification, we might 
 at our city-feast imitate our brave troops, and demolish the walls 
 of a venison pasty, or besiege the shell of a turtle, with as great 
 a certainty of success. 
 
 At present, however, we have got into a sort of dry, unsocial 
 manner of drawing up addresses upon every occasion ; and though 
 I have attended upon six cavalcades, and two foot-processions, in 
 a single year, yet I came away as lean and hungry as if I had been 
 a juryman at the Old Bailey. For my part, Mr Printer, I don't 
 see what is got by these processions and addresses, except an ap- 
 petite ; and that, thank Heaven, we have all in a pretty good 
 degree, without ever leaving our own houses for it. It is true, our 
 
no 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 gowns of mazarine blue, edged "with fur, cut a pretty figure 
 enough, parading through the streets, and so my wife tells me. — 
 In fact, I generally bow to all my acquaintance when thus in full 
 dress : but, alas ! as the proverb has it, fine clothes will never fill 
 the belly. 
 
 But even though all this bustling, parading, and powdering, 
 through the streets, be agreeable enough to many of us : yet, I 
 would have my brethren consider whether the frequent repetition 
 of it be so agreeable to our betters above. To be introduced to 
 court, to see the queen, to kiss hands, to smile upon lords, to ogle 
 the ladies, and all other fine things there, may, I grant, be a 
 perfect show to us that view it but seldom ; but it may be a 
 troublesome business enough to those who are to settle such cere- 
 monies as these every day. To use an instance adapted to all 
 our apprehensions ; suppose my family and I should go to Bar- 
 tholomew fair. Very well, going to Bartholomew fair, the whole 
 sight is perfect rapture to us, who are only spectators once and 
 away ; but I am of opinion, that the wire-walker and the fire-eater 
 find no such great sport in all this ; I am of opinion they had as 
 lief remain behind the curtain, at their own pastimes, drinking 
 beer, eating shrimps, and smoking tobacco. 
 
 Besides, what can we tell his majesty in all we say on these 
 occasions, but what he knows perfectly well already ? I believe, 
 if I were to reckon up, I could not find above five hundred dis- ' 
 affected in the whole kingdom ; and here we are every day telling 
 his majesty how loyal we are. Suppose the addresses of a people, 
 for instance, should run thus : — 
 
 * May it please your m y, we are many of us worth a hun- 
 dred thousand pounds, and are possessed of several other inesti- 
 mable advantages. For the preservation of this money and those 
 
 advantages, we are chiefly indebted to your m y. We are, 
 
 therefore, once more assembled, to assure your m y of our 
 
 fidelity. This, it is true, we have lately assured your m y 
 
 five or six times ; but we are willing once more to repeat what 
 can't be doubted, and to kiss your royal hand, and the queen's 
 hand, and thus sincerely to convince you, that we shall never do 
 anything to deprive you of one loyal subject, or any one of our- 
 selves of one hundred thousand pounds.' Should we not, upon 
 reading such an address, think that people a little silly, who thus 
 made such unmeaning professions ? Excuse me, Mr Printer: no 
 man upon earth hath a more profound respect for the abilities of 
 the aldermen and common-council than I ; but I could wish they 
 would not take up a monarch's time in these good-natured trifles, 
 who, I am told, seldom spends a moment in vain. 
 
 The example set by the city of London would probably be fol- 
 
XVI.] 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 
 
 lowed by every other community in the British Empire. Thus 
 we shall have a new set of addresses from every little borough 
 with but four freemen and a burgess ; day after day shall we see 
 them come up with hearts filled with gratitude, ' laying the vows 
 of a loyal people at the foot of the throne.' Death ! Mr Printer, 
 they'll hardly leave our courtiers time to scheme a single project 
 for beating the French ; and our enemies may gain upon us, while 
 we are thus employed in telling our governor how much we intend 
 to keep them under. 
 
 But a people by too frequent use of addresses may by this means 
 come at last to defeat the very purpose for which they are de- 
 signed. If we are thus exclaiming in raptures upon every occasion, 
 we deprive ourselves of the powers of flattery, when there may be 
 a real necessity. A boy three weeks ago swimming across the 
 Thames, was every minute crying out for his amusement, ■ I've 
 got the cramp ! I've got the cramp V The boatmen pushed off 
 once or twice, and they found it was fun ; he soon after cried out 
 in earnest, but nobody believed him, and he sunk to the bottom. 
 
 In short, sir, I am quite displeased with any unnecessary caval- 
 cade whatever. I hope we shall soon have occasion to triumph, 
 and then I shall be ready myself either to eat at a turtle feast, 
 or to shout at a bonfire : and will either lend my faggot at the 
 fire, or flourish my hat at every loyal health that may be proposed. 
 
 I am, sir, &c. 
 
 ESfeAtf XVI. 
 
 SECOND LETTER, SUTPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COMMON-COUNCILMAN, 
 DESCRIBING THE CORONATION. 
 
 Sir, — I am the same common-councilman who troubled you some 
 days ago. To whom can I complain but to you ? for you have 
 many a dismal correspondent : in this time of joy my wife does 
 not choose to hear me, because, she says, I'm always melancholy 
 when she's in spirits. I have been to see the coronation, and a 
 fine sight it was, as I am told, to those who had the pleasure of 
 being near spectators. The diamonds, I am told, were as 
 thick as Bristol stones in a show-glass ; the ladies and gentlemen 
 walked along, one foot before another, and threw their eyes about 
 them, on this side and that, perfectly like clock-work. ! Mr 
 Printer, it had been a fine sight indeed, if there was but a little 
 more eating. 
 
 Instead of that, there we sat, penned up in our scaffolding, like 
 
 i 
 
41 4 * 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 sheep upon a market day in Smithfield ; but not a thing could 1 
 get to eat, except the fragments of a plum-cake, that was all 
 squeezed into crumbs in my wife's pocket, as she came through the 
 crowd. You must know, sir, that in order to do the thing gen- 
 teelly, and that all my family might be amused at the same time, 
 my wife, my daughter, and I, took two-guinea places for the coro- 
 nation, and I gave my two eldest boys (who, by-the-by, are twins, 
 fine children) eighteen-pence apiece to go to Sudrick fair, to see 
 the court of the Black King of Morocco, which will serve to please 
 children well enough. 
 
 That we might have good places on the scaffolding, my wife in- 
 sisted upon going at seven o'clock in the evening before the coro- 
 nation, for she said she would not lose a full prospect for the world. 
 This resolution, I own, shocked me. * Grizzle,' said I to her, 
 1 Grizzle, my dear, consider that you are but weakly, always ail- 
 ing, and will never bear sitting all night upon the scaffold. You 
 remember what a cold you got the last fast-day by rising but half 
 an hour before your time to go to church, and how I was scolded 
 as the cause of it. Besides, my dear, our daughter Anna Amelia 
 Wilhelmina Carolina will look like a perfect fright if she sits up : 
 and you know the girl's face is something at her time of life, con- 
 sidering her fortune is but small.' — ■ Mr Grogan,' replied my wife, 
 ' Mr Grogan, this is always the case, when you find me in spirits ; 
 I don't want to go, not I, nor I don't care whether I go at all ; it 
 is seldom that I am in spirits, but this is always the case !' In 
 short, Mr Printer, what will you have on't ? to the coronation we 
 went. 
 
 "What difficulties we had in getting a coach ; how we were shoved 
 about in the mob ; how I had my pocket picked of the last new 
 almanac, and my steel tobacco-box ; how my daughter lost half 
 an eye-brow, and her laced shoe in a gutter ; my wife's lamenta- 
 tion upon this, with the adventures of a crumbled plum-cake ; re- 
 late all these ; we suffered this and ten times more before we got 
 to our places. 
 
 At last, however, we were seated. My wife is certainly a heart 
 of oak ; I thought sitting up in the damp night-air would have 
 killed her ; I have known her for two months take possession of our 
 easy chair, mobbed up in flannel night-caps, and trembling at a 
 breath of air ; but she now bore the night as merrily as if she had 
 sat up at a christening. My daughter and she did not seem to 
 value it a farthing. She told me two or three stories that she 
 knows will always make me laugh, and my daughter sung me 
 1 The Noontide Air/ towards one o'clock in the morning. How- 
 ever, with all their endeavours, I was as cold and as dismal as ever 
 I remember. If this be the pleasure of a coronation, cried I to 
 
XVI.] MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. 413 
 
 myself, I had rather see the Court of King Solomon in all his 
 Glory, at my ease in Bartholomew fair. 
 
 Towards morning, sleep began to come fast upon me : and the 
 sun rising and warming the air. still inclined me to rest a little. 
 You must know, sir, that I am naturally of a sleepy constitution ; 
 I have often sat up at table with my eyes open, and have been 
 asleep all the while. What will you have on't ? just about eight 
 o'clock in the morning I fell asleep. I fell into the most pleasing 
 dream in the world. I shall never forget it ; I dreamed that I 
 was at my lord mayor's feast, and had scaled the crust of a veni- 
 son pasty ; I kept eating and eating, in my sleep, and thought I 
 could never have enough. After some time the pasty methought 
 was taken away, and the dessert was brought in its room. Thought 
 I to myself, if I have not got enough of venison, I am resolved to 
 make it up by the largest snap at the sweetmeats. Accordingly 
 T grasped a whole pyramid ; the rest of the guests seeing me with 
 so much, one gave me a snap, the other gave me a snap ; I was 
 pulled this way by my neighbour on my right hand, and that way 
 by my neighbour on the left, but still kept my ground without 
 flinching, and continued eating and pocketing as fast as I could. 
 I never was so pulled and handled in my whole life. At length, 
 however, going to smell to a lobster that lay before me, methought 
 it caught me with its claws fast by the nose. The pain I felt up- 
 on this occasion is inexpressible ; in fact, it broke my dream ; 
 when, awaking, I found my wife and daughter applying a smell- 
 ing-bottle to my nose, and telling me it was time to go home ; 
 they assured me every means had been tried to awake me, while 
 the procession was going forward, but that I still continued to 
 sleep till the whole ceremony was over. Mr Printer, this is a hard 
 case, and as I read your most ingenious work, it will be some com- 
 fort, when I see this inserted, to find that 1 write for it too. 
 
 I am, sir, your most distressed humble servant, 
 
 L. Grogan. 
 
THE BEE; 5 * 
 
 k SELECT COLLECTION OF ESSAYS, ON THE MOST 
 INTERESTING AND ENTERTAINING SUBJECTS. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, a more whimsically dismal figure in 
 nature than a man of real modesty, who assumes an air of im- 
 pudence — who, while his heart beats with anxiety, studies ease, 
 and affects good-humour. In this situation, however, a periodical 
 writer often finds himself, upon his first attempt to address the 
 public in form. All his power of pleasing is damped by solici- 
 tude, and his cheerfulness dashed with apprehension. Impressed 
 with the terrors of the tribunal before which he is going to ap- 
 pear, his natural humour turns to pertness, and for real wit he is 
 obliged to substitute vivacity. His first publication draws a 
 crowd ; they part dissatisfied ; and the author, never more to be 
 indulged with a favourable hearing, is left to condemn the inde- 
 licacy of his own address, or their want of discernment. 
 
 For my part, as I was never distinguished for address, and have 
 often even blundered in making my bow, such bodicgs as these 
 had like to have totally repressed my ambition. I was at a loss 
 whether to give the public specious promises, or give none : whe- 
 ther to be merry or sad on this solemn occasion. If I should de- 
 cline all merit, it was too probable the hasty reader might have 
 taken me at my word. If, on the other hand, like labourers in 
 the magazine trade, I had, with modest impudence, humbly pre- 
 sumed to promise an epitome of all the good things that ever were 
 said or written, this might have disgusted those readers I most 
 desire to please. Had I been merry, I might have been censured 
 
 * A periodical first published by Goldsmith on October 6, 1759, but 
 vrhich did not succeed, and was given up after a few numbers were issued. 
 
I,] ESSAYS— THE BEL". 415 
 
 as vastly low ; and had I been sorrowful, I might have been left 
 to mourn in solitude and silence : in short, whichever way I turn- 
 ed, nothing presented but prospects of terror, despair, chandlers' 
 shops, and waste paper. 
 
 In this debate between fear and ambition, my publisher, hap- 
 pening to arrive, interrupted for a while my anxiety. Perceiving 
 my embarrassment about making my first appearance, he in- 
 stantly offered his assistance and advice. ' You must know, sir,' 
 says he, ' that the republic of letters i3 at present divided into 
 three classes. One writer, for instance, excels at a plan or a title- 
 page ; another works away the body of the book ; and a third is 
 a dab at an index. Thus a magazine is not the result of any 
 single man's industry, but goes through as many hands as a new 
 pin, before it is fit for the public. I fancy, sir,' continues he, ' I 
 can provide an eminent hand, and upon moderate terms, to draw 
 up a promising plan to smooth up our readers a little, and pay 
 them, as Colonel Charteris paid his seraglio, at the rate of three 
 halfpence in hand, and three shillings more in promises.' 
 
 He was proceeding in this advice, which however T thought 
 proper to decline, by assuring him, that as I intended to pursue 
 r>o fixed method, so it was impossible to form any regular plan ; 
 iletermined never to be tedious in order to be logical, wherever 
 pleasure presented I was resolved to follow. Like the Bee, which 
 I had taken for the title of my paper, I would rove from flower to 
 flower, with seeming inattention, but concealed choice, expatiate 
 over all the beauties of the season, and make my industry my 
 amusement. 
 
 This reply may also serve as an apology to the reader who 
 expects, before he sits down, a bill of his future entertainment. 
 It would be improper to pall his curiosity by lessening his sur- 
 prise, or anticipate any pleasure I am able to procure him, by 
 saying what shall come next. This much, however, he may be 
 assured of, that neither war nor scandal shall make any part of 
 it. Homer finely imagines his deity turning away with horror 
 from the prospect of a field of battle, and seeking tranquillity 
 among a nation noted for peace and simplicity. Happy, could 
 any effort of mine, but for a moment, repress that savage plea- 
 sure some men find in the daily accounts of human misery ! 
 How gladly would I lead them from the scenes of blood and 
 altercation, to prospects of innocence and ease, where every 
 breeze breathes health, and every sound is but the echo of tran- 
 quillity. 
 
 But whatever the merit of his intentions may be, every writer 
 is now convinced, that he must be chiefly indebted to good fortune 
 for finding readers willing to allow him any degree of reputation. 
 
416 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 It has been remarked, that almost every character which has 
 excited either attention or praise, has owed part of its success to 
 merit, and part to a happy concurrence of circumstances in its 
 favour. Had Caesar or Cromwell exchanged countries, the one 
 might have been a sergeant, and the other an exciseman. So 
 it is with wit, which generally succeeds more from being happily 
 addressed, than from its native poignancy. A bon mot, for 
 instance, that might be relished at White's, may lose all its 
 flavour when delivered at the Cat and Bagpipes in St Giles's. A 
 jest, calculated to spread at a gaming-table, may be received with 
 a perfect neutrality of face, should it happen to drop in a 
 mackerel-boat. We have all seen dunces triumph in such com- 
 panies, when men of real humour were disregarded, by a general 
 combination in favour of stupidity. To drive the observation as far 
 as it will go, should the labours of a writer who designs his per- 
 formances for readers of a more refined appetite, fall into the 
 hands of a devourer of compilations, what can he expect but con- 
 tempt and confusion ? If his merits are to be determined by 
 judges, who estimate the value of a book from its bulk, or its 
 frontispiece, every rival must acquire an easy superiority, who, 
 with persuasive eloquence, promises four extraordinary pages of 
 letter-press, or three beautiful prints, curiously coloured from 
 nature. 
 
 But to proceed : Though I cannot promise as much entertain- 
 ment, or as much elegance, as others have done, yet the reader 
 may be assured, he shall have as much of both as I can. He 
 shall, at least, find me alive while I study his entertainment ; for 
 I solemnly assure him, I was never yet possessed of the secret at 
 once of writing and sleeping. 
 
 During the course of this paper, therefore, all the wit and learn- 
 ing I have are heartily at his service ; which if, after so candid a 
 confession, he should, notwithstanding, still find intolerably dull, 
 low, or sad stuff, this I protest is more than I know. I have a 
 clear conscience, and am entirely out of the secret. 
 
 Yet I would not have him, upon the perusal of a single paper, 
 pronounce me incorrigible ; he may try a second, which, as there 
 is a studied difference in subject and style, may be more suited to 
 his taste ; if this also fails, I must refer him to a third, or even to 
 a fourth, in case of extremity. If he should still continue to be 
 refractory, and find me dull to the last, I must inform him with 
 Bayes, in the Rehearsal, that I think him a very odd kind of a 
 fellow, and desire no more of his acquaintance. 
 
 It is with such reflections as these I endeavour to fortify myself 
 against the future contempt or neglect of some readers, and am 
 prepared for their dislike by mutual recrimination. If such 
 
I.J 
 
 ESSAYS — THE BEE. 
 
 should impute dealing neither in battles nor scandal to me as a 
 fault, instead of acquiescing in their censure, I must beg leave 
 to tell them a story. 
 
 ' A traveller, in his way to Italy, happening to pass at the foot 
 of the Alps, found himself at last in a country where the inhabi- 
 tants had each a large excrescence depending from the chin, like 
 the pouch of a monkey. This deformity, as it was endemic, and 
 the people little used to strangers, it had been the custom, time 
 immemorial, to look upon as the greatest ornament of the human 
 visage. Ladies grew toasts from the size of their chins, and none 
 were regarded as pretty fellows, but such whose faces were 
 broadest at the bottom. — It was Sunday ; a country church was 
 at hand, and our traveller was willing to perform the duties of 
 the day. Upon his first appearance at the church door, the eyes 
 of all were naturally fixed upon the stranger ; but what was their 
 amazement, when they found that he actually wanted that emblem 
 of beauty, a pursed chin ! This was a defect that not a single 
 creature had sufficient gravity (though they were noted for bein^' 
 grave) to withstand. Stifled bursts of laughter, winks, and 
 whispers, circulated from visage to visage, and the prismatic 
 figure of the stranger's face was a fund of infinite gaiety ; even 
 the parson, equally remarkable for his gravity and chin, coulu 
 hardly refrain joining in the good humour. Oar traveller could 
 no longer patiently continue an object for deformity to point at. 
 " Good folks," said he, " I perceive that I am the unfortunate 
 cause of all this good-humour. It is true, I may have faults in 
 abundance ; but I shall never be induced to reckon my want of a 
 swelled face among the number." ' 
 
 RE1IARKS ON OUR THEATRES. 
 
 Our theatres are now opened, and all Grub Street is preparing 
 its advice to the managers. We shall undoubtedly hear learned 
 disquisitions on the structure of one actor's legs and another's 
 eyebrows. We shall be told much of enunciations, tones, and 
 attitudes ; and shall have our lightest pleasures commented upon 
 by didactic dulness. We shall, it is feared, be told that Garrick 
 is a fine actor ; but then as a manager, so avaricious ! That 
 Palmer is a most surprising genius, and Holland likely to do well 
 in a particular cast of character. We shall have them giving 
 Shuter instructions to amuse us by rule, and deploring over the 
 ruins of desolated majesty at Covent Garden. As I love to be 
 advising too — for advice is easily given, and bears a show of wis- 
 dom and superiority — I must be permitted to offer a few observa- 
 
 2d 
 
418 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S prose works. 
 
 tions upon theatres and actors, without, on this trivial occasion, 
 throwing my thoughts into the formality of method. 
 
 There is something in the deportment of all our players infinitely 
 more stiff and formal than among the actors of other nations. 
 Their action sits uneasy upon them ; for as the English use very 
 little gesture in ordinary conversation, our English-bred actors 
 are obliged to supply stage gestures by their imagination alone. 
 A French comedian finds proper models of action in every com- 
 pany and in every coffee-house he enters. An Englishman is 
 obliged to take his models from the stage itself ; he is obliged to 
 imitate nature from an imitation of nature. I know of no set of 
 men more likely to be improved by travelling than those of the 
 theatrical profession. The inhabitants of the Continent are kss 
 reserved than here ; they may be seen through upon a first 
 acquaintance : such are the proper models to draw from ; they 
 are at once striking, and are found in great abundance. 
 
 Though it would be inexcusable in a comedian to add anything 
 of his own to the poet's dialogue, yet, as to action, he is entirely 
 at liberty. By this he may show the fertility of his genius, the 
 poignancy of his humour, and the exactness of his judgment ; we 
 scarcely see a coxcomb or a fool in common life that has not some 
 peculiar oddity in his action. These peculiarities it is not in the 
 power of words to represent, and depend solely upon the actor. 
 They give a relish to the humour of the poet, and make the ap- 
 pearance of nature more illusive. The Italians, it is true, mask 
 some characters, and endeavour to preserve the peculiar humour 
 by the make of the mask ; but I have seen others still preserve a 
 great fund of humour in the face without a mask ; one actor, par- 
 ticularly by a squint which he threw into some characters of low 
 life, assumed a look of infinite solidity. This, though upon reflec- 
 tion we might condemn, yet immediately upon representation, we 
 could not avoid being pleased with. To illustrate what I have 
 been saying by the plays which I have of late gone to see : in the 
 Miser, which was played a few nights ago at Convent Garden, 
 Lovegold appears through the whole in circumstances of exag- 
 gerated avarice ; all the player's action, therefore, should conspire 
 with the poet's design, and represent him as an epitome of penury. 
 The French comedian in this character, in the midst of one of his 
 most violent passions, while he appears in an ungovernable rage, 
 feels the demon of avarice still upon him, and stoops down to pick 
 up a pin, which he quilts into the flap of his coat pocket with great 
 assiduity. Two candles are lighted up for his wedding ; he flies 
 and turns one of them into the socket : it is however lighted up 
 again ; he then steals to it, and privately crams it into his pocket. 
 The Mock Doctor was lately played at the other house. Here 
 
I.] 
 
 ESSATS — THE BEE. 
 
 again the comedian had an opportunity of heightening the ridicule 
 by action. The French player sits in a chair with a high back, 
 and then begins to show away by talking nonsense, which he would 
 have thought Latin by those he knows do not understand a syl- 
 lable of the matter. At last he grows enthusiastic, enjoys the ad- 
 miration of the company, tosses his legs and arms about, and, in 
 the midst of his raptures and vociferation, he and the chair fall 
 back together. All this appears dull enough in the recital, but 
 the gravity of Cato could not stand it in the representation. In 
 short, there is hardly a character in comedy to which a player 
 of any real humour might not add strokes of vivacity that could 
 not fail of applause. But instead of this, we too often see our fine 
 gentlemen do nothing, through a whole part, but strut and open 
 their snuff-box ; our pretty fellows sit indecently with their legs 
 across, and our clowns pull up their breeches. These, if once, or 
 even twice repeated, might do well enough ; but to see them served 
 up in every scene, argues the actor almost as barren as the cha- 
 racter he would expose. 
 
 The magnificence of our theatres is far superior tc any others 
 in Europe, where plays only are acted. The great care our per- 
 formers take in painting for a part, their exactness in all the 
 minutiae of dress, and other little scenical proprieties, have been 
 taken notice of by Ricoboni, a gentleman of Italy, who travelled 
 Europe with no other design but to remark upon the stage ; but 
 there are several improprieties still continued, or lately come into 
 fashion. As for instance, spreading a carpet punctually at the 
 beginning of the death scene, in order to prevent our actors from 
 spoiling their clothes ; this immediately apprises us of the tragedy 
 to follow ; for laying the cloth is not a more sure indication of 
 dinner, than laying the carpet of bloody work at Drury Lane. 
 Our little pages, also, with unmeaning faces, that bear up the 
 train of a weeping princess, and our awkward lords in waiting, 
 take off much from her distress. Mutes of every kind divide 
 our attention, and lessen our sensibility ; but here it is entirely 
 ridiculous, as we see them seriously employed in doing nothing. 
 If we must have dirty-shirted guards upon the theatres, they 
 should be taught to keep their eyes fixed on the actors, and not 
 roll them round upon the audience, as if they were ogling the 
 boxes. 
 
 Beauty, methinks, seems a requisite qualification in an actress. 
 This seems scrupulously observed elsewhere, and, for my part, I 
 could wish to see it observed at home. I can never conceive a 
 hero dying for love of a lady totally destitute of beauty. I must 
 think the part unnatural ; for I cannot bear to hear him call that 
 face angelic, where even paint cannot hide its wrinkles. I must 
 
120 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 condemn him of stupidity ; and the person whom I can accuse for 
 want of taste, will seldom become the object of my affections or 
 admiration. But if this be a defect, what must be the entire per- 
 version of scenical decorum, when, for instance, we see an actress 
 that might act the Wapping landlady without a bolster, pining 
 in the character of Jane Shore, and while unwieldy with fat, 
 endeavouring to convince the audience that she is dying with 
 hunger. 
 
 For the future, then, I could wish that the parts of the young 
 or beautiful were given to performers of suitable figures ; for I 
 must own, I could rather see the stage filled with agreeable objects 
 though they might sometimes bungle a little, than see it crowded 
 with withered or misshapen figures, be their emphasis, as I think 
 it is called, ever so proper. The first may have the awkward ap- 
 pearance of new-raised troops ; but in viewing the last, I cannot 
 avoid the mortification of fancying myself placed in an hospital of 
 invalids. 
 
 THE STORY OF ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM A BYZANTINE HISTORIAN. 
 
 Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman empire, still 
 continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. The 
 emperors and generals, who in these periods of approaching ig- 
 norance, still felt a passion for science, from time to time added to 
 its buildings, or increased its professorships. Theodoric, the Os- 
 trogoth, was of the number : he repaired those schools which bar- 
 barity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pen- 
 sions to men of learning, which avaricious governors had mono- 
 polised to themselves. 
 
 In this cit} 7 , and about this period, Alcander and Septimius 
 were fellow students together. The one the most subtile reasoner 
 of all the Lyceum : the other the most eloquent speaker in the 
 Academic Grove. Mutual admiration soon begot an acquaintance, 
 and a similitude of disposition made them perfect friends. Their 
 fortunes were nearly equal, their studies the same, and they were 
 natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world ; for Alcan- 
 der was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome. 
 
 In this mutual harmony they lived for some time together, 
 when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the 
 indolence of philosophy, thought at length of entering into the 
 busy world, and as a step previous to this, placed his affections on 
 Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. Hypatia showed no dislike 
 to his addresses. The day of their intended nuptials was fixed, 
 
I.J ESSAYS— THE BEE. 
 
 the previous ceremonies were performed, and nothing now re- 
 mained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of 
 the intended bridegroom. 
 
 An exultation in his own happiness, or his being unable to 
 enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend Septimius a part* 
 ner, prevailed upon him to introduce his mistress to his fellow stu- 
 dent, which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himself 
 equally happy in friendship and love.— But this was an interview 
 fatal to the peace of both ; for Septimius no sooner saw her, but he 
 was smit with an involuntary passion. He used every effort, but in 
 vain, to suppress desires at once so imprudent and unjust. He 
 retired to his apartment in inexpressible agony ; and the emo- 
 tions of his mind in a short time became so strong, that they 
 brought on a fever, which the physicians judged incurable. 
 
 During this illness, Alcander watched him with all the anxiety 
 of fondness, and brought his mistress ■ to join in those amiable 
 offices of friendship. The sagacity of the physicians, by this means, 
 soon discovered the cause of their patient's disorder ; and Alcan- 
 der, being apprised of their discovery, at length extorted a con- 
 fession from the reluctant dying lover. 
 
 It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between 
 love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on this occasion ; it 
 is enough to say, that the Athenians were at this time arrived at 
 such refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess. 
 In short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his intended 
 bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. They were married 
 privately by his connivance ; and this unlooked-for change of for- 
 tune wrought as unexpected a change in the constitution of the now 
 happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and 
 set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of 
 those talents of which he was so eminently possessed, he in a few 
 years arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was con- 
 stituted the city judge, or praetor. 
 
 Meanwhile, Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated 
 from his friend and mistress, but a prosecution was also com- 
 menced against him by the relations of Hypatia, for his having 
 basely given her up, a3 was suggested, for money. Neither his 
 innocence of the crime laid to his charge, nor his eloquence in his 
 own defence, was able to withstand the influence of a powerful 
 party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. 
 Unable to raise so large a sum at the time appointed, his posses- 
 sions were confiscated, himself stripped of the habit of freedom, 
 exposed in the market-place, and sold as a slave to the highest 
 bidder. 
 A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Alcander, with 
 
goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 some other companions of distress, was carried into that region of 
 desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the 
 herds of an imperious master ; and his skill in hunting was all 
 that was allowed him to supply a precarious subsistence, Con- 
 demned to hopeless servitude, every morning waked him to a re- 
 newal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to 
 aggravate his unsheltered distress. Nothing but death or flight 
 was left him, and almost certain death was the consequence of his 
 attempting to fly. After some years of bondage, however, an op- 
 portunity of escaping offered : he embraced it with ardour, and 
 travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a 
 long story, he at last arrived in Rome. The day of Alcander's 
 arrival, Septimius sat in the forum administering justice ; and 
 hither our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, and 
 publicly acknowledged. Here he stood the whole day among the 
 crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken 
 notice of ; but so much was he altered by a long succession of 
 hardships, that he passed entirely without notice ; and, in the 
 evening, when he was going up to the praetor's chair, he was 
 brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the 
 poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another ; 
 night coming on, he now found himself under a necessity of seek- 
 ing a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All ema- 
 ciated and in rags as he was, none of the citizens would harbour 
 so much wretchedness, and sleeping in the streets might be at- 
 tended with interruption or danger : in short, he was obliged to 
 take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the usual 
 retreat of guilt, poverty, or despair. 
 
 In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn 
 he forgot his miseries for a while in sleep ; and virtue found on 
 this flinty couch more ease than down can supply to the guilty. 
 
 It was midnight when two robbers came to make this cave their 
 retreat, but happening to disagree about the division of their 
 plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him 
 weltering in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he 
 was found next morning, and this naturally induced a farther in- 
 quiry. The alarm was spread, the cave was examined, Alcander 
 was found sleeping, and immediately apprehended and accused 
 of robbery and murder. The circumstances against him were 
 strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance confirmed suspi- 
 cion. Misfortune and he were now so long acquainted, that he at 
 last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had 
 found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty, and was deter- 
 mined to make no defence. Thus, lowering with resolution, he 
 was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. 
 
II.] 
 
 ESSAYS— THE BEE. 
 
 423 
 
 The proofs were positive against him, and he offered nothing in 
 bis own vindication ; the judge, therefore, was proceeding to doom 
 him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when, as if illumined 
 by a ray from Heaven, he discovered, through all his misery, the 
 features, though dim with sorrow, of his long-lost, loved Alcander. 
 It is impossible to describe his joy and his pain on this strange 
 occasion ; happy in once more seeing the person he most loved on 
 earth, distressed at finding him in such circumstances. Thus 
 agitated by contending passions, he flew from his tribunal, and, 
 falling on the neck of his dear benefactor, burst into an agony of 
 distress. The attention of the multitude was soon, however, di- 
 vided by another object. The robber who had been really guilty 
 was apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a panic, 
 confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the same tribunal, 
 and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. 
 Need the sequel be related ? Alcander was acquitted, shared the 
 friendship and the honours of his friend Septimius, lived after- 
 wards in happiness and ease, and left it to be engraved on his 
 tomb, that ' no circumstances are so desperate which Providence 
 may not relieve.' 
 
 No. II. 
 
 Foreigners observe, that there are no ladies in the world more 
 beautiful, or more ill dressed, than those of England. Our country- 
 women have been compared to those pictures, where the face is 
 the work of a Raphael, but the draperies thrown out by some 
 empty pretender, destitute of taste, and entirely unacquainted 
 with design. 
 
 If I were a poet, I might observe on this occasion, that so much 
 beauty set off with all the advantages of dress, would be too power- 
 ful an antagonist for the opposite sex ; and, therefore, it was 
 wisely ordered that our ladies should want taste, lest their admirers 
 should entirely want reason. 
 
 But to confess a truth, I do not find they have a greater aversion 
 to fine clothes than the women of any other country whatsoever. 
 I cannot fancy, that a shopkeeper's wife in Cheapside has a 
 greater tenderness for the fortune of her husband than a citizen's 
 wife in Paris ; or, that Miss in a boarding-school is more an 
 economist in dress than Mademoiselle in a nunnery. 
 
 Although Paris may be accounted the soil in which almost 
 
124 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 every fashion takes its rise, its influence is never so general there 
 as with us. They study there the happy method of uniting grace 
 and fashion, and never excuse a woman for being awkwardly 
 dressed, by saying her clothes are made in the mode. A French 
 woman is a perfect architect in dress ; she never, with Gothic 
 ignorance, mixes the order ; she never tricks out a squabby Doric 
 shape with Corinthian finery ; or, to speak without metaphor, she 
 conforms to general fashion, only when it happens not to be re- 
 pugnant to private beauty. 
 
 Our ladies, on the contrary, seem to have no other standard for 
 grace but the run of the town. If fashion gives the word, every 
 distinction of beauty, complexion, or stature, ceases. Sweeping 
 trains, Prussian bonnets, and trollopees, as like each other as if 
 cut from the same piece, level all to one standard. The Mall, the 
 gardens, and the playhouses, are filled with ladies in uniform, and 
 their whole appearance shows as little variety or taste, as if their 
 clothes were bespoke by the colonel of a marching regiment, or 
 fancied by the same artist who dresses the three battalions of 
 guards. 
 
 But not only ladies of every shape and complexion, but of every 
 age too, are possessed of this unaccountable passion of dressing in 
 the same manner. A lady of no quality can be distinguished from 
 a lady of some quality, only by the redness of her hands ; and a 
 woman of sixty, masked, might easily pass for her grand-daughter. 
 I remember, a few days ago, to have walked behind a damsel, 
 tossed out in all the gaiety of fifteen ; her dress was loose, un- 
 studied, and seemed the result of conscious beauty. I called up 
 all my poetry on this occasion, and fancied twenty Cupids pre- 
 pared for execution in every folding of her white negligee. I had 
 prepared my imagination for an angel's face ; but what was my 
 mortification to find that the imaginary goddess was no other than 
 my cousin Hannah, four years older than myself, and I shall be 
 sixty-two the twelfth of next November ! 
 
 After the transports of our first salute were over, I could not 
 avoid running my eye over her whole appearance. Her gown was 
 of cambric, cut short before, in order to discover a high-heeled 
 shoe, which was buckled almost at the toe. Her cap, if cap it 
 might be called that cap was none, consisted of a few bits of 
 of cambric, and flowers of painted paper stuck on one side of her 
 head. Her bosom that had felt no hand but the hand of time, 
 these twenty years, rose suing but in vain to be pressed. I could, 
 indeed, have wished her more than a handkerchief of Paris net 
 to shade her beauties ; for, as Tasso says of the rosebud, ' Quanto 
 si monstra men tanto e piu bella,' I should think hers most pleas- 
 ing when least discovered. 
 
II.] ESSAYS — THE BEE. 425 
 
 As my cousin had not put on all this finery for nothing, she was 
 at that time sallying out to the Park, when I had overtaken 
 her. Perceiving, however, that I had on my best wig, she offered, 
 if I would squire her there, to send home the footman. Though 
 I trembled for our reception in public, yet I could not with any 
 civility refuse ; so, to be as gallant as possible, I took her hand 
 in my arm and thus we marched on together. 
 
 "When we made our entry at the Park, two antiquated figures, 
 so polite and so tender as we seemed to be, soon attracted the eyes 
 of the company. As we made our way among crowds who were 
 out to show their finery as well as we, wherever we came I per- 
 ceived we brought good-humour in our train. The polite could 
 not forbear smiling, and the vulgar burst out into a horse-laugh at 
 our grotesque figures. Cousin Hannah, who was perfectly con- 
 scious of the rectitude of her own appearance, attributed all this 
 mirth to the oddity of mine, while I as cordially placed the whole 
 to her account. Thus, from being two of the best-natured 
 creatures alive, before we got half way up the Mall, we both 
 began to grow peevish, and like two mice on a string, endeavour- 
 ing to revenge the impertinence of others upon ourselves. ' I am 
 amazed, cousin Jeffrey, 5 says Miss, ' that I can never get you to 
 dress like a Christian. I knew we should have the eyes of the Park 
 upon us, with your great wig so frizzed, and yet so beggarly, and 
 your monstrous muff. I hate those odious muffs.' I could have 
 patiently borne a criticism on all the rest of my equipage ; but as 
 I had always a peculiar veneration for my muff, I could not 
 forbear being piqued a little ; and throwing my eyes with a spite- 
 ful air on her bosom, ■ I could heartily wish, madam,' replied I, 
 * that for your sake my muff was cut into a tippet.' 
 
 As my cousin, by this time, was grown heartily ashamed of her 
 gentleman usher, and I was never very fond of any kind of ex- 
 hibition myself, it was mutually agreed to retire for a while to one 
 of the seats, and from that retreat remark on others as freely as 
 they had remarked on us. 
 
 When seated, we continued silent for some time, employed in 
 very different speculations. I regarded the whole company, now 
 passing in review before me, as drawn out merely for my amuse- 
 ment. For my entertainment the beauty had all that morning 
 been improving her charms ; the beau had put on lace, and the 
 young doctor a big wig, merely to please me. But quite different 
 were the sentiments of cousin Hannah : she regarded every well- 
 dressed woman as a victorious rival, hated every face that seemed 
 dressed in good humour, or wore the appearance of greater happi- 
 ness than her own. I perceived her uneasiness, and attempted to 
 lessen it, by observing that there was no company in the Park to- 
 
426 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 day. To this she readily assented ; ' and yet,' says she, ■ it is 
 full enough of scrubs of one kind or another. My smiling at 
 this observation gave her spirits to pursue the bent of her inclina- 
 tion, and now she began to exhibit her skill in secret history, as 
 she found me disposed to listen. * Observe/ says she to me, * that 
 old woman in tawdry silk, and dressed out even beyond the fashion. 
 That is Miss Biddy Evergreen. Miss Biddy, it seems, has money, 
 and as she considers that money was never so scarce as it is now, 
 she seems resolved to keep what she has to herself. She is ugly 
 enough you see ; yet I assure you she has refused several offers 
 to my own knowledge within this twelvemonth. Let me see, three 
 gentlemen from Ireland who study the law, two waiting captains, 
 a doctor, and a Scotch preacher, who had like to have carried her 
 off. All her time is passed between sickness and finery. Thus 
 she spends the whole week in a close chamber, with no other com- 
 pany but her monkey, her apothecary, and cat ; and comes dressed 
 out to the Park every Sunday, to show her airs, to get new lovers, 
 to catch a new cold, and to make new work for the doctor. 
 
 * There goes Mrs Roundabout, — I mean the fat lady in the lute- 
 string trollopee. Between you and I, she is but a cutler's wife. 
 See how she's dressed, as fine as hands and pins can make her, 
 while her two marriageable daughters, like bunters in stiff gowns, 
 are now taking sixpenny-worth of tea at the White Conduit House 
 Odious puss ! how she waddles along, with her train two yards 
 behind her ! She puts me in mind of my Lord Bantam's Indian 
 sheep, which are obliged to have their monstrous tails trundled 
 along in a go-cart. For all her airs, it goes to her husband's 
 heart to see four yards of good lustestring wearing against the 
 ground, like one of his knives on a grindstone. To speak my 
 mind, cousin Jeffrey, I never liked tails ; for suppose a young 
 fellow should be rude, and the lady should offer to step back in a 
 fright, instead of retiring, she treads upon her train, and falls 
 fairly on her back ; and then, you know, cousin— her clothes may 
 be spoiled. 
 
 1 Ah, Miss Mazzard ! I knew we should not miss her in the 
 Park ; she in the monstrous Prussian bonnet. Miss, though so 
 very fine, was bred a milliner, and might have had some custom 
 if she had minded her business ; but the girl was fond of finery, 
 and instead of dressing her customers, laid out all her goods in 
 adorning herself. Every new gown she put on impaired her 
 credit: she still, however, went on improving her appearance, 
 and lessening her little fortune, and is now, you see, become a 
 belle and a bankrupt.' 
 
 My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which were inter- 
 rupted by the approach of the very lady she had been so freely 
 
 I 
 
II.] ESSAYS— THE BEE. 42} 
 
 describing. Miss had perceived her at a distance, and approach- 
 ed to salute her. I found, by the warmth of the two ladies' pro- 
 testations, that they had been long intimate esteemed friends and 
 acquaintance. Both were so pleased at this happy rencounter, 
 that they were resolved not to part for the day. So we all crossed 
 the Park together, and I saw them into a hackney coach at the gate 
 of St James's. I could not, however, help observing, that they 
 are generally most ridiculous themselves, who are apt to see most 
 ridicule in others. 
 
 SOME PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO CHAELES XII. NOT COMMONLY KNOWN. 
 
 Stockholm. 
 
 Sir, — I cannot resist your solicitations, though it is possible I 
 shall be unable to satisfy your curiosity. The polite of every 
 country seem to have but one character. A gentleman of Sweden 
 differs but little, except in trifles, from one of any other country. 
 It is among the vulgar we are to find those distinctions which 
 characterize a people, and from them it is that I take my picture 
 of the Swedes. 
 
 Though the Swedes, in general, appear to languish under 
 oppression, which often renders others wicked, or of malignant 
 dispositions, it has not, however, the same influence upon them, as 
 they are faithful, civil, and incapable of atrocious crimes. Would 
 you believe that, in Sweden, highway robberies are not so much 
 as heard of ? For my part, I have not in the whole country seen 
 a gibbet or a gallows. They pay an infinite respect to their 
 ecclesiastics, whom they suppose to be the privy •councillors of 
 Providence, who, on their part, turn this credulity to their own 
 advantage, and manage their parishioners as they please. In 
 general, however, they seldom abuse their sovereign authority. 
 Hearkened to as oracles, regarded as the dispensers of eternal 
 rewards and punishments, they readily influence their hearers 
 into justice, and make them practical philosophers without the 
 pains of study. 
 
 As to their persons, they are perfectly well made, and the men 
 particularly have a very engaging air. The greatest part of the 
 boys which I saw in the country had very white hair. They 
 were as beautiful as Cupids, and there was something open and 
 entirely happy in their little chubby faces. The girls, on the 
 contrary, have neither such fair nor such even complexions, and 
 their features are much less delicate, which is a circumstance 
 different from that of almost every other country. Besides this i 
 it is observed, that the women are generally afilictcd with the 
 
428 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 itch, for which Scania is particularly remarkable. Such are the 
 remarks, which probably you may think trifling enough, I have 
 made in my journey to Stockholm, which, to take it all together, is 
 a large, beautiful, and even a populous city. 
 
 The arsenal appears to me one of its greatest curiosities : it is 
 a handsome, spacious building, but, however, scantily supplied 
 with the implements of war. To recompense this defect, they 
 have almost filled it with trophies, and other marks of their 
 former military glory. I saw there several chambers filled with 
 Danish, Saxon, Polish, and Russian standards. There was at 
 least enough to suffice half-a-dozen armies ; but new standards 
 are more easily made than new armies can be enlisted. I saw, 
 besides, some very rich furniture, and some of the crown jewels, 
 of great value ; but what principally engaged my attention, and 
 touched me with passing melancholy, were the bloody, yet pre- 
 cious, spoils of the two greatest heroes the North ever produced. 
 What I mean are the clothes in which the great Gustavus Adol- 
 phus and the intrepid Charles XII. died by a fate not unusual to 
 kings. The first, if I remember, is a sort of a buff waistcoat, 
 made antique fashion, very plain, and without the least orna- 
 ments ; the second, which was even more remarkable, consisted 
 only of a coarse blue cloth coat, a large hat of less value, a shirt 
 of coarse linen, large boots, and buff gloves made to cover a great 
 part of the arm. His saddle, his pistols, and his sword, have 
 nothing in them remarkable : the meanest soldier was in this 
 respect no way inferior to his gallant monarch. I shall use this 
 opportunity to give you some particulars of the life of a man 
 already so well known, which I had from persons who knew him 
 when a child, and who now, by a fate not unusual to courtiers, 
 spend a life of poverty and retirement, and talk over in raptures 
 all the actions of their old victorious king, companion, and 
 master. 
 
 Courage and inflexible constancy formed the basis of this mo- 
 narch's character. In his tenderest years he gave instances of 
 both. "When he was yet scarcely seven years old, being at dinner 
 with the queen his mother, intending to give a bit of bread to a 
 great dog he was fond of, this hungry animal snapt too greedily 
 at the morsel, and bit his hand in a terrible manner. The wound 
 bled copiously, but our young hero, without offering to cry, or 
 taking the least notice of his misfortune, endeavoured to conceal 
 what had happened, lest his dog should be brought into trouble, 
 and wrapped his bloody hand in the napkin. The queen, per- 
 ceiving that he did not eat, asked him the reason. He contented 
 himself with replying, that he thanked her, he was not hungry. 
 They thought he was taken ill, and so repeated their solicitations: 
 
II.] ESSAYS — THE BEE. 
 
 but all was in vain, though the poor child was already grown pale 
 with the loss of blood. An officer who attended at table at last 
 perceived it ; for Charles would sooner have died than betrayed 
 his dog, who, he knew, intended no injury. 
 
 At another time, when in the smallpox, and his case appeared 
 dangerous, he grew one day very uneasy in his bed, and a gentle- 
 man who watched him, desirous of covering him up close, received 
 from the patient a violent box on his ear. Some hours after, 
 observing the prince more calm, he entreated to know how he 
 had incurred his displeasure, or what he had done to have merited 
 a blow. " A blow ?" replied Charles, " I don't remember any- 
 thing of it : I remember, indeed, that I thought myself in the 
 battle of Arbela, fighting for Darius, where I gave Alexander a 
 blow which brought him to the ground." 
 
 "What great effects might not these two qualities of courage 
 and constancy have produced, had they at first received a just 
 direction ! Charles, with proper instructions, thus naturally dis- 
 posed, would have been the delight and the glory of his age. 
 Happy those princes, who are educated by men who are at once 
 virtuous and wise, and have been for some time in the school of 
 affliction ; who weigh happiness against glory, and teach their 
 royal pupils the real value of fame ; who are ever showing the 
 superior dignity of man to that of royalty — that a peasant who 
 does his duty is a nobler character than a king of even middling 
 reputation ! Happy, I say, were princes, could such men be 
 found to instruct them ; but those to whom such an education is 
 generally intrusted, are men who themselves have acted in a 
 sphere too high to know mankind. Puffed up themselves with 
 the ideas of false grandeur, and measuring merit by adventitious 
 circumstances of greatness, they generally communicate those 
 fatal prejudices to their pupils, confirm their pride by adulation, 
 or increase their ignorance by teaching them to despise that wis- 
 dom which is found among the poor. 
 
 But not to moralize when I only intend a story, — what is re- 
 lated of the journeys of this prince is no less astonishing. He has 
 sometimes been on horseback for four-and-twenty hours succes- 
 sively ; and thus traversed the greatest part of his kingdom. At 
 last none of his officers were found capable of following him ; he 
 thus consequently rode the greatest part of his journeys quite 
 alone, without taking a moment's repose, and without any other 
 subsistence but a bit of bread. In one of these rapid courses he 
 underwent an adventure singular enough. Riding thus post one 
 day, all alone, he had the misfortune to have his horse fall dead 
 under him. This might have embarrassed an ordinary man, but 
 it gave Charles no sort of uneasiness. Sure of finding another 
 
goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 horse, but not equally so of meeting with a good saddle and pistols, 
 he ungirths his horse, claps the whole equipage on his own back, 
 and, thus accoutred, marches on to the next inn, which by good 
 fortune was not far off. Entering the stable, he here found a 
 horse entirely to his mind ; so, without farther ceremony, he 
 clapped on his saddle and housing with great composure, and was 
 just going to mount, when the gentleman who owned the horse 
 was apprised of a stranger's going to steal his property out of the 
 stable. Upon asking the king, whom he had never seen, bluntly 
 how he presumed to meddle with his horse, Charles coolly replied, 
 squeezing in his lips, which was his usual custom, that he took 
 the horse because he wanted one ; * for you see," continued he, 
 " if I have none, I shall be obliged to carry the saddle myself." 
 This answer did not seem at all satisfactory to the gentleman, 
 who instantly drew his sword. In this the king was not much 
 behind-hand with him, and to it they were going, when the guards 
 by this time came up, and testified that surprise which was natural 
 <o see arms in the hand of a subject against his king. Imagine 
 tvhether the gentleman was less surprised than they at his unpre- 
 meditated disobedience. His astonishment, however, was soon dis- 
 sipated by the king, who, taking him by the hand, assured him 
 he was a brave fellow, and himself would take c?^e he should be 
 provided for. This promise was afterwards fulfilled, and I have 
 been assured the king made him a captain. 
 
 HAPPINESS, IN A GREAT MEASURE, DEPENDENT ON CONSTITUTION. 
 
 When I reflect on the unambitious retirement in which I passed 
 the earlier part of my life in the country, I cannot avoid feeling 
 some pain in thinking that those happy days are never to return 
 In that retreat all nature seemed capable of affording pleasure : 
 I then made no refinements on happiness, but could be pleased 
 with the most awkward efforts of rustic mirth ; thought cross- 
 purposes the highest stretch of human wit, and questions and 
 commands the most rational amusement for spending the evening. 
 Happy could so charming an illusion still continue. I find ago 
 and knowledge only contribute to sour our dispositions. My pre- 
 sent enjoyments may be more refined, but they are infinitely less 
 pleasing. The pleasure Garrick gives can no way compare to 
 that I have received from a country wag, who imitated a quaker's 
 sermon. The music of Matei is dissonance to what I felt when 
 our old dairymaid sang me into tears with Johnny Armstrong's 
 Last Good Night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allan. 
 
 Writers of every age have endeavoured to show that pleasure 
 
II.] ESSAYS— THE BEE. 481 
 
 is in us, and not in the objects offered for our amusement. If the 
 soul be happily disposed, everything becomes a subject of enter- 
 tainment, and distress will almost want a name. Every occur- 
 rence passes in review like the figures of a procession : some may be 
 awkward, others ill-dressed, but none but a fool is for this enraged 
 with the master of the ceremonies. 
 
 I remember to have once seen a slave in a fortification in Flan- 
 ders, who appeared no way touched with his situation. He was 
 maimed, deformed, and chained ; obliged to toil from the appear- 
 ance of day till nightfall, and condemned to this for life ; yet with 
 all these circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he sang, would 
 have danced, but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the mer- 
 riest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical philo- 
 sopher was here ! a happy constitution supplied philosophy, and 
 though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was really wise. No 
 reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy land 
 around him. Everything furnished him with an opportunity of 
 mirth ; and though some thought him, from his insensibility, a 
 fool, he was such an idiot as philosophers might wish in vain to 
 imitate. 
 
 They who like him can place themselves on that side of the 
 world in which everything appears in a ridiculous or pleasing 
 light, will find something in every occurrence to excite their good- 
 humour. The most calamitous events, either to themselves or 
 others, can bring no new affliction : the whole world is to them a 
 theatre, on which comedies only are acted. All the bustle of 
 heroism, or the rants of ambition, serve only to heighten the 
 absurdity of the scene, and make the humour more poignant. 
 They feel, in short, as little anguish at their own distress, or the 
 complaints of others, as the undertaker, though dressed in black, 
 feels sorrow at a funeral. 
 
 Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Cardinal de Ketz 
 possessed this happiness of temper in the highest degree. As he 
 was a man of gallantry, and despised all that wore the pedantic 
 appearance of philosophy, wherever pleasure was to be sold he 
 was generally foremost to raise the auction. Being a universal 
 admirer of the fair sex, when he found one lady cruel, he gene- 
 rally fell in love with another, from whom he expected a more 
 favourable reception ; if she too rejected his addresses, he never 
 thought of retiring into deserts, or pining in hopeless distress : he 
 persuaded himself, that instead of loving the lady, he only fancied 
 he had loved her, and so all was well again. When fortune wore 
 her angriest look, when he at last fell into the power of his most 
 deadly enemy, Cardinal Mazarene, and was confined a close pri- 
 soner in the Castle of Valenciennes, he never attempted to support 
 
432 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 his distress by -wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. 
 He laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely 
 pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though 
 secluded from his friends, though denied all the amusements, and 
 even the conveniences of life, teased every hour by the imperti- 
 nence of wretches who were employed to guard him, he still re- 
 tained his good-humour, laughed at all their little spite, and 
 carried the jest so far as to be revenged by writing the life of his 
 jailor. 
 
 All that philosophy can teach, is to be stubborn or sullen under 
 misfortunes. The Cardinal's example will instruct us to be merry 
 in circumstances of the highest affliction. It matters not whether 
 our good-humour be construed by others into insensibility, or even 
 idiotism : it is happiness to ourselves, and none but a fool would 
 measure his satisfaction by what the world thinks of it. 
 
 Dick Wildgoose was one of the happiest silly fellows I ever 
 knew. He was of the number of those good-natured creatures that 
 are said to do no harm to any but themselves. "Whenever Dick 
 fell into any misery, he usually called it ■ seeing life.' If his head 
 was broke by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a sharper, he 
 comforted himself by imitating the Hibernian dialect of the one, 
 or the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiss 
 to Dick. His inattention to money matters had incensed his 
 father to such a degree, that all the intercession of friends in his 
 favour was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. 
 The whole family, and Dick among the number, gathered round 
 him. * I leave my second son Andrew/ said the expiring miser, 
 ■ my whole estate, and desire him to be frugal.' Andrew, in a 
 sorrowful tone, as is usual on these occasions, * prayed Heaven 
 to prolong his life and health to enjoy it himself.' — ' I recommend 
 Simon, my third son, to the care of his elder brother, and leave 
 him beside four thousand pounds.' * Ah, father !' cried Simon, 
 (in great affliction to be sure,) * may Heaven give you life ar.d 
 health to enjoy it yourself V At last, turning to poor Dick, 'As 
 for you, you have always been a sad dog — you'll never come to 
 good, you'll never be rich ; I'll leave you a shilling to buy a hal- 
 ter.' — ■ Ah, father V cries Dick, without any emotion, ■ may Hea- 
 ven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!' This was all 
 the trouble the loss of fortune gave this thoughtless imprudent 
 creature. However, the tenderness of an uncle recompensed the 
 neglect of a father ; and Dick is not only excessively good- 
 humoured, but competently rich. 
 
 The world, in short, may cry out at a bankrupt who appears at 
 a ball ; at an author, who laughs at the public which pronounces 
 him a dunce ; at a general, who smiles at the reproach of the 
 
»•] 
 
 ESSAYS— THE BEE. 
 
 i-n 
 
 rulgar ; or the lady, who keeps her good-humour in spite of scan- 
 dal : but such is the wisest behaviour they can possibly assume. 
 It is certainly a better way to oppose calamity by dissipation, 
 than to take up arms of reason or resolution to oppose it : by the 
 first method we forget our miseries, by the last we only conceal 
 them from others. By struggling with misfortunes, we are sure 
 to receive some wounds in the conflict : the only method to come 
 off victorious, is by running away. 
 
 ON OUR THEATRES. 
 
 Mademoiselle Clairon, a celebrated actress at Paris, seems to 
 me the most perfect female figure I have ever seen upon any stage. 
 Not perhaps that nature has been more liberal of personal beauty 
 to her than some to be seen upon our theatres at home. There are 
 actresses here who have as much of what connoisseurs call statu- 
 ary grace, by which is meant elegance unconnected with motion, 
 as she ; but they all fall infinitely short of her, when the soul 
 comes to give expression to the limbs, and animates every feature. 
 
 Her first appearance is excessively engaging : she never comes 
 in staring round upon the company, as if she intended to court 
 the benefits of the house, or at least to see, as well as be seen. Her 
 eyes are always, s>t first, intently fixed upon the persons of the 
 drama, and she lifts them, by degrees, with enchanting diffidence, 
 upon the spectators. Her first speech, or at least the first part of it, 
 is delivered with scarcely any motion of the arm ; her hands and 
 her tongue never set out together ; but the one prepares us for 
 the other. She sometimes begins with a mute eloquent attitude ; 
 but never goes forward all at once with hands, eyes, head, and 
 voice. This observation, though it may appear of no importance, 
 should certainly be adverted to ; nor do I see any one performer 
 (Garrick only excepted) among us, that is not in this particular 
 apt to offend. By this simple beginning she gives herself a power of 
 rising in the passion of the scene. As she proceeds, every gesture, 
 every look, acquires new violence, till at last, transported, she fills 
 the whole vehemence of the part, and all the idea of the poet. 
 
 Her hands are not alternately stretched out, and then drawn in 
 again, as with the singing-women at Sadler's "Wells : they are 
 employed with graceful variety, and every moment please with 
 new and unexpected eloquence. Add to this, that their motion 
 is generally from the shoulder ; she never flourishes her hands 
 while the upper part of her arm is motionless, nor has she the ridi- 
 culous appearance as if her elbows were pinned to her hips. 
 
 But of all the cautions to be given to our rising actresses. I 
 
 2e 
 
434 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 would particularly recommend it to them never to take notice of 
 the audience upon any occasion whatsoever ; let the spectators 
 applaud never so loudly, their praises should pass, except at the 
 end of the epilogue, with seeming inattention. I can never pardon 
 a lady on the stage, who, when she draws the admiration of the 
 whole audience, turns about to make them a low curtsey for their 
 applause. Such a figure no longer continues Belvidera, but at once 
 drops into Mrs Cibber. Suppose a sober tradesman, who once a 
 year takes his shilling's worth at Drury Lane, in order to be de- 
 lighted with the figure of a queen — the queen of Sheba, for in- 
 stance, or any other queen — this honest man has no other idea of 
 the great but from their superior pride and impertinence : sup- 
 pose such a man placed among the spectators, the first figure that 
 appears on the stage is the queen herself, curtsying and cringing 
 to all the company, how can he fancy her the haughty favourite 
 of King Solomon the wise, who appears actually more submissive 
 than the wife of his bosom ? We are all tradesmen of a nicer re- 
 lish in this respect, and such conduct must disgust every spectator, 
 who loves to have the illusion of nature strong upon him. 
 
 Yet, while I recommend to our actresses a skilful attention to 
 gesture, I would not have them study it in the looking-glass. 
 This, without some precaution, will render their action formal ; 
 by too great an intimacy with this, they become stiff and affected. 
 People seldom improve when they have no other model but them- 
 selves to copy after. I remember to have known a notable per- 
 former of the other sex, who made great use of this flattering 
 monitor, and yet was one of the stiffest figures I ever saw. I am 
 told his apartment was hung round with looking-glasses, that he 
 might see his person twenty times reflected upon entering the 
 room ; and I will make bold to say he saw twenty very ugly 
 fellows whenever he did so. 
 
 No. III. 
 
 ON THE USE OP LANGUAGE. 
 
 The manner in which most writers begin their treatises on the 
 use of language is generally thus : — " Language has been granted 
 to man, in order to discover his wants and necessities, so as to 
 have them relieved by society. Whatever we desire, whatever we 
 wish, it is but to clothe those desires or wishes in words in order 
 to fruition ; the principal use of language, therefore," say they, 
 " is to express our wants, so as to receive a speedy redress." 
 
Ill.J ESSAYS — THE BEE. 
 
 Such an account as this may serve to satisfy grammarians and 
 rhetoricians well enough, but men who know the world maintain 
 very contrary maxims : they hold, and I think with some show of 
 reason, that he who best knows hew to conceal his necessity and 
 desires, is the most likely person to find redress ; and that the 
 true use of speech is not so much to express our wants, as to con- 
 ceal them. 
 
 When we reflect on the manner in which mankind generally 
 confer their favours, we shall find, that they who seem to want 
 them least, are the very persons who most liberally share them. 
 There is something so attractive in riches, that the large heap 
 generally collects from the smaller ; and the poor find as much 
 pleasure in increasing the enormous mass, as the miser who owns 
 i-t sees happiness in its increase. Nor is there in this anything 
 repugnant to the laws of true morality. Seneca himself allows, 
 that in conferring benefits, the present should always be suited 
 to the dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive large presents, 
 and are thanked for accepting them ; men of middling stations 
 are obliged to be content with presents something less ; while the 
 beggar, who may be truly said to want indeed, is well paid if a 
 farthing rewards his warmest solicitations. 
 
 Every man who has seen the world, and has had his ups and 
 downs in life, as the expression is, must have frequently experi- 
 enced the truth of this doctrine, and must know, that to have much, 
 or to seem to have it, is the only way to have more. Ovid finely 
 compares a man of broken fortune to a falling column : the lower 
 it sinks, the greater weight it is obliged to sustain. Thus, when 
 a man has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers willing to lend 
 him. Should he ask his friend to lend him a hundred pounds, it 
 is possible, from the largeness of his demand, he may find credit 
 for twenty ; but should he humbly only sue for a trifle, it is two 
 to one whether he might be trusted for twopence. A certain 
 young fellow at George's, whenever he had occasion to ask his 
 friend for a guinea, used to prelude his request as if he wanted 
 two hundred, and talked so familiarly of large sums, that none 
 could ever think he wanted a small one. The same gentleman, 
 whenever he wanted credit for a new suit from his tailor, always 
 made a proposal in laced clothes ; for he found by experience, 
 that if he appeared shabby on these occasions, Mr Lynch had 
 taken an oath against trusting ; or, what was every bit as bad, his 
 foreman was out of the way, and would not be at home these two 
 days. 
 
 There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, except to find 
 pity, and by this means relief; but before a poor man opens his 
 mind in such circumstances, he should first consider whether he 
 
goldsmith's prose wohks. 
 
 is contented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits, and 
 •whether he is willing to give up friendship only to excite com- 
 passion. Pity and friendship are passions incompatible with 
 each other, and it is impossible that both can reside in any breast 
 for the smallest space without impairing each other. Friendship 
 is made up of esteem and pleasure ; pity is composed of sorrow 
 and contempt : the mind may for some time fluctuate between 
 them, but it never can entertain both together. 
 
 Yet, let it not be thought that I would exclude pity from the 
 human mind. There are scarcely any who are not, in some degree, 
 possessed of thfs pleasing softness ; but it is at best but a short- 
 lived passion, and seldom affords distress more than transitory 
 assistance ; with some it scarcely lasts from the first impulse till 
 the hand can be put into the pocket ; with others it may continue 
 for twice that space, and on some of extraordinary sensibility I 
 have seen it operate for half-an-hour. But, however, last as it 
 will, it generally produces but beggarly effects ; and where, from 
 this motive, we give a halfpenny, from others we give always 
 pounds. In great distress, we sometimes, it is true, feel the influ- 
 ence of tenderness strongly ; when the same distress solicits a 
 second time, we then feel with diminished sensibility, but, like the 
 repetition of an echo, every new impulse becomes weaker, till at 
 last our sensations lose every mixture of sorrow, and degenerate 
 into downright contempt. 
 
 Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance ; but he's gone. 
 Jack was bred in a counting-house, and his father dying just as 
 he was out of his time, left him a handsome fortune, and many 
 friends to advise with. The restraint in which he had been 
 brought up had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some 
 regarded as habitual prudence, and from such considerations he 
 had every day repeated offers of friendship. Those who had 
 money were ready to offer him their assistance that way ; and 
 they who had daughters, frequently in the warmth of affection 
 advised him to marry. Jack, however, was in good circumstances ; 
 he wanted neither money, friends, nor a wife, and therefore 
 modestly declined their proposals. 
 
 Some errors in the management of his affairs, and several losses 
 in trade, soon brought Jack to a different way of thinking ; and 
 he at last thought it the best way to let his friends know that 
 their offers were at length acceptable. His first address was, 
 therefore, to a scrivener, who had formerly made him frequent 
 offers of money and friendship, at a time when, perhaps, he knew 
 those offers would have been refused. 
 
 Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old friend without 
 any ceremony ; and, as a man confident of not being refused, 
 
XII.] 
 
 ESSAYS— THE BEE. 
 
 437 
 
 requested the use of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he just 
 then had an occasion for money. ' And pray, Mr Spindle,' replied 
 the scrivener, ■ do you want all this money ?' — * Want it, sir/ 
 says the other, ' if I did not want it, I should not have asked it/ 
 — ' I am sorry for that/ says the friend ; ' for those who want 
 money when they come to borrow, will want when they should 
 come to pay. To say the truth, Mr Spindle, money is money 
 now-a-days. I believe it is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for 
 my part ; and he that has got a little, is a fool if he does not keep 
 what he has got/ 
 
 Not quite disconcerted by thi3 refusal, our adventurer was re- 
 solved to apply to another, whom he knew to be the very best 
 friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now ad- 
 dressed, received his proposal with all the affability that could be 
 expected from generous friendship. ' Let me see, — you want a 
 hundred guineas ; and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty answer ?' 
 — ' If you have but fifty to spare, sir, I must be contented/ — 
 1 Fifty to spare ! I do not say that, for I believe I have but 
 twenty about me/ — ' Then I must borrow the other thirty from 
 some other friend/ — ' And pray/ replied the friend, * would it not 
 be the best way to borrow the whole money from that other 
 friend, and then one note will serve for all, you know? Mr 
 Spindle, make no ceremony with me at any time ; you know I'm 
 your friend, when you choose a bit of dinner or so. You, Tom, 
 see the gentleman down. You won't forget to dine with us now 
 and then ? Your very humble servant/ 
 
 Distressed, but not discouraged at this treatment, he was at 
 last resolved to find that assistance from love, which he could not 
 have from friendship. Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in her 
 own hands, and she had already made all the advances that her 
 sex's modesty would permit. He made his proposal, therefore, 
 with confidence, but soon peroeived, ' No bankrupt ever found 
 the fair one kind/ Miss Jenny and Master Billy Galoon were 
 lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and the whole neigh- 
 bourhood thought it would soon be a match. 
 
 Every day now began to strip Jack of his former finery : his 
 clothes flew piece by pieoe to the pawnbrokers ; and he seemed 
 at length equipped in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But 
 still he thought himself secure from starving ; the numberless 
 invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet 
 unanswered; he was, therefore, now resolved to accept of a 
 dinner, because he wanted one ; and in this manner he actually 
 lived among his friends a whole week without being openly 
 affronted. The last place I saw poor Jack was at the Rev. Dr 
 Gosling's. He Lad, as he fancied, just nicked the time, for he 
 
438 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair without being 
 desired, and talked for some time without being attended to. He 
 assured the company, that nothing procured so good an appetite 
 as a walk to White Conduit House, where he had been that 
 morning. He looked at the table-cloth, and praised the figure of 
 the damask, talked of a feast where he had been the day before, 
 but that the venison was overdone. All this, however, procured 
 the poor creature no invitation, and he was not yet sufficiently 
 hardened to stay without being asked ; wherefore, finding the 
 gentleman of the house insensible to all his fetches, he thought 
 proper at last to retire, and mend his appetite by a walk in the 
 Park. 
 
 You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether in rags 
 or lace — whether in Kent Street or the Mall — whether at Smyrna 
 or St Giles's, — might I advise you as a friend, never seem in 
 want of the favour which you solicit. Apply to every passion 
 but pity for redress. You may find relief from vanity, from self- 
 interest, or from avarice, but seldom from compassion. The very 
 eloquence of a poor man is disgusting ; and that mouth which is 
 opened even for flattery, is seldom expected to close without a 
 petition. 
 
 If, then, you would ward off the gripe of poverty, pretend to be 
 a stranger to her, and she will at least use you with ceremony. 
 Hear not my advice, but that of Offellus. If you be caught din- 
 ing upon a halfpenny porringer of pease soup and potatoes, praise 
 the wholesomeness of your frugal repast. If you are obliged to 
 wear a flimsy stuff in the midst of winter, be the first to remark 
 that stuffs are very much worn at Paris. If there be found some 
 irreparable defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot 
 be concealed by all the arts of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or 
 darning, say that neither you nor Sampson Gideon were ever very 
 fond of dress. Or if you be a philosopher, hint that Plato and 
 Seneca are the tailors you choose to employ ; assure the company 
 that men ought to be content with a bare covering, since what is 
 now so much the pride of some, was formerly our shame. Horace 
 will give you a Latin sentence fit for the occasion, — 
 Toga defendere frigus, 
 Quamvis crassa, queat. 
 
 In short, however caught, do not give up, but ascribe to the 
 frugality of your disposition, what others might be apt to attri- 
 bute to the narrowness of your circumstances, and appear rather 
 to be a miser than a beggar. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a 
 certain method never to rise. Pride in the great is hateful, in 
 the wise it is ridiculous ; beggarly pride is the only sort of vanity 
 I can excuse. 
 
III.] 
 
 ESSAYS— THE BEE. 
 
 439 
 
 ON JUSTICE AND GENEROSITY. 
 
 Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the whole world ad- 
 mires. His generosity is such that ib prevents a demand, and 
 saves the receiver the trouble and the confusion of a request. His 
 liberality also does not oblige more by its greatness than by his 
 inimitable grace in giving. Sometimes he even distributes his 
 bounties to strangers, and has been known to do good offices to 
 those who professed themselves his enemies. All the world are 
 unanimous in the praise of his generosity ; there is only one sort 
 of people who complain of his conduct, — Lysippus does not pay 
 his debts. 
 
 It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct so seemingly 
 incompatible with itself. There is greatness in being generous, 
 and there is only simple justice in satisfying his creditors. Gene- 
 rosity is the part of a soul raised above the vulgar. There is in 
 it something of what we admire in heroes, and praise with a de- 
 gree of rapture. Justice, on the contrary, is a mere mechanic 
 virtue, fit only for tradesmen, and what is practised by every 
 broker in Change Alley. 
 
 In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and it is an 
 action attended with no sort of glory. Should Lysippus satisfy 
 his creditors, who would be at the pains of telling it to the world ? 
 Generosity is a virtue of a very different complexion. It is raised 
 above duty, and, from its elevation, attracts the attention and the 
 praises of us little mortals below. 
 
 In this manner do men generally reason upon justice and gene- 
 rosity. The first is despised, though a virtue essential to the good 
 of society ; and the other attracts our esteem, which too frequently 
 proceeds from an impetuosity of temper, rather directed by vanity 
 than reason. Lysippus is told that his banker asks a debt of forty 
 pounds, and that a distressed acquaintance petitions for the same 
 sum. He gives it without hesitating to the latter ; for he demands 
 as a favour what the former requires as a debt. 
 
 Mankind in general are not sufficiently acquainted with the 
 import of the word justice : it is commonly believed to consist only 
 in a performance of those duties to which the laws of society can 
 oblige us. This, I allow, is sometimes the import of the word, 
 and in this sense justice is distinguished from equity ; but there 
 is a justice still more extensive, and which can be shown to em- 
 brace all the virtues united. 
 
 Justice may be defined to be that virtue which impels us to give 
 to every person what is his due. In this extended sense of the 
 word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reasor 
 prescribes, or society should expect. Our duty to our Maker, to 
 
440 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them 
 what we owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, is the only 
 virtue, and all the rest have their origin in it. 
 
 The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and generosity, for 
 instance, are not, in their own nature, virtues ; and if ever they 
 deserve the title, it is owing only to justice, which impels and 
 directs them. "Without such a moderator, candour might become 
 indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and gene- 
 rosity mistaken profusion. 
 
 A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by justice, is at 
 best indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently even turns to 
 vice. The expenses of society, of presents, of entertainments, and 
 the other helps to cheerfulness, are actions merely indifferent, 
 when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of our super- 
 fluities ; but they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust 
 our abilities from a more virtuous disposition of our circum- 
 stances. 
 
 True generosity is a duty as indispensably necessary as those 
 imposed upon us by law. It is a rule imposed upon us by reason, 
 which should be the sovereign law of a rational being. But this 
 generosity does not consist in obeying every impulse of humanity, 
 in following blind passion for our guide, and impairing our cir- 
 cumstances by present benefactions, so as to render us incapable 
 of future ones. 
 
 Misers are generally characterised as men without honour or 
 without humanity, who live only to accumulate, and to this passion 
 sacrifice every other happiness. They have been described as 
 madmen, who, in the midst of abundance, banish every pleasure, 
 and make from imaginary wants real necessities. But few, very 
 few, correspond to this exaggerated picture ; and perhaps there 
 is not one in whom all these circumstances are found united. 
 Instead of this, we find the sober and the industrious branded by 
 the vain and the idle with this odious appellation ; men who, by 
 frugality and labour, raise themselves above their equals, and con- 
 tribute their share of industry to the common stock. 
 
 Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, well were it for 
 society had we more of this character among us. In general, 
 these close men axe found at last the true benefactors of society. 
 With an avaricious man we seldom lose in our dealings ; but too 
 frequently in our commerce with prodigality. 
 
 A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went for a long time 
 by the name of the Griper. He refused to relieve the most ap- 
 parent wretchedness, and by a skilful management of his vine- 
 yard, had the good fortune to acquire immense sums of money. 
 The inhabitants of Rheims, who were his fellow-citizens, detested 
 
IV.] ESSAYS — THE BEE. 
 
 him ; and the populace, who seldom love a miser, wherever he 
 went, received him with contempt. He still, however, continued 
 his former simplicity of life, his amazing and unremitted frugality. 
 This good man had long perceived the wants of the poor in the 
 city, particularly in having no water but what they were obliged to 
 buy at an advanced price ; wherefore that whole fortune which he 
 had been amassing he laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the 
 poor more useful and lasting service than if he had distributed his 
 whole income in charity every day at his door. 
 
 Among men long conversant with book3, we too frequently 
 find those misplaced virtues of which I have been now complain- 
 ing. We find the studious animated with a strong passion for the 
 great virtues, as they are mistakingly called, and utterly forget- 
 ful of the ordinary ones. The declamations of philosophy are 
 generally rather exhausted on these supererogatory duties, than 
 on such as are indispensably necessary. A man, therefore, who 
 has taken his ideas of mankind from study alone, generally comes 
 into the world with a heart melting at every fictitious distress. 
 Thus he is induced, by misplaced liberality, to put himself into 
 the indigent circumstances of the person he relieves. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with the advice of one of the 
 ancients, to a young man whom he saw giving away all his sub- 
 stance to pretended distress. ■ It is possible that the person you 
 relieve may be an honest man ; and I know that you who relieve 
 him are such. You see, then, by your generosity, you only rob a 
 man who is certainly deserving, to bestow it on one who may pos- 
 sibly be a rogue ; and, while you are unjust in rewarding uncer- 
 tain merit, you are doubly guilty by stripping yourself.' 
 
 No. IV. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Were I to measure the merit of my present undertaking by its 
 success, or the rapidity of its sale, I might be led to form conclu- 
 sions by no means favourable to the pride of an author. Should 
 I estimate my fame by its extent, every newspaper and magazine 
 would leave me far behind. Their fame is diffused in a very wide 
 circle, that of some as far as Islington, and some yet farther still ; 
 while mine, I sincerely believe, has hardly travelled beyond the 
 sound of Bow-bell ; and while the works of others fly like un- 
 pinioned swans, I find my own move as heavily as a new-plucked 
 goose. 
 
442 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 Still, however, I have as much pride as they who have ten 
 times as many readers. It is impossible to repeat all the agree- 
 able delusions in which a disappointed author is apt to find com- 
 fort. I conclude, that what my reputation wants in extent is 
 made up by its solidity. Minus juvat gloria lata quam magna. I 
 have great satisfaction in considering the delicacy and discern- 
 ment of those readers I have, and in ascribing my want of popu- 
 larity to the ignorance or inattention of those I have not. All 
 the world may forsake an author, but vanity will never forsake 
 him. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding so sincere a confession, I was once in- 
 duced to show my indignation against the public, by discontinuing 
 my endeavours to please ; and was bravely resolved, like Raleigh, 
 to vex them by burning my manuscript in a passion. Upon re- 
 collection, however, I considered what set or body of people would 
 be displeased at my rashness. The sun, after so sad an accident, 
 might shine next morning as bright as usual ; men might laugh 
 and sing the next day, and transact business as before, and not a 
 single creature feel any regret but myself. 
 
 I reflected upon the story of a minister, who, in the reign of 
 Charles II., upon a certain occasion, resigned all his posts, and 
 retired into the country in a fit of resentment. But as he had not 
 given the world entirely up with his ambition, he sent a messen- 
 ger to town, to see how the courtiers would bear his resignation. 
 Upon the messenger's return he was asked, whether there ap- 
 peared any commotion at court. To which he replied, there were 
 very great ones. ■ Ay,' says the minister, * I knew my friends 
 would make a bustle ; all petitioning the king for my restoration, 
 I presume V * No, sir,' replied the messenger, * they are only peti- 
 tioning his majesty to be put in your place.' In the same manner, 
 should I retire in indignation, instead of having Apollo in mourn- 
 ing, or the Muses in a fit of the spleen ; instead of having the learned 
 world apostrophising at my untimely decease — perhaps all Grub 
 Street might laugh at my fall, and self-approving dignity might 
 never be able to shield me from ridicule. In short, I am resolved 
 to write on, if it were only to spite them. If the present genera- 
 tion will not hear my voice, hearken, O Posterity, to you I call, 
 and from you I expect redress ! What rapture will it not give to 
 have the Scaligers, Daciers, and Warburtons, of future times, 
 commenting with admiration upon every line I now write, work- 
 ing away those ignorant creatures who offer to arraign my merit, 
 with all the virulence of learned reproach ! Ah, my friends, let 
 them feel it : call names, never spare them ; they deserve it, and 
 ten times more. I have been told of a critic (Zoilus) who was 
 crucified at the command of another to the reputation of Homer 
 
IV.] 
 
 ESSAYS— THE BEE. 
 
 That, no doubt, was more than poetical justice ; and I shall be 
 perfectly content if those who criticise me are only clapped in 
 the pillory, kept fifteen days upon bread and water, and obliged 
 to run the gauntlet through Paternoster Row. The truth is, I 
 can expect happiness from posterity either way. If I write ill, 
 happy in being forgotten ; if well, happy in being remembered 
 with respect. 
 
 Yet, considering things in a prudential light, perhaps I was 
 mistaken in designing my paper as an agreeable relaxation to the 
 studious, or a help to conversation among the gay ; instead of ad- 
 dressing it to such, I should have written down to the taste and 
 apprehension of the many, and sought for reputation on the 
 broad road. Literary fame, I now find, like religious, generally 
 begins among the vulgar. As for the polite, they are so very 
 polite as never to applaud upon any account. One of these, with 
 a face screwed up into affectation, tells you that fools may admire, 
 but men of sense only approve. Thus, lest he should rise in rap- 
 ture at anything new, he keeps down every passion but pride and 
 self-importance ; approves with phlegm ; and the poor author is 
 damned in the taking a pinch of snuff. Another has written a 
 book himself, and, being condemned for a dunce, he turns a sort 
 of king's evidence in criticism, and now becomes the terror of 
 every offender. A third, possessed of full-grown reputation, 
 shades off every beam of favour from those who endeavour to grow 
 beneath him, and keeps down that merit which, but for his influ- 
 ence, might rise into equal eminence. While others, still worse, 
 peruse old books for their amusement, and new books only to 
 condemn ; so that the public seem heartily sick of all but the 
 business of the day, and read everything now with as little atten- 
 tion as they examine the faces of the passing crowd. 
 
 From these considerations, I was once determined to throw off 
 all connexions with taste, and fairly address my countrymen in 
 the same engaging style and manner with other periodical 
 pamphlets, much more in vogue than probably mine shall ever be. 
 To effect this, I had thoughts of changing the title into that of 
 the Royal Bee, the Antigallican Bee, or the Bee's Maga- 
 zine. I had laid in a proper stock of popular topics, such as 
 encomiums on the King of Prussia, invectives against the Queen 
 of Hungary and the French, the necessity of a militia, our un- 
 doubted sovereignty of the seas, reflections upon the present state 
 of affairs, a dissertation upon liberty, some seasonable thoughts 
 upon the intended bridge of Blackfriars, and an address to 
 Britons ; the history of an old woman, whose teeth grew three 
 inches long, an ode upon our victories, a rebus, an acrostic upon 
 Miss Peggy P., and a journal of the weather. All this, together 
 
iU 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 with four extraordinary pages of letterpress, a beautiful map of 
 England and two prints curiously coloured from nature, I fancied 
 might touch their very souls. I was actually beginning an ad- 
 dress to the people, when my pride at last overcame my prudence, 
 and determined me to endeavour to please by the goodness of my 
 entertainment, rather than by the magnificence of my sign. 
 
 The Spectator, and many succeeding essayists, frequently in- 
 form U3 of the numerous compliments paid them in the course of 
 their lucubrations — of the frequent encouragements they meet to 
 inspire them with ardour, and increase their eagerness to please. 
 I have received my letters as well as they ; but, alas ! not congratu- 
 latory ones — not assuring me of success and favour,— but pregnant 
 with bodings that might shake even fortitude itself. 
 
 One gentleman assures me, he intends to throw away no more 
 threepences in purchasing the Bee ; and, what is still more dis- 
 mal, he will not recommend me as a poor author wanting encour- 
 agement to his neighbourhood, which, it seems, is very numerous. 
 Were my soul set upon threepences, what anxiety might not a 
 denunciation produce ! But such does not happen to be the pre- 
 sent motive of publication : I write partly to show my good-nature, 
 and partly to show my vanity ; nor will I lay down the pen till 
 I am satisfied one way or another. 
 
 Others have disliked the title and the motto of my paper ; 
 point out a mistake in the one, and assure me the other has been 
 consigned to dulness by anticipation. All this may be true ; but 
 what is that to me ? Titles and mottoes to books are like escutch- 
 eons and dignities in the hands of a king : the wise sometimes 
 condescend to accept of them ; but none but a fool will imagine 
 them of any real importance. We ought to depend upon intrinsic 
 merit, and not the slender helps of title. Nam quce non fecimus 
 ipsiy vix ea nostra voco. 
 
 For my part, I am ever ready to mistrust a promising title, and 
 have, at some expense, been instructed not to hearken to the 
 voice of an advertisement, let it plead never so loudly, or never 
 so long. A countryman coming one day to Smithfield, in order 
 to take a slice of Bartholomew Fair, found a perfect show before 
 every booth. The drummer, the fire-eater, the wire-walker, and 
 the salt-box, were all employed to invite him in. • Just a-going ; 
 the court of the King of Prussia in all his glory : pray, gentle- 
 men, walk in and see/ From people who generously gave so 
 much away, the clown expected a monstrous bargain for his 
 money when he got in. He steps up, pays his sixpence, the cur- 
 tain is drawn ; when, too late, he finds that he had the best part 
 ef the show for nothing at the door. 
 
IV.] 
 
 ESSAYS— THE BEE. 
 
 445 
 
 A FLE3IISH TRADITION. 
 
 Every country has its traditions, which, either too minute, or 
 not sufficiently authentic to receive historical sanction, are handed 
 down among the vulgar, and serve at once to instruct and amuse 
 them. Of this number, the adventures of Robin Hood, the hunt- 
 ing of Chevy Chase, and the bravery of Johnny Armstrong, among 
 the English ; of Kaul Dereg, among the Irish ; and Crichton, 
 among the Scots, are instances. Of all the traditions, however, 
 I remember to have heard, I do not recollect any more remark- 
 able than one still current in Flanders ; a story generally the first 
 the peasants tell their children, when they bid them behave like 
 Bidderman the Wise. It is by no means, however, a model to be 
 set before a polite people for imitation ; since if, on the one hand, 
 we perceive in it the steady influence of patriotism, we, on the 
 other, find as strong a desire of revenge. But to waive introduc- 
 tion, let us to the story. 
 
 When the Saracens overran Europe with their armies, and 
 penetrated as far even as Antwerp, Bidderman was lord of a city 
 which time has since swept into destruction. As the inhabitants 
 of this country were divided under separate leaders, the Saracen? 
 found an easy conquest, and the city of Bidderman, among the 
 rest, became a prey to the victors. 
 
 Thus dispossessed of his paternal city, our unfortunate governor 
 was obliged to seek refuge from the neighbouring princes, who 
 were as yet unsubdued, and he for some time lived in a state oi 
 wretched dependence among them. 
 
 Soon, however, his love to his native country brought him back 
 to his own city, resolved to rescue it from the enemy, or fall in 
 the attempt : thus, in disguise, he went among the inhabitants, 
 and endeavoured, but in vain, to excite them to a revolt. Former 
 misfortunes lay so heavily on their minds, that they rather chose 
 to suffer the most cruel bondage, than attempt to vindicate their 
 former freedom. 
 
 As he was thus one day employed, whether by information or 
 from suspicion is not known, he was apprehended by a Saracen 
 soldier as a spy, and brought before the very tribunal at which he 
 once presided. The account he gave of himself was by no means 
 satisfactory. He could produce no friends to vindicate his cha- 
 racter ; wherefore, as the Saracens knew not their prisoner, and 
 as they had no direct proofs against him, they were content with 
 condemning him to be publicly whipped as a vagabond. 
 
 The execution of his sentence was accordingly performed with 
 the utmost rigour. Bidderman was bound to the post, the execu- 
 tioner seemiDg disposed to add to the cruelty of the sentence, as 
 
446 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 he received no bribe for lenity. Whenever Bidderman groaned 
 under the scourge, the other, redoubling his blows, cried out, 
 1 Does the villain murmur V If Bidderman entreated but a mo- 
 ment's respite from torture, the other only repeated his former 
 exclamation, ' Does the villain murmur V 
 
 From this period, revenge, as well as patriotism, took entire 
 possession of his soul. His fury stooped so low as to follow the 
 executioner with unremitting resentment. But, conceiving that 
 the best method to attain these ends was to acquire some eminence 
 in the city, he laid himself out to oblige its new masters, studied 
 every art, and practised every meanness, that serve to promote 
 the needy or render the poor pleasing ; and, by these means, in a 
 few years, he came to be of some note in the city, which justly 
 belonged entirely to him. 
 
 The executioner was, therefore, the first object of his resentment, 
 and he even practised the lowest fraud to gratify the revenge he 
 owed him. A piece of plate, which Bidderman had previously 
 stolen from the Saracen governor, he privately conveyed into the 
 executioner's house, and then gave information of the theft. 
 They who are any way acquainted with the rigour of the Ara- 
 bian laws, know that theft is punished with immediate death. 
 The proof was direct in this case ; the executioner had nothing 
 to offer in his own defence, and he was therefore condemned to be 
 beheaded upon a scaffold in the public market-place. As there 
 was no executioner in the city but the very man who was now to 
 suffer, Bidderman himself undertook this, to him, most agreeable 
 office. The criminal was conducted from the judgment-seat, 
 bound with cords : the scaffold was erected, and he placed in such 
 a manner as he might lie most convenient for the blow. 
 
 But his death alone was not sufficient to satisfy the resentment 
 of this extraordinary man, unless it was aggravated with every 
 circumstance of cruelty. Wherefore, coming up the scaffold, and 
 disposing everything in readiness for the intended blow, with tho 
 sword in his hand he approached the criminal, and, whispering 
 in a low voice, assured him that he himself was the person that 
 had once been used with so much cruelty ; that, to his knowledge, 
 he died very innocently, for the plate had been stolen by himself, 
 and privately conveyed into the house of the other. 
 
 1 Oh, my countrymen V cried the criminal, ' do you hear what 
 this man says V — ■ Does the villain murmur V replied Bidderman, 
 and immediately, at one blow, severed his head from his body. 
 
 Still, however, he was not content, till he had ample vengeance 
 of the governors of the city, who condemned him. To effect this, 
 he hired a small house adjoining to the town wall, under which 
 he every day dug, and carried out the earth in a basket. In this 
 
IV.] 
 
 ESSAYS — THE BEE. 
 
 447 
 
 unremitting labour he continued several years, every day digging 
 a little, and carrying the earth unsuspected away. By this means, 
 he at last made a secret communication from the country into 
 the city, and only wanted the appearance of an enemy in order to 
 betray it. This opportunity at length offered : the French army 
 came into the neighbourhood, but had no thoughts of sitting down 
 before a town which they considered as impregnable. Bidderman, 
 however, soon altered their resolutions, and, upon communicating 
 his plan to the general, he embraced it with ardour. Through 
 the private passage above mentioned, he introduced a large body 
 of the most resolute soldiers, who soon opened the gates for the 
 rest, and the whole army rushing in, put every Saracen that was 
 found to the sword. 
 
 THE SAGACITY OF SOME INSECTS. 
 
 Sir, — Animals, in general, are sagacious, in proportion as they 
 cultivate society. The elephant and the beaver show the greatest 
 •Signs of this when united ; but when man intrudes into their 
 communities, they lose all their spirit of industry, and testify but 
 a very small share of that sagacity for which, when in a social 
 state, they are so remarkable. 
 
 Among insects, the labours of the bee and the ant have em- 
 ployed the attention and admiration of the naturalist ; but their 
 whole sagacity is lost upon separation, and a single bee or ant 
 seems destitute of every degree of industry, is the most stupid 
 insect imaginable, languishes for a time in solitude, and soon 
 dies. 
 
 Of all the solitary insects I have ever remarked, the spider is 
 iihe most sagacious ; and its actions, to me who have attentively 
 considered them, seem almost to exceed belief. This insect is 
 formed by nature for a state of war, not only upon other insects, 
 but upon each other. For this state, nature seems perfectly well 
 to have formed it. Its head and breast are covered with a strong 
 natural coat of mail, which is impenetrable to the attempts of 
 every other insect, and its belly is enveloped in a soft pliant 
 skin, which eludes the sting even of a wasp. Its legs are ter- 
 minated by strong claws, not unlike those of a lobster ; and 
 their vast length, like spears, serves to keep every assailant at a 
 distance. 
 
 Not worse furnished for observation than for an attack or a 
 defence, it has several eyes, large, transparent, and covered with 
 a horny substance, which, however, does not impede its vision. 
 Besides this, it is furnished with a forceps above the mouth, which 
 
goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 serves to kill or secure the prey already caught in its claws or its 
 net. 
 
 Such are the implements of war with which the body is imme- 
 diately furnished ; but its net to entangle the enemy seems what 
 it chiefly trusts to, and what it takes most pains to render as 
 complete as possible. Nature has furnished the body of this little 
 creature with a glutinous liquid, which, proceeding from the anus, 
 it spins into thread, coarser or finer as it chooses to contract or 
 dilate its sphincter. In order to fix its thread, when it begins to 
 weave it emits a small drop of its liquid against the wall, which, 
 hardening by degrees, serves to hold the thread very firmly; 
 then receding from the first point, as it recedes the thread 
 lengthens ; and, when the spider has come to the place where the 
 other end of the thread should be fixed, gathering up with its 
 claws the thread which would otherwise be too slack, it is stretched 
 tightly, and fixed in the same manner to the wall as before. 
 
 In this manner it spins and fixes several threads parallel to 
 each other, which, so to speak, serve as the warp to the intended 
 web. To form the woof, it spins in the same manner its thread, 
 transversely fixing one end to the first thread that was spun, and 
 which is always the strongest of the whole web, and the other to 
 the wall. All these threads, being newly spun, are glutinous, 
 and therefore stick to each other wherever they happen to touch ; 
 and, in those parts of the web most exposed to be torn, our natural 
 artist strengthens them, by doubling the threads sometimes six- 
 fold. 
 
 Thus far naturalists have gone in the description of this animal ; 
 what follows is the result of my own observation upon that species 
 of the insect called a house-spider: I perceived, about four years 
 ago, a large spider in one corner of my room, making its web; 
 and, though the maid frequently levelled her fatal broom against 
 the labouts of the little animal, I had the good fortune then to 
 prevent its destruction ; and, I may say, it more than paid me by 
 the entertainment it afforded. 
 
 In three days the web was, with incredible diligence, completed ; 
 nor could I avoid thinking, that the insect seemed to exult in its 
 new abode. It frequently traversed its round, examined the 
 strength of every part of it, retired into its hole, and came out 
 very frequently. The first enemy, however, it had to encounter, 
 was another and a much larger spider, which, having no web of its 
 own, and having probably exhausted all its stock in former labours 
 of this kind, came to invade the property of its neighbour. Soon, 
 then, a terrible encounter ensued, in which the invader seemed to 
 have the victory, and the laborious spider was obliged to take re- 
 fuge in its hole. Upon this I perceived the victor using every 
 
IV.] 
 
 ESSAYS— THE BEE. 
 
 449 
 
 art to draw the enemy from his stronghold. He seemed to go off, 
 but quickly returned ; and when he found all arts in vain, began 
 to demolish the new web without mercy. This brought on an- 
 other battle, and, contrary to my expectations, the laborious spider 
 became conqueror, and fairly killed his antagonist. 
 
 Now, then, in peaceable possession of what was justly its own, 
 it waited three days with the utmost patience, repairing the 
 breaches of its web, and taking no sustenance that I could perceive. 
 At last, however, a large blue fly fell into the snare, and struggled 
 hard to get loose. The spider gave it leave to entangle itself as 
 much as possible, but it seemed to be too strong for the cobweb. 
 I must own I was greatly surprised when I saw the spider imme- 
 diately sally out, and in less than a minute weave a new net round 
 its captive, by which the motion of its wings was stopped ; and 
 when it was fairly hampered in this manner, it was seized, and 
 dragged into the hole. 
 
 In this manner it lived in a precarious state ; and nature seemed 
 to have fitted it for such a life, for upon a single fly it subsisted 
 for more than a week. I once put a wasp into the net ; but when 
 the spider came out in order to seize it as usual, upon perceiving 
 what kind of an enemy it had to deal with, it instantly broke all 
 the bands that held it fast, and contributed all that lay in its 
 power to disengage so formidable an antagonist. "When the wasp 
 was at liberty, I expected the spider would have set about repair- 
 ing the breaches that were made in its net, but those it seems 
 were irreparable ; wherefore the cobweb wa3 now entirely for- 
 saken, and a new one begun, which was completed in the usual 
 time. 
 
 I had now a mind to try how many cobweb3 a single spider 
 could furnish ; wherefore I destroyed this, and the insect set about 
 another. AYhen I destroyed the other also, its whole stock seemed 
 entirely exhausted, and it could spin no more. The arts it made 
 use of to support itself, now deprived of its great means of sub- 
 sistence, were indeed surprising. I have seen it roll up its legs 
 like a ball, and lie motionless for hours together, but cautiously 
 watching all the time ; when a fly happened to approach suffici- 
 ently near, it would dart out all at once, and often seize its 
 prey. 
 
 Of this life, however, it soon began to grow weary, and resolved 
 to invade the possession of some other spider, since it could not 
 make a web of its own. It formed an attack upon a neighbour- 
 ing fortification with great vigour, and at first was as vigorously 
 repulsed. Not daunted, however, with one defeat, in this manner 
 it continued to lay siege to another's web for three days, and at 
 length having killed the defendant, actually took possession. 
 
 2f 
 
450 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 When smaller flies happen to fall into the snare, the spider does 
 not sally out at once, but very patiently waits till it is sure of 
 them : for, upon his immediately approaching, the terror of his 
 appearance might give the captive strength sufficient to get loose ; 
 the manner then is to wait patiently, till by ineffectual and im- 
 potent struggles, the captive has wasted all its strength and then 
 he becomes a certain and easy conquest. 
 
 The insect I am now describing lived three years ; every year 
 H changed its skin, and got a new set of legs. I have sometimes 
 plucked off a leg, which grew again in two or three days. At 
 first it dreaded my approach to its web, but at last it became so 
 familiar as to take a fly out of my hand ; and upon my touching 
 any part of the web, would immediately leave its hole, prepared 
 either for a defence or an attack. 
 
 To complete this description, it may be observed, that the male 
 spiders are much less than the female, and that the latter are 
 oviparous. When they come to lay, they spread a part of their 
 web under the eggs, and then roll them up carefully, as we roll 
 up things in a cloth, and thus hatch them in their hole. If dis- 
 turbed in their holes, they never attempt to escape without carry- 
 ing this young brood in their forceps away with them, and thus 
 frequently are sacrificed to their parental affection. 
 
 As soon as ever the young ones leave their artificial covering 
 they begin to spin, and almost sensibly seem to grow bigger. If 
 they have the good fortune, when even but a day old, to catch a 
 fly, they fall to with good appetites ; but they live sometimes three 
 or four days without any sort of sustenance, and yet still continue 
 to grow larger, so as every day to double their former size. As 
 they grow old, however, they do not still continue to increase, but 
 their legs only continue to grow longer ; and when a spider be- 
 comes entirely stiff with age, and unable to seize its prey, it dies 
 at length of hunger. 
 
 A CITY NIGHT PIECE. 
 
 Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet. 
 The clock just struck two, the expiring taper rises and sinks in 
 the socket, the watchman forgets the hour in slumber, the labo- 
 rious and the happy are at rest, and nothing wakes but meditation, 
 guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more fills the de- 
 stroying bowl, the robber walks his midnight round, and the sui- 
 oide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person. 
 
 Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity, 01 
 the sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, 
 
IV.] 
 
 ESSAYS — THE BEE. 
 
 where vanity ever changing, but a few hours past walked before 
 me — where she kept up the pageant, and now, like afroward child, 
 seems hushed with her own importunities. 
 
 What a gloom hangs all around ! The dying lamp feebly emits 
 a yellow gleam ; no sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or 
 the distant watchdog. All the bustle of human pride is forgotten : 
 an hour like this may well display the emptiness of human vanity. 
 
 There will come a time, when this temporary solitude may be 
 made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, 
 and leave a desert in its room. 
 
 "What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence, 
 had their victories as great, joy as just and as unbounded ; and 
 with short-sighted presumption, promised themselves immor- 
 tality ! — Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some ; the 
 sorrowful traveller wanders over the awful ruin3 of others ; and 
 as he beholds, he learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every 
 sublunary possession. 
 
 ■ Here,' he cries, ■ stood their citadel, now grown over with 
 weeds ; there their senate-house, but now the haunt of every 
 noxious reptile ; temples and theatres stood here, now only an un- 
 distinguished heap of ruin. They are fallen, for luxury and ava- 
 rice first made them feeble. The rewards of the state were con- 
 ferred on amusing, and not on useful members of society. Their 
 riches and opulence invited the invaders, who, though at first re- 
 pulsed, returned again, conquered by perseverance, and at last 
 swept the defendants into undistinguished destruction.' 
 
 How few appear in those streets which but some few hours ago 
 were crowded ! and those who appear, now no longer wear their 
 daily mask, nor attempt to hide their lewdness or their misery. 
 
 But who are those who make the streets their couch, and find 
 a short repose from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent ? 
 These are strangers, wanderers and orphans, whose circumstances 
 are too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses are too 
 great even for pity. Their wretchedness excites rather horror 
 than pity. Some are without the covering even of rags, and 
 others emaciated with disease ; the world has disclaimed them ; 
 society turns its back upon their distress, and has given them 
 up to nakedness and hunger. These poor shivering females have 
 once seen happier days, and been flattered into beauty. They 
 have been prostituted to the gay luxurious villain, and are now 
 turned out to meet the severity of winter. Perhaps, now lying at 
 the doors of their betrayers, they sue to wretches whose hearts are 
 insensible, or debauchees who may curse, but will not relieve them. 
 
 Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings of 
 wretches I cannot relieve ! Poor houseless creatures ! the world 
 
452 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 will give you reproaches, but will not give you relief. The 
 slightest misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary uneasiness 
 of the rich, are aggravated with all the power of eloquence, and 
 held up to engage our attention and sympathetic sorrow. The 
 poor weep unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species of 
 tyranny ; and every law which gives others security, becomes an 
 enemy to them. 
 
 Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility ? 
 or why was not my fortune adapted to its impulse ? Tenderness, 
 without a capacity of relieving, only makes the man who feels it 
 more wretched than the object which sues for assistance. 
 
 But let me turn from a scene of such distress, to the sanctified 
 hypocrite, who has been ' talking of virtue till the time of bed, ? * 
 and now steals out, to give a loose to his vices under the protec- 
 tion of midnight — vices more atrocious because he attempts to 
 conceal them. See how he pants down the dark alley, and, with 
 hastening steps, fears an acquaintance in every face. He has 
 passed the whole day in company he hates, and now goes to pro- 
 long the night among company that as heartily hate him. May 
 his vices be detected ! may the morning rise upon his shame ! 
 Yet I wish to no purpose : villany, when detected, never gives up 
 but boldly adds impudence to imposture. 
 
 No. V. 
 
 UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY. 
 
 Frugality has ever been esteemed a virtue as well among 
 Pagans as Christians : there have been even heroes who have 
 practised it. However, we must acknowledge, that it is too 
 modest a virtue, or, if you will, too obscure a one, to be essential 
 to heroism ; few heroes have been able to attain to such a height. 
 Frugality agrees much better with politics ; it seems to be the 
 base and support, and, in a word, seems to be the inseparable 
 companion of a just administration. 
 
 However this be, there is not, perhaps, in the world a people 
 less fond of this virtue than the English ; and of consequence, 
 there is not a nation more restless, more exposed to the uneasi- 
 ness of life, or les3 capable of providing for particular happi- 
 ness. AVe are taught to despise this virtue from our childhood ; 
 our education is improperly directed, and a man who has gone 
 
 * Parnell. 
 
V.*] ESSAYS— THE BEE. 453 
 
 through the politest institutions, is generally the person who is 
 least acquainted with the wholesome precepts of frugality. AYe 
 every day hear the elegance of taste, the magnificence of some, 
 and the generosity of others, made the subject of our admiration 
 and applause. All this we see represented, not as the end and 
 recompense of labour and desert, but as the actual result of 
 genius, as the mark of a noble and exalted mind. 
 
 In the midst of these praises bestowed on luxury, for which 
 elegance and taste are but another name, perhaps it may be 
 thought improper to plead the cause of frugality. It may be 
 thought low, or vainly declamatory, to exhort our youth from the 
 follies of dress, and of every other superfluity ; to accustom 
 themselves, even with mechanic meanness, to the simple neces- 
 saries of life. Such sort of instructions may appear antiquated ; 
 yet, however, they seem the foundations of all our virtues, and 
 the most efficacious method of making mankind useful members 
 of society. Unhappily, however, such discourses are not fashion- 
 able among us, and the fashion seems every day growing still 
 more obsolete, since the press, and every other method of exhor- 
 tation, seems disposed to talk of the luxuries of life as harmless 
 enjoyments. I remember, when a boy, to have remarked, that 
 those who in school wore the finest clothes, were pointed at a3 
 being conceited and proud. At present, our little masters are 
 taught to consider dress betimes, and they are regarded, even at 
 school, with contempt, who do not appear as genteel as the rest. 
 Education should teach us to become useful, sober, disinterested, 
 and laborious members of society ; but does it not at present 
 point out a different path ? It teaches us to multiply our wants, 
 by which means we become more eager to possess, in order to 
 dissipate ; a greater charge to ourselves, and more useless or ob- 
 noxious to society. 
 
 If a youth happens to be possessed of more genius than fortune 
 he is early informed that he ought to think of his advancement 
 in the world — that he should labour to make himself pleasing to 
 his superiors — that he should shun low company (by which is 
 meant the company of his equals) — that he should rather live a 
 little above than below his fortune — that he should think of becom- 
 ing great : but he finds none to admonish him to become frugal, 
 to persevere in one single design, to avoid every pleasure and all 
 ilattery, which, however seeming to conciliate the favour of his 
 superiors, never conciliate their esteem. There are none to teach 
 him, that the best way of becoming happy in himself, and useful to 
 others, is to continue in the state in which fortune at first placed 
 him, without making too hasty strides to advancement; that 
 greatness may be attained, but should not be expected ; and that 
 
454 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 they who most impatiently expect advancement, are seldom pos- 
 sessed of their wishes. He has few, I say, to teach him this 
 lesson, or to moderate his youthful passions ; yet this experience 
 may say, that a young man, who, but for six years of the early 
 part of his life, could seem divested of all his passions, would cer- 
 tainly make, or considerably increase, his fortune, and might in- 
 dulge several of his favourite inclinations in manhood with the 
 utmost security. 
 
 The efficaciousness of these means is sufficiently known and 
 acknowledged ; but as we are apt to connect a low idea with all 
 our notions of frugality, the person who would persuade us to it 
 might be accused of preaching up avarice. 
 
 Of all vices, however, against which morality dissuades, there 
 is not one more undetermined than this of avarice. Misers are 
 described by some as men divested of honour, sentiment, or 
 humanity ; but this is only an ideal picture, or the resemblance at 
 least is found but in a few. In truth, they who are generally called 
 misers are some of the very best members of society. The sober, 
 the laborious, the attentive, the frugal, are thus styled by the 
 gay, giddy, thoughtless, and extravagant. The first set of men do 
 society all the good, and the latter all the evil that is felt. Even 
 the excesses of the first no way injure the commonwealth ; those 
 of the latter are the most injurious that can be conceived. 
 
 The ancient Romans, more rational than we in this particular, 
 were very far from thus misplacing their admiration or praise : 
 instead of regarding the practice of parsimony as low or vicious, 
 they made it synonymous even with probity. They esteemed 
 those virtues so inseparable, that the known expression of Vii 
 frugi signified, at one and the same time, a sober and managing 
 man, an honest man, and a man of substance. 
 
 The Scriptures, in a thousand places, praise economy ; and it is 
 everywhere distinguished from avarice. But, in spite of all its 
 sacred dictates, a taste for vain pleasures and foolish expense is the 
 ruling passion of the present times. Passion, did I call it ? rather 
 the madness which at once possesses the great and the little, the 
 rich and the poor : even some are so intent upon acquiring the 
 superfluities of life, that they sacrifice its necessaries in this fool- 
 ish pursuit. 
 
 To attempt the entire abolition of luxury, as it would be impos- 
 sible, so it is not my intent. The generality of mankind are too 
 weak, too much slaves to custom and opinion, to resist the torrent 
 of bad example. But if it be impossible to convert the multitude, 
 those who have received a more extended education, who are 
 enlightened and judicious, may find some hints on this subject 
 useful. They may see some abuses, the suppression of which 
 
v.J 
 
 ESSAYS— THE BEE. 
 
 455 
 
 would by no means endanger public liberty ; they may be directed 
 to the abolition of some unnecessary expenses, which have no 
 tendency to promote happiness or virtue, and which might be 
 directed to better purposes. Our fireworks, our public feasts and 
 entertainments, our entries of ambassadors. &c. — what mummery 
 all this ! what childish pageants ' what millions are sacrificed in 
 paying tribute to custom ! what an unnecessary charge at times 
 when we are pressed wi:h real want, which cannot be satisfied 
 without burdening the poor ! 
 
 Were such suppressed entirely, not a single creature in the s:a:e 
 would have the least cause to mourn their suppression, and many 
 might be eased of a load they now feel lying heavily upon them. 
 If this were put in practice, it would agree with the advice of a 
 sensible writer of Sweden who, in the Gazette de Franc-:, 1753, 
 thus expressed himself on that subject ; ' It were sincerely to be 
 wished,' says he, ' that the custom were established amongst us, 
 that in all events which cause a public joy we made our exulta- 
 tions conspicuous only by acts useful to society. AVe should then 
 quickly see many useful monuments of our reason, which would 
 much better perpetuate the memory of things worthy of being 
 transmitted to posterity, and would be much more glorious to 
 humanity, than all those tumultuous preparations of feasts, enter- 
 tainments, and other rejoicings used upon such occasions. 5 
 
 The same proposal was long before confirmed by a Chinese 
 emperor, who lived in the last century, who, upon an occasion of 
 extraordinary joy, forbade hi3 subjects to make the usual illumin- 
 ations, either with a design of sparing their substance, or of tam- 
 ing them to some more durable indications of joy, more glorious 
 for him, and more advantageous to his people. 
 
 After such instances of political frugality, can we then continue 
 to blame the Dutch ambassador at a certain court, who. receiving 
 at his departure the portrait of the king, enriched with diamonds, 
 asked what this fine thing might be worth. Being told that it 
 might amount to about two thousand pounds, ' And why/ cries 
 he, * cannot his Majesty keep the picture and give the money V 
 The simplicity may be ridiculed at first ; but when we come to 
 examine it more closely, men of sense will at once confess that he 
 had reason in what he said, and that a purse of two thousand 
 guineas is much more serviceable than a picture. 
 
 Should we follow the same method of state frugality, in other 
 respects, what numberless savings might not be the result ! How 
 many possibilities of saving in the administration of justice, which 
 now burdens the subject, and enriches some members of society, 
 who are useful only from its corruption ! 
 
 It were to be wished, that they who govern kingdoms would 
 
456 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 imitate artisans. When at London a new stuff has been invented, 
 it is immediately counterfeited in France. How happy were it 
 for society, if a first minister would be equally solicitous to trans- 
 plant the useful laws of other countries into his own ! We are 
 arrived at a perfect imitation of porcelain ; let us endeavour to 
 imitate the good to society that our neighbours are found to prac- 
 tise, and let our neighbours also imitate those parts of duty in 
 which we excel. 
 
 There are some men who, in their garden, attempt to raise 
 those fruits which nature has adapted only to the sultry climates 
 beneath the Line. We have at our very doors a thousand laws 
 and customs infinitely useful : these are the fruits we should en- 
 deavour to transplant — these the exotics that would speedily 
 become naturalised to the soil. They might grow in every 
 climate, and benefit every possessor. 
 
 The best and the most useful laws I have ever seen are gene- 
 rally practised in Holland. When two men are determined to 
 go to law with each other, they are first obliged to go before the 
 reconciling judges, called the peacemakers. If the parties come 
 attended with an advocate, or a solicitor, they are obliged to re- 
 tire, as we take fuel from the fire we are desirous of extinguish- 
 ing. 
 
 The peacemakers then begin advising the parties, by assuring 
 them that it is the height of folly to waste their substance, and 
 make themselves mutually miserable, by having recourse to the 
 tribunals of justice ; * follow but our direction, and we will accom- 
 modate matters without any expense to either.' If the rage of 
 debate is too strong upon either party, they are remitted back for 
 another day, in order that time may soften their tempers, and 
 produce a reconciliation. They are thus sent for twice or thrice : 
 if their folly happens to be incurable, they are permitted to go to 
 law, and, as we give up to amputation such members as cannot 
 be cured by art, justice is permitted to take its course. 
 
 It is unnecessary to make here long declamations, or calculate 
 what society would save, were this law adopted. I am sensible, 
 that the man who advises any reformation only serves to make 
 himself ridiculous. What ! mankind will be apt to say, adopt 
 the customs of countries that have not so much real liberty as our 
 own? our present customs, what are they to any man? we are 
 very happy under them : this must be a very pleasant fellow, who 
 attempts to make us happier than we already are ! Does he not 
 know that abuses are the patrimony of a great part of the nation ? 
 Why deprive us of a malady by which such numbers find their ac- 
 count ? This, I must own, is an argument to which I have nothing 
 to reply. 
 
V.] ESS4YS — THE BEE, 457 
 
 What numberless savings might there not be made in both arts 
 and commerce, particularly in the liberty of exercising trade, 
 without the necessary pre-requisites of freedom ! Such useless ob- 
 structions have crept into every state, from a spirit of monopoly, 
 a narrow selfish spirit of gain, without the least attention to gene- 
 ral society. Such a clog upon industry frequently drives the poor 
 from labour, and reduces them by degrees to a state of hopeless 
 indigence. "We have already a more than sufficient repugnance 
 to labour ; we should by no means increase the obstacles, or make 
 excuses in a state for idleness. Such faults have ever crept into 
 a state under wrong or needy administrations. 
 
 Exclusive of the masters, there are numberless faulty expenses 
 among the workmen — club3, garnishes, freedoms, and such like 
 impositions, which are not too minute even for law to take notice 
 of, and which should be abolished without mercy, since they are 
 ever the inlets to excess and idleness, and are the parent of all 
 those outrages which naturally fall upon the more useful part of 
 society. In the towns and countries I have seen, I never saw a 
 city or village yet whose miseries were not in proportion to the 
 number of its public-houses. In Rotterdam, you may go through 
 eight or ten streets without finding a public house. In Antwerp, 
 almost every second house seems an alehouse. In the one city, 
 all wears the appearance of happiness and warm affluence ; in the 
 other, the young fellows walk about the streets in shabby finery, 
 their fathers sit at the door darning or knitting stockings, while 
 their ports are filled with dunghills. 
 
 Alehouses are ever an occasion of debauchery and excess, and, 
 either in a religious or political light, it would be our highest in- 
 terest to have the greatest part of them suppressed. They should 
 be put under laws of not continuing open beyond a certain hour, 
 and harbouring only proper persons. These rules, it may be said, 
 will diminish the necessary taxes ; but this is false reasoning, 
 since what was consumed in debauchery abroad would, if such a 
 regulation took place, be more justly, and perhaps more equitably 
 for the workman's family, spent at home ; and this cheaper to 
 them and without loss of time. On the other hand, our alehouses, 
 being ever open interrupt business ; the workman is never certain 
 who frequents them, nor can the master be sure of having what 
 was begun, finished at a convenient time. 
 
 A habit of frugality among the lower orders of mankind, is 
 much more beneficial to society than the unreflecting might ima- 
 gine. The pawnbroker, the attorney, and other pests of society, 
 might, by proper management, be turned into serviceable mem- 
 bers ; and were these trades abolished, it is possible the same 
 avarice that conducts the one, or the same chicanery that cha- 
 
158 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 racterises the other, might, by proper regulations, be converted into 
 frugality and commendable prudence. 
 
 But some, who have made the eulogium of luxury, have repre* 
 sented it as the natural consequence of every country that is 
 become rich. Did we not employ our extraordinary wealth in 
 superfluities, say they, what other means would there be to employ 
 it in ? To which it may be answered if frugality were established 
 in the state, if our expenses were laid out rather in the necessa- 
 ries than the superfluities of life, there might be fewer wants, and 
 even fewer pleasures, but infinitely more happiness. The rich and 
 the great would be better able to satisfy their creditors ; they 
 would be better able to marry their children, and, instead of one 
 marriage at present, there might be two, if such regulations took 
 place. 
 
 The imaginary calls of vanity, which, in reality, contribute 
 nothing to our real felicity, would not then be attended to, while 
 the real calls of nature might be always and universally supplied. 
 The difference of employment in the subject, is what, in reality, 
 produces the good of society. If the subject be engaged in pro- 
 viding only the luxuries, the necessaries must be deficient in pro- 
 portion. If, neglecting the produce of our own country, our minds 
 are set upon the productions of another, we increase our wants 
 but not our means ; and every new-imported delicacy for our 
 tables, or ornament in our equipage, is a tax upon the poor. 
 
 The true interest of every government is to cultivate the ne- 
 cessaries, by which is always meant, every happiness our own 
 country can produce ; and suppress all the luxuries, by which is 
 meant, on the other hand, every happiness imported from abroad. 
 Commerce has, therefore, its bounds; and every new import, 
 instead of receiving encouragement, should be first examined 
 whether it be conducive to the interest of society. 
 
 Among the many publications with which the press is every day 
 burdened, I have often wondered why we never had, as in other 
 countries, an Economical Journal, which might at once direct to 
 all the useful discoveries in other countries, and spread those of 
 our own. As other Journals serve to amuse the learned, or what 
 is more often the case, to make them quarrel — while they only 
 serve to give us the history of the mischievous world, for so I call 
 our warriors, or the idle world, for so may the learned be called, — 
 they never trouble their heads about the most useful part of man- 
 kind, our peasants and our artisans : were such a work carried 
 into execution, with proper management and just direction, it 
 might serve as a repository for every useful improvement, and in- 
 crease that knowledge which learning often serves to confound. 
 
 Sweden seems the only country where the science of economy 
 
V.] ESSAYS— THE BEE. 459 
 
 seems to have fixed its empire. In other countries, it is cultivated 
 only by a few admirers, or by societies which have not received 
 sufficient sanction to become completely useful ; but here there is 
 founded a royal academy, destined to this purpose only, composed 
 of the most learned and powerful members of the state — an aca- 
 demy which declines everything which only terminates in amuse- 
 ment, erudition, or curiosity ; and admits only of observations 
 tending to illustrate husbandry, agriculture, and every real phy- 
 sical improvement. In this country, nothing is left to private 
 rapacity ; but every improvement is immediately diffused, and 
 its inventor immediately recompensed by the state. Happy 
 were it so in other countries ! By this means, every impostor 
 would be prevented from ruining or deceiving the public with 
 pretended discoveries or nostrums ; and every real inventor 
 would not, by this means, suffer the inconveniences of suspicion. 
 
 In short, the economy equally unknown to the prodigal and 
 avaricious, seems to be a just mean between both extremes ; and 
 to a transgression of this at present decried virtue it is that we 
 are to attribute a great part of the evils which infest society. A 
 taste for superfluity, amusement, and pleasure, bring effeminacy, 
 idleness, and expense, in their train. But a thirst of riches is 
 always proportioned to our debauchery, and the greatest prodi- 
 gal is too frequently found to be the greatest miser : so that the 
 vices which seem the most opposite, are frequently found to pro- 
 duce each other ; and to avoid both, it is only necessary to be 
 frugal. 
 
 Virtus est medium vitiorum ut utrinque reductum. — Hoe. 
 
 Scarcely a day passes in which we do not hear compliments 
 paid to Dryden, Pope, and other writers of the last age, while not 
 a month comes forward that is not loaded with invectives against 
 the writers of this. Strange, that our critics should be fond oi 
 giving their favours to those who are insensible of the obligation, 
 and their dislike to those who, of all mankind, are most apt to 
 retaliate the injury. 
 
 Even though our present writers had not equal merit with their 
 predecessors, it would be politic to use them with ceremony. 
 Every compliment paid them would be more agreeable, in pro- 
 portion as they least deserved it. Tell a lady with a handsome 
 face that she is pretty, she only thinks it her due ; it is what she 
 has heard a thousand times before from others, and disregards 
 
460 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 the compliment : but assure a lady, the cut of whose visage is 
 something more plain, that she looks killing to-day ; she instantly 
 bridles up, and feels the force of the well-timed flattery the 
 whole day after. Compliments which we think are deserved, we 
 accept only as debt3, with indifference ; but those which con- 
 science informs us we do not merit, we receive with the same gra- 
 titude that we do favours given away. 
 
 Our gentlemen, however, who preside at the distribution of 
 literary fame, seem resolved to part with praise neither from 
 motives of justice or generosity : one would think, when they take 
 pen in hand, that it was only to blot reputations, and to put their 
 seals to the packet which consigns every new-born effort to obli- 
 vion. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding the republic of letters hangs at present so 
 feebly together — though those friendships which once promoted 
 literary fame seem now to be discontinued— though every writer 
 who now draws the quill seems to aim at profit, as well as 
 applause, — many among them are probably laying in stores for 
 immortality, and are provided with a sufficient stock of reputa- 
 tion to last the whole journey. 
 
 As I was indulging these reflections, in order to eke out the 
 present page, I could not avoid pursuing the metaphor of going 
 a journey in my imagination, and formed the following Reverie, 
 too wild for allegory, and too regular for a dream : — 
 
 I fancied myself placed in the yard of a large inn, in which 
 there were an infinite number of waggons and stage-coaches, 
 attended by fellows who either invited the company to take their 
 places, or were busied in packing their baggage. Each vehicle 
 had its inscription, showing the place of its destination. On one 
 I could read, The Pleasure Stage Coach ; on another, The 
 Waggon of Industry ; on a third, the Vanity Whim ; and on a 
 fourth, the Landau of Riches. I had some inclination to step 
 into each of these, one after another ; but, I know not by what 
 means, I passed them by, and at last fixed my eye upon a small 
 carriage, Berlin fashion, which seemed the most convenient 
 vehicle at a distance in the world ; and upon my nearer approach 
 found it to be The Fame Machine. 
 
 I instantly made up to the coachman, whom I found to be an 
 affable and seemingly good-natured fellow. He informed me, 
 that he had but a few days ago returned from the Temple of 
 Fame, to which he had been carrying Addison, Swift, Pope, 
 Steele, Congreve, and Colley Cibber : that they made but indiffer- 
 ent company by the way ; and that he once or twice was going to 
 empty his berlin of the whole cargo : ' however,' says he, ■ I got 
 them all safe home, with no other damage than a black eye, 
 
v.] 
 
 ESSAYS — THE BEE. 
 
 which Colley gave Mr Pope, and am now returned for another 
 coachful.' — ' If that be all, friend/ said I, ' and if you are in 
 want of company, I'll make one with all my heart. Open the 
 door ; I hope the machine rides easy.' — ' Oh, for that, sir, ex- 
 tremely easy.' But still keeping the door shut, and measuring 
 me with his eye, * Pray, sir, have you no luggage ? You seem to 
 be a good-natured sort of a gentleman ; but I don't find you have 
 got any luggage, and I never permit any to travel with me but 
 such as have something valuable to pay for coach-hire.' Ex- 
 amining my pockets, I own I was not a little disconcerted at this 
 unexpected rebuff; but considering that I carried a number of 
 the Bee under my arm, I was resolved to open it in his eyes, and 
 dazzle him with the splendour of the page. He read the title and 
 contents, however, without any emotion, and assured me he had 
 never heard of it before. * In short, friend,' said he, now losing 
 all his former respect, * you must not come in : I expect better 
 passengers ; but as you seem a harmless creature, perhaps, if 
 there be room left, I may let you ride a while for charity.' 
 
 I now took my stand by the coachman at the door ; and since 
 I could not command a seat, was resolved to be as useful as pos- 
 sible, and earn by my assiduity what I could not by my merit. 
 
 The next that presented for a place was a most whimsical figure 
 indeed.* He was hung round with papers of his own composing, 
 not unlike those who sing ballads in the streets, and came dan- 
 cing up to the door with all the confidence of instant admittance. 
 The volubility of his motion and address prevented my being 
 able to read more of his cargo than the word Inspector, which 
 was written in great letters at the top of some of the papers. He 
 opened the coach-door himself without any ceremony, and was 
 just slipping in, when the coachman, with as little ceremony, 
 pulled him back. Our figure seemed perfectly angry at this re- 
 pulse, and demanded gentleman's satisfaction. ■ Sir !' replied 
 the coachman, ' instead of proper luggage, by your bulk you 
 seem loaded for a West India voyage. You are big enough, with 
 all your papers, to crack twenty stage-coaches. Excuse me, 
 indeed, sir, for you must not enter.' Our figure now began to 
 expostulate : he assured the coachman, that though his baggage 
 seemed so bulky, it was perfectly light, and that he would be 
 contented with the smallest corner of room. But Jehu was in- 
 flexible, and the carrier of the Inspectors was sent to dance back 
 again, with all his papers fluttering in the wind. "We expected 
 to have no more trouble from this quarter, when, in a few 
 minutes, the same figure changed his appearance, like harlequin 
 
 * Sir John Hill, editor of The Inspector, and particularly noted for his 
 self-suinciency and conceit. 
 
462 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 upon the stage, and with the same confidence again made his 
 approaches, dressed in lace, and carrying nothing but a nosegay. 
 Upon coming nearer, he thrust the nosegay to the coachman's 
 nose, grasped the brass, and seemed now resolved to enter by 
 violence. I found the struggle soon begin to grow hot, and the 
 coachman, who was a little old, unable to continue the contest ; 
 so, in order to ingratiate myself, I stepped in to his assistance, 
 and our united efforts sent our literary Proteus, though worsted, 
 unconquered still, clear off, dancing a rigadoon, and smelling to 
 his own nosegay. 
 
 The person* who after him appeared as candidate for a place 
 in the stage, came up with an air not quite so confident, but 
 somewhat, however, theatrical; and, instead of entering, made 
 the coachman a very low bow, which the other returned, and de- 
 sired to see his baggage ; upon which he instantly produced some 
 farces, a tragedy, and other miscellaneous productions. The 
 coachman, casting his eye upon the cargo, assured him, at pre- 
 sent he could not possibly have a place, but hoped in time he 
 might aspire to one, as he seemed to have read in the book of 
 nature, without a careful perusal of which none ever found en- 
 trance at the Temple of Fame. • What !' replied the disappointed 
 poet, ' shall my tragedy, in which I have vindicated the cause of 
 
 liberty and virtue ' ' Follow nature,' returned the other, * and 
 
 never expect to find lasting fame by topics which only please 
 from their popularity. Had you been first in the cause of free- 
 dom, or praised in virtue more than an empty name, it is possible 
 you might have gained admittance ; but, at present, I beg, sir, 
 you will stand aside for another gentleman whom I see approach- 
 ing.' 
 
 This was a very grave personage,f whom at some distance I 
 took for one of the most reserved, and even disagreeable figures I 
 had seen ; but as he approached, his appearance improved, and 
 when I could distinguish him thoroughly, I perceived that, in 
 spite of the severity of his brow, he had one of the most good- 
 natured countenances that could be imagined. Upon coming to 
 open the stage door, he lifted a parcel of folios into the seat before 
 him, but our inquisitorial coachman at once shoved them out 
 again. * What ! not take in my Dictionary ?' exclaimed the 
 other in a rage. ' Be patient, sir,' replied the coachman, * I have 
 drove a coach, man and boy, these two thousand years ; but I do 
 not remember to have carried above one dictionary during the 
 whole time. That little book which I perceive peeping from one 
 of your pockets, may I presume to ask what it contains ?' — ' A 
 mere trifle,' replied the author ; ' it is called the Rambler? — ' The 
 * Probably Mr Murphy. f Dr Samuel Johnson. 
 
v] 
 
 ESSAYS — THE BEE. 
 
 463 
 
 Rambler V says the coachman, • I beg, sir, you'll take your place ; 
 I have heard our ladies in the court of Apollo frequently mention 
 it with rapture ; and Clio, who happens to be a little grave, has 
 been heard to prefer it to the Spectator ; though others have 
 observed, that the reflections, by being refined, sometimes become 
 minute/ 
 
 This grave gentleman was scarcely seated, when another,* 
 whose appearance was something more modern, seemed willing to 
 enter, yet afraid to ask. He carried in his hand a bundle of 
 Essays, of which the coachman was curious enough to inquire the 
 contents. ' These,' replied the gentleman, ' are rhapsodies 
 against the religion of my country.' — ' And how can you expect 
 to come into my coach, after thus choosing the wrong side of the 
 question ?' — * Ay, but I am right,' replied the other ; ' and if you 
 give me leavt), I shall, in a few minutes, state the argument.' — 
 ' Right or wrong,' said the coachman, ' he who disturbs religion 
 is a blockhead, and he shall never travel in a coach of mine.' — 
 ' If, then,' said the gentleman, mustering up all his courage, * if 
 I am not to have admittance as an essayist, I hope I shall not be 
 repulsed as an historian ; the last volume of my History met with 
 applause.' — ■ Yes,' replied the coachman, ■ but I have heard only 
 the first approved at the Temple of Fame ; and as I see you have 
 it about you, enter, without farther ceremony ,'f My attention 
 was now diverted to a crowd who were pushing forward a person J 
 that seemed more inclined to the Stage-coach of Riches ; but by 
 their means he was driven forward to the same machine, which 
 he, however, seemed heartily to despise. Impelled, however, by 
 their solicitations, he steps up, flourishing a voluminous History, 
 and demanding admittance. ■ Sir, I have formerly heard your 
 name mentioned,' says the coachman, ' but never as an historian. 
 Is there no other work upon which you may claim a place ?' — 
 4 None,' replied the other, ' except a romance ; but this is a work 
 of too trifling a nature to claim future attention.' — ' You mistake, 5 
 says the inquisitor, * a well-written romance is no such easy task 
 as is generally imagined. I remember formerly to have carried 
 Cervantes and Segrais ; and if you think fit, you may enter.' 
 
 Upon our three literary travellers coming into the same coach, 
 I listened attentively to hear what might be the conversation that 
 passed upon this extraordinary occasion ; when, instead of agree- 
 able or entertaining dialogue, I found them grumbling at each 
 other, and each seemed discontented with his companions. 
 Strange ! thought I to myself, that they who are thus born to 
 
 * David Hume, 
 
 t Theirs* part of Hume's History of England appeared in 1754. 
 
 X Probably Dr Smollett. 
 
464 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 enlighten the world, should still preserve the narrow prejudices of 
 childhood, and, by disagreeing, make even the highest merit 
 ridiculous. Were the learned and the wise to unite against the 
 dunces of society, instead of sometimes sliding into opposite parties 
 with them, they might throw a lustre upon each other's reputa- 
 tion, and teach every rank of subordinate merit, if not to admire, 
 at least not to avow dislike. 
 
 In the midst of these reflections, I perceived the coachman, un- 
 mindful of me, had now mounted the box. Several were approach- 
 ing to be taken in, whose pretensions, I was sensible, were very 
 just ; I therefore desired him to stop, and take in more passengers : 
 but he replied, as he had now mounted the box, it would be im- 
 proper to come down : but that he should take them all, one after 
 the other, when he should return. So he drove away ; and for 
 myself, as I could not get in, I mounted behind, in order to hear 
 the conversation on the way. 
 
 UPON UNFORTUNATE MERIT. 
 
 Every age seems to have its favourite pursuits, which serve to 
 amuse the idle, and to relieve the attention of the industrious. 
 Happy the man who is born excellent in the pursuit in vogue, 
 and whose genius seems adapted to the times in which he lives. 
 How many do we see, who might have excelled in arts or sciences 
 and who seem furnished with talents equal to the greatest dis- 
 coveries, had the road not been already beaten by their predeces- 
 sors, and nothing left for them except trifles to discover, while 
 others of very moderate abilities become famous, because happen- 
 ing to be first in the reigning pursuit ! 
 
 Thus, at the renewal of letters in Europe, the taste was not to 
 compose new books, but to comment on the old ones. It was not 
 to be expected that new books should be written, when there were 
 so many of the ancients either not known or not understood. It 
 was not reasonable to attempt new conquests, while they had such 
 an extensive region lying waste for want of cultivation. At that 
 period, criticism and erudition were the reigning studies of the 
 times ; and he who had only an inventive genius might have lan- 
 guished in hopeless obscurity. When the writers of antiquity were 
 sufficiently explained and known, the learned set about imitating 
 them : hence proceeded the number of Latin orators, poets, and his- 
 torians, in the reigns of Clement the Seventh and Alexander the 
 Sixth. This passion for antiquity lasted for many years, to the 
 utter exclusion of every other pursuit, till some began to find, that 
 those works which were imitated from nature, were more like the 
 
V.] ESSAYS — THE BEE. 405 
 
 writings of antiquity, than even those written in express imita- 
 tion. It was then modern language began to be cultivated with 
 assiduity, and our poets and orators poured forth their wonders 
 dpon the world. 
 
 As writers become more numerous, it is natural for readers to 
 become more indolent ; whence must necessarily arise a desire of 
 attaining knowledge with the greatest possible ease. No science 
 or art offers its instruction and amusement in so obvious a manner 
 as statuary and painting. Hence we see, that a desire of culti- 
 vating those arts generally attends the decline of science. Thus 
 the finest statues and the most beautiful paintings of antiquity, 
 preceded but a little the absolute decay of every other science. 
 The statues of Antoninus, Commodus, andtheir contemporaries, are 
 the finest productions of the chisel, and appeared but just before 
 learning was destroyed by comment, criticism, and barbarous in- 
 vasions. 
 
 What happened in Rome may probably be the case with us at 
 home. Our nobility are now more solicitous in patronizing painters 
 and sculptors than those of any other polite profession ; and from 
 the lord, who has his gallery, down to the apprentice, who has his 
 twopenny copperplate, all are admirers of this art. The great by 
 their caresses, seem insensible to all other merit but that of the 
 pencil ; and the vulgar buy every book rather from the excellence 
 of the sculptor than the writer. 
 
 How happy were it now, if men of real excellence in that pro- 
 fession were to arise ! Were the painters of Italy now to appear, 
 who once wandered like beggars from one city to another, and 
 produce their almost breathing figures, what rewards might they 
 not expect ! But many of them lived without rewards, and there- 
 fore rewards alone will never produce their equals. We have 
 often found the great exert themselves, not only without promo- 
 tion, but in spite of opposition. We have often found them 
 nourishing, like medical plants, in a region of savageness and 
 barbarity, their excellence unknown, and their virtues unheeded. 
 
 They who have seen the paintings of Caravagio, are sensible of 
 the surprising impression they make ; bold, swelling, terribk to 
 the last degree, — all seems animated, and speaks him among the 
 foremost of his profession ; yet this man's fortune and his fame 
 seemed ever in opposition to each other. 
 
 Unknowing how to flatter the great, he was driven from city to 
 city in the utmost indigence, and might truly be said to paint for 
 his bread. 
 
 Having one day insulted a person of distinction, who refused to 
 pay him all the respect which he thought his due, he was obliged 
 to leave Rome and travel on foot, his usual method of going his 
 
 2g 
 
466 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 journeys, down into the country, without either money or friends 
 to assist him. 
 
 After he had travelled in this manner as long as his strength 
 would permit, faint with famine and fatigue, he at last called at 
 an obscure inn by the way-side. The host knew, by the appear- 
 ance of his guest, his indifferent circumstances, and refused to 
 furnish him a dinner without previous payment. 
 
 As Caravagio was entirely destitute of money, he took down 
 the innkeeper's sign, and painted it anew for his dinner. 
 
 Thus refreshed, he proceeded on his journey, and left the inn« 
 keeper not quite satisfied with this method of payment. Some 
 company of distinction, however, coming soon after, and struck 
 with the beauty of the new sign, bought it at an advanced price, 
 and astonished the innkeeper with their generosity: he was 
 resolved, therefore, to get as many signs as possible drawn by the 
 same artist, as he found he could sell them to good advantage ; 
 and accordingly set out after Caravagio, in order to bring him 
 back. It was nightfall before he came up to the place where 
 the unfortunate Caravagio lay dead by the roadside, overcome 
 by fatigue, resentment, and despair. 
 
 No. VI. 
 
 ON EDUCATION. 
 
 Sir, — As few subjects are more interesting to society, so few have 
 been more frequently written upon, than the education of youth, 
 yet is it not a little surprising, that it should have been treated 
 almost by all in a declamatory manner ? They have insisted 
 largely on the advantages that result from it, both to the indivi- 
 dual and to society, and have expatiated in the praise of what no 
 one has ever been so hardy as to call in question. 
 
 Instead of giving us fine but empty harangues upon this sub- 
 ject, instead of indulging each his particular and whimsical system, 
 it had been much better if the writters on this subject had treated 
 it in a more scientific manner, repressed all the sallies of imagina- 
 tion, and given us the result of their observations with didactic 
 simplicity. Upon this subject the smallest errors are of the most 
 dangerous consequence ; and the author should venture the im- 
 putation of stupidity upon a topic, where his slightest deviations 
 may tend to injure the rising generation. 
 
 I shall, therefore, throw out a few thoughts upon this subject, 
 
VI.] ESSAYS — THE BEE. 4(57 
 
 which have not been attended to by others, and shall dismiss all 
 attempts to please, while I study only instruction. 
 
 The manner in which our youth of London are at present edu- 
 cated is, some in free schools in the city, but the far greater number 
 in boarding-schools about town. The parent justly consults the 
 health of his child, and finds that an education in the country 
 tends to promote this much more than a continuance in the town. 
 Thus far they are right : if there were a possibility of having even 
 our free schools kept a little out of town, it would certainly conduce 
 to the health and vigour of perhaps the mind as well as of the body. 
 It may be thought whimsical, but it is truth, — I have found by 
 experience, that they who have spent all their lives in cities, con- 
 tract not only an effeminacy of habit, but even of thinking. 
 
 But when I have said that the boarding-schools are preferable 
 to free schools, as being in the country, this is certainly the only 
 advantage I can allow them ; otherwise it is impossible to con- 
 ceive the ignorance of those who take upon them the important 
 trust of education. Is any man unfit for any of the professions ? 
 he finds his last resource in setting up school. Do any become 
 bankrupts in trade ? they still set up a boarding-school, and drive a 
 trade in this way, when all others fail : nay, I have been told of 
 butchers and barbers, who have turned schoolmasters ; and, more 
 surprising still, made fortunes in their new professions. 
 
 Could we think ourselves in a country of civilized people — 
 could it be conceived that we have any regard for posterity, when 
 such are permitted to take the charge of the morals, genius, and 
 health of those dear little pledges, who may one day be the guar- 
 dians of the liberties of Europe, and who may serve as the hon- 
 our and bulwark of their aged parents ? The care of our chil- 
 dren, is it below the state ? is it fit to indulge the caprice of the 
 ignorant with the disposal of their children in this particular ? 
 For the state to take the charge of all its children, as in Persia or 
 Sparta, might at present be inconvenient ; but surely with great 
 ease it might cast an eye to their instructors. Of all members of 
 society, I do not know a more useful, or a more honourable one, 
 than a schoolmaster ; at the same time that I do not see any more 
 generally despised, or whose talents are so ill rewarded. 
 
 Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be augmented frcm a 
 diminution of useless sinecures, how might it turn to the advan- 
 tage of this people — a people whom, without flattery, I may in 
 other respects term the wisest and greatest upon earth ! But, 
 while I would reward the deserving, I would dismiss those utterly 
 unqualified for their employment : in short, I would make the 
 business of a schoolmaster every way more respectable, by increas- 
 ing their salaries, and admitting only men of proper abilities. 
 
468 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 There are already schoolmasters appointed, and they have 
 some small salaries ; but where at present there is but one school- 
 master appointed, there should at least be two ; and wherever 
 the salary is at present twenty pounds, it should be a hundred. 
 Do we give immoderate benefices to those who instruct ourselves, 
 and shall we deny even subsistence to those who instruct our 
 children ? Every member of society should be paid in proportion 
 as he is necessary : and I will be bold enough to say, that school- 
 masters in a state are more necessary than clergymen, as children 
 stand in more need of instruction than their parents. 
 
 But, instead of this, as I have already observed, we send them 
 to board in the country to the most ignorant set of men that can 
 be imagined. But lest the ignorance of the master be not suffi- 
 cient, the child is generally consigned to the usher. This is 
 generally some poor needy animal, little superior to a footman 
 either in learning or spirit, invited to his place by an advertise- 
 ment, and kept there merely from his being of a complying dis- 
 position, and making the children fond of him. ■ You give your 
 child to be educated to a slave/ says a philosopher to a rich man ; 
 ' instead of one slave, you will then have two.' 
 
 It were well, however, if parents, upon fixing their children in 
 one of these houses, would examine the abilities of the usher as 
 well as of the master ; for, whatever they are told to the contrary, 
 the usher is generally the person most employed in their educa- 
 tion. If, then, a gentleman, upon putting out his son to one of 
 these houses, sees the usher disregarded by the master, he may 
 depend upon it, that he is equally disregarded by the boys ; the 
 truth is, in spite of all their endeavours to please, they are gene- 
 rally the laughing-stock of the school. Every trick is played 
 upon the usher ; the oddity of his manners, his dress, or his lan- 
 guage, is a fund of eternal ridicule ; the master himself now and 
 then cannot avoid joining in the laugh, and the poor wretch, 
 eternally resenting this ill usage, seems to live in a state of war 
 with all the family. This is a very proper person, is it not, to 
 give children a relish for learning ? They must esteem learning 
 very much, when they see its professors used with such ceremony ! 
 If the usher be despised, the father may be assured his child will 
 never be properly instructed. 
 
 But let me suppose, that there are some schools without these 
 inconveniences, — where the master and ushers are men of learn- 
 ing, reputation, and assiduity. If there are to be found such, they 
 cannot be prized in a state sufficiently. A boy will learn more true 
 wisdom in a public school in a year, than by a private education 
 in five. It is not from masters, but from their equals, youth learn 
 a knowledge of the world : the little tricks th«y play each other, 
 
L 
 
 VI.] ESSAYS — THE BEE. 469 
 
 the punishment that frequently attends the commission, is a just 
 picture of the great world, and all the ways of men are practised 
 in a public school in miniature. It is true, a child is early made 
 acquainted with some vices in a school, but it is better to know 
 these when a boy, than be first taught them when a man, for their 
 novelty then may have irresistible charms. 
 
 In a public education boys early learn temperance ; and if the 
 parents and friends would give them less money upon their usual 
 visits, it would be much to their advantage, since it may be justly 
 said, that a great part of their disorders arise from surfeit, — plus 
 occidit gula quam gladius. And now I am come to the article of 
 health, it may not be amiss to observe, that Mr Locke and some 
 others have advised, that children should be inured to cold, to 
 fatigue, and hardship, from their youth ; but Mr Locke was but 
 an indifferent physician. Habit, I grant, has great influence 
 over our constitutions, but we have not precise ideas upon this 
 subject. 
 
 We know that, among savages, and even among our peasants, 
 there are found children born with such constitutions, that they 
 cross rivers by swimming, endure cold, thirst, hunger, and want 
 of sleep, to a surprising degree ; that when they happen to fall 
 6ick, they are cured, without the help of medicine, by nature 
 alone. Such examples are adduced, to persuade us to imitate 
 their manner of education, and accustom ourselves betimes to 
 support the same fatigues. But had these gentlemen considered, 
 first, that those savages and peasants are generally not so long 
 lived as they who have led a more indolent life ; secondly, that 
 the more laborious the life is, the less populous is the country : 
 had they considered, that what physicians call the stamina vitoe, 
 by fatigue and labour become rigid, and thus anticipate old age ; 
 that the number who survive those rude trials, bears no propor- 
 tion to those who die in the experiment : had these things been 
 properly considered, they would not have thus extolled an educa- 
 tion begun in fatigue and hardships. Peter the Great, willing to 
 inure the children of his seamen to a life of hardship, ordered that 
 they should drink only sea-water, but they unfortunately all died 
 under the experiment. 
 
 But while I would exclude all unnecessary labours, yet still I 
 would recommend temperance in the highest degree. No luxu- 
 rious dishes with high seasoning, nothing given children to force 
 an appetite, as little sugared or salted provisions as possible, 
 though never so pleasing ; but milk, morning and night, should 
 be their constant food. This diet would make them more 
 healthy than any of those slops that are usually cooked by the 
 mistress of a boarding-school ; besides, it corrects any consump- 
 
470 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 tive habits, not ^infrequently found amongst the children of citj 
 parents. 
 
 As boys should be educated with temperance, so the first great- 
 est lesson that should be taught them is, to admire frugality. It 
 is by the excercise of this virtue alone, they can ever expect to 
 be useful members of society. It is true, lectures continually re- 
 peated upon this subject, may make some boys, when they grow 
 up, run into an extreme, and become misers ; but it were well had 
 we more misers than we have among us. I know few characters 
 more useful in society ; for a man's having a larger or smaller 
 share of money lying useless by him in no way injures the com- 
 monwealth ; since, should every miser now exhaust his stores, this 
 might make gold more plenty, but it would not increase the com- 
 modities or pleasures of life ; they would still remain as they are 
 at present : it matters not, therefore, whether men are misers or 
 not, if they be only frugal, laborious, and fill the station they 
 have chosen. If they deny themselves the necessaries of life, 
 society is in no way injured by their folly. 
 
 Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise young men of 
 spirit, who go through a variety of adventures, and at last con- 
 clude a life of dissipation, folly, and extravagance, in riches and 
 matrimony, there should be some men of wit employed to compose 
 books that might equally interest the passions of our youth ; 
 where such a one might be praised for having resisted allurements 
 when young, and how he at last became lord mayor — how he was 
 married to a lady of great sense, fortune, and beauty : to be as 
 explicit as possible, the old story of Whittington, were his cat left 
 out, might be more serviceable to the tender mind than either 
 Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, or a hundred others, where frugality 
 is the onty good quality the hero is not possessed of. "Were our 
 schoolmasters, if any of them had sense enough to draw up such 
 a work, thus employed, it would be much more serviceable to their 
 pupils, than all the grammars and dictionaries they may publish 
 these ten years. 
 
 Children should early be instructed in the arts, from which they 
 would afterwards draw the greatest advantages. When the won- 
 ders of nature are never exposed to our view, we have no great 
 desire to become acquainted with those parts of learning which 
 pretend to account for the phenomena. One of the ancients com- 
 plains, that as soon as young men have left school, and are ob- 
 liged to converse in the world, they fancy themselves transported 
 into a new region : * Ut cum in forum venerint existiment se in 
 aliam terrarum orbem delatos.' We should early, therefore, in- 
 struct them in the experiments, if I may so express it, of know- 
 ledge, and leave to maturer age the accounting for the causes. 
 
VI.] ESSAYS— 1 HE BEE. 
 
 But instead of that, when boys begin natural philosophy in 
 colleges, they have not the least curiosity for those parts of the 
 science which are proposed for their instruction ; they have never 
 before seen the phenomena, and consequently have no curiosity 
 to learn the reasons. Might natural philosophy, therefore, be 
 made their pastime in school, by this means it would in college 
 become their amusement. 
 
 In several of the machines now in use, there would be ample 
 field both for instruction and amusement : the different sorts of 
 the phosphorus, the artificial pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the 
 experiments upon the rarefaction and weight of the air, and 
 those upon elastic bodies, might employ their idle hours, and none 
 should be called from play to see such experiments but such as 
 thought proper. At first, then, it would be sufficient if the instru- 
 ments, and the effects of their combination, were only shown ; 
 the causes should be deferred to a maturer age, or to those times 
 when natural curiosity prompts us to discover the wonders of 
 nature. Man is placed in this world as a spectator ; when he is 
 tired with wondering at all the novelties about him, and not till 
 then, does he desire to be made acquainted with the causes that 
 create those wonders. 
 
 What I have observed with regard to natural philosophy, I 
 would extend to every other science whatsoever. We should 
 teach them as many of the facts as were possible, and defer 
 the causes until they seemed of themselves desirous of knowing 
 them. A mind thus leaving school stored with all the simple ex- 
 periences of science, would be the fittest in the world for the college 
 course ; and though such a youth might not appear so bright, or 
 so talkative, as those who had learned the real principles and causes 
 of some of the sciences, yet he would make a wiser man. and would 
 retain a more lasting passion for letters, than he who was early 
 burdened with the disagreeable institution of effect and cause. 
 
 In history, such stories alone should be laid before them 
 as might catch the imagination : instead of this, they are too 
 frequently obliged to toil through the four empires, as they are 
 called, where their memories are burdened by a number of dis- 
 gusting names, that destroy all their future relish for our best 
 historians, who may be termed the truest teachers of wisdom. 
 
 Every species of flattery should be carefully avoided : a boy, 
 who happens to say a sprightly thing, is generally applauded so 
 much, that he happens to continue a coxcomb sometimes all his 
 life after. He is reputed a wit at fourteen, and becomes a block- 
 head at twenty. Nurses, footmen, and such, should therefore be 
 driven away as much as possible. I was even going to add, that 
 the mother herself should stifle her pleasure or her vanity, when 
 
472 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 little master happens to say a good or smart thing. Those modest 
 lubberly boys who seem to want spirit, generally go through their 
 business with more ease to themselves, and more satisfaction to 
 their instructors. 
 
 There has of late a gentleman appeared, who thinks the study 
 of rhetoric essential to a perfect education.* That bold male 
 eloquence, which often without pleasing convinces, is generally 
 destroyed by such institutions. Convincing eloquence, however, 
 is infinitely more serviceable to its possessor than the most florid 
 harangue, or the most pathetic tones that can be imagined ; and 
 the man who is thoroughly convinced himself, who understands 
 his subject, and the language he speaks in, will be more apt to 
 silence opposition, than he who studies the force of his periods, 
 and fills our ears with sounds, while our minds are destitute of 
 conviction. 
 
 It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the decline of the 
 Roman empire, when they had been long instructed by rhetori- 
 cians, that their periods were so harmonious, as that they could 
 be sung as well as spoken. What a ridiculous figure must one of 
 these gentlemen cut, thus measuring syllables, and weighing 
 words, when he should plead the cause of his client ! Two archi- 
 tects were once candidates for the building a certain temple at 
 Athens : the first harangued the crowd very learnedly upon the 
 different orders of architecture, and showed them in what manner 
 the temple should be built ; the other, who got up to speak after 
 him, only observed, that what his brother had spoken he could do ; 
 and thus he at once gained his cause. 
 
 To teach men to be orators, is little less than to teach them to 
 be poets ; and for my part, I should have too great a regard for 
 my child, to wish him a manor only in a bookseller's shop. 
 
 Another passion which the present age is apt to run into, is to 
 make children learn all things, — the languages, the sciences, 
 music, the exercises, and painting. Thus the child soon be- 
 comes a talker in all, but a master in none. He thus acquires 
 a superficial fondness for everything, and only shows his ignorance 
 when he attempts to exhibit his skill. 
 
 As I deliver my thoughts without method or connexion, so the 
 reader must not be surprised to find me once more addressing 
 schoolmasters on the present method of teaching the learned lan- 
 guages, which is commonly by literal translations. I would ask 
 such, if they were to travel a journey, whether those parts of the 
 road in which they found the greatest difficulties would not be 
 most strongly remembered ? Boys who, if I may continue the 
 allusion, gallop through one of the ancients with the assistance of 
 * Thomas Sheridan, father of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 
 
VI.] ESSAYS— THE BEE. 473 
 
 a translation, can have but a very slight acquaintance either with 
 the author or his language. It is by the exercise of the mind 
 alone that a language is learned ; but a literal translation, on the 
 opposite page, leaves no exercise for the memory at all. The boy 
 will not be at the fatigue of remembering, when his doubts are 
 at once satisfied by a glance of the eye ; whereas, were every 
 word to be sought from a dictionary, the learner would attempt 
 to remember, in order to save him the trouble of looking out for 
 it for the future. 
 
 To continue in the same pedantic strain, though no schoolmaster, 
 of all the various grammars now taught in schools about town, I 
 would recommend only the old common one ; I have forgot whether 
 Lilly's, or an emendation of him. The others may be improve- 
 ments ; but such improvements seem to me only mere grammatical 
 niceties, no way influencing the learner, but perhaps loading him 
 with trifling subtleties, which at a proper age he must be at some 
 pains to forget. 
 
 Whatever pains a master may take to make the learning of the 
 languages agreeable to his pupil, he may depend upon it, it will 
 be at first extremely unpleasant. The rudiments of every lan- 
 guage, therefore, must be given as a task, not as an amusement. 
 Attempting to deceive children into instruction of thi3 kind, is 
 only deceiving ourselves ; and I know no passion capable of con- 
 quering a child's natural laziness but fear. Solomon has said it 
 before me ; nor is there any more certain, though perhaps more 
 disagreeable truth, than the proverb in verse, too well known to 
 repeat on the present occasion. It is very probable that parents 
 are told of some masters who never use the rod, and consequently 
 are thought the properest instructors for their children ; but 
 though tenderness is a requisite quality in an instructor, yet there 
 is too often the truest tenderness in well-timed correction. 
 
 Some have justly observed, that all passion should be banished 
 on this terrible occasion ; but, I know not how, there is a frailty 
 attending human nature, that few masters are able to keep their 
 temper whilst they correct. I knew a good-natured man, who 
 was sensible of his own weakness in this respect, and consequently 
 had recourse to the following expedient to prevent his passions 
 from being engaged, yet at the same time administer justice with 
 impartiality. Whenever any of his pupils committed a fault, he 
 summoned a jury of his peers, — I mean of the boys of his own or 
 the next classes to him ; his accusers stood forth ; he had a liberty 
 of pleading in his own defence, and one or two more had a liberty 
 of pleading against him : when found guilty by the pannel, he 
 was consigned to the footman who attended in the house, who had 
 previous orders to punish but with lenity. By this means the 
 
474 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 master took off the odium of punishment from himself; and the 
 footman, between whom and the boys there could not be even the 
 slightest intimacy, was placed in such a light as to be shunned by 
 every boy in the school.* 
 
 And now I have gone thus far, perhaps you will think me some 
 pedagogue, willing, by a well-timed puff, to increase the reputation 
 of his own school ; but such is not the case. The regard I have 
 for society, for those tender minds who are the objects of the pre- 
 sent essay, is the only motive I have for offering those thoughts, 
 calculated not to surprise by their novelty, or the elegance of com- 
 position, but merely to remedy some defects which have crept 
 into the present system of school education. If this letter should 
 be inserted, perhaps I may trouble you in my next with some 
 thoughts upon a university education, not with an intent to ex- 
 haust the subject, but to amend some few abuses.* I am, &c. 
 
 ON THE INSTABILITY OF WORLDLY GRANDEUR. 
 
 An alehouse-keeper near Islington, who had long lived at the 
 sign of the French King, upon the commencement of the last war 
 with France pulled down his old sign, and put up the Queen of 
 Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden sceptre, 
 he continued to sell ale till she was no longer the favourite of his 
 customers ; he changed her, therefore, some time ago, for tho 
 King of Prussia, who may probably be changed in turn for the 
 next great man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration. 
 
 Our publican in this imitates the great exactly, who deal out 
 their figures, one after the other, to the gazing crowd beneath 
 them. AVhen we have sufficiently wondered at one, that is taken 
 in, and another exhibited in its room, which seldom holds its 
 station long, for the mob are ever pleased with variety. 
 
 I must own I have such an indifferent opinion of the vulgar, 
 that I am ever led to suspect that merit which raises their shout ; 
 at least I am certain to find those great, and sometimes good men, 
 who find satisfaction in such acclamations, made worse by it ; and 
 history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has 
 grown this day giddy with the roar of the million, has the very 
 next been fixed upon a pole. 
 
 As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the neighbour- 
 
 * Goldsmith has a note to his later editions of this Essay as follows :— 
 1 This treatise was published before Rousseau's Einilius : if there be a simi- 
 litude in any one instance, it is hoped the author of the piesent essay wil] 
 uot be termed a plagiarist. 1 
 
VI.] ESSAYS — THE BEE. 
 
 hood of Rome, "which had been just evacuated by the enemy, he 
 perceived the townsmen busy in the market-place, in pulling 
 down from a gibbet a figure, which had been designed to repre- 
 sent himself. There were also some knocking down a neighbour- 
 ing statue of one of the Orsini family, with whom he was ai war, 
 in order to put Alexander's efiBgy, when taken down, in its place. 
 It is possible a man who knew less of the world would have con- 
 demned the adulation of those barefaced flatterers ; but Alexander 
 seemed pleased at their zeal, and, turning to Borgia his son, said 
 with a smile, * You see, my son, the small difference between a 
 gibbet and a statue.' If the great could be taught any lesson, 
 this might serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation their 
 glory stands, which is built upon popular applause ; for as such 
 praise what seems like merit, they as quickly condemn what has 
 only the appearance of guilt. 
 
 Popular glory is a perfect coquette : her lovers must toil, feel 
 every inquietude, indulge every caprice, and perhaps at last be jilted 
 into the bargain. True glory, on the other hand, resembles a woman 
 of sense : her admirers must play no tricks ; they feel no great 
 anxiety, for they are sure in the end of being rewarded in pro- 
 portion to their merit. "When Swift used to appear in public, he 
 generally had the mob shouting in his train. ' Pox take these 
 fools!' he would say, ■ how much joy might all this bawling give 
 my Lord Mayor !' 
 
 "We have seen those virtues which have, while living, retired from 
 the public eye, generally transmitted to posterity as the truest 
 objects of admiration and praise. Perhaps the character of the late 
 Duke of Marlborough may one day be set up, even above that oi 
 his more talked-of predecessor ; since an assemblage of all the 
 mild and amiable virtues is far superior to those vulgarly called 
 the great ones. I must be pardoned for this short tribute to the 
 memory of a man who, while living, would as much detest to re- 
 ceive anything that wore the appearance of flattery, as I should 
 to offer it. 
 
 I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of the beaten 
 road of common-place, except by illustrating it, rather by the 
 assistance of my memory than my judgment, and instead of mak- 
 ing reflections by telling a story. 
 
 A Chinese, who had long studied the works of Confucius, who 
 knew the characters of fourteen thousand words, and could read 
 a great part of every book that came in his way, once took it into 
 his head to travel into Europe, and observe the customs of a 
 people whom he thought not very much inferior even to his own 
 countrymen, in the arts of refining upon every pleasure. Upon his 
 Rrrival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters naturally led him 
 
476 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 to a bookseller's shop : and as he could speak a little Dutch, he 
 civilly asked the bookseller for the works of the immortal Iiixo- 
 fou. The bookseller assured him he had never heard the book 
 mentioned before. * What ! have you never heard of that immor- 
 tal poet ?' returned the other, much surprised ; ' that light of the 
 eyes, that favourite of kings, that rose of perfection ! I suppose 
 you know nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to the 
 moon?'— ' Nothing at all, indeed, sir,' returned the other. — 
 ' Alas !' cries our traveller, ' to what purpose, then, has one of 
 these fasted to death, and the other offered himself up as a sacri- 
 fice to the Tartarean enemy, to gain a renown which has never 
 travelled beyond the precincts of China !' 
 
 There is scarcely a village in Europe, and not one university, 
 that is not thus furnished with its little great men. The head of a 
 petty corporation, who opposes the designs of a prince who would 
 tyrannically force his subjects to save their best clothes for Sun- 
 days — the puny pedant who finds one undiscovered property in 
 the polype, describes an unheeded process in the skeleton of a 
 mole, and whose mind, like his microscope, perceives nature only 
 in detail — the rhymer who makes smooth verses, and paints to our 
 imagination when he should only speak to our hearts, — all equally 
 fancy themselves walking forward to immortality, and desire the 
 crowd behind them to look on. The crowd takes them at their 
 word. Patriot, philosopher, and poet, are shouted in their train. 
 Where was there ever so much merit seen ? no times so important 
 as our own ! ages yet unborn shall gaze with wonder and applause ! 
 To such music the important pigmy moves forward, bustling and 
 swelling, and aptly compared to a puddle in a storm. 
 
 I have lived to see generals, who once had crowds hallooing 
 after them wherever they went, who were bepraised by news- 
 papers and magazines, those echoes of the voice of the vulgar, 
 and yet they have long since sunk into merited obscurity, with 
 scarcely even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago, the 
 herring-fishery employed all Grub Street ; it was the topic in 
 every coffee-house, and the burden of every ballad. "We were to 
 drag up oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea ; we were to 
 supply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. At present 
 we hear no more of all this. We have fished up very little gold 
 that I can learn ; nor do we furnish the world with herrings as 
 was expected. Let us wait but a few years longer, and we shal 1 
 find all our expectations a herring-fishery. 
 
711. J ESSAYS— THE BEE. 477 
 
 Xo. VII. 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF THE AUGUSTAN AGE OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The history of the rise of language and learning is calculated to 
 gratify curiosity rather than to satisfy the understanding. An 
 account of that period only when language and learning arrived 
 at its highest perfection, is the most conducive to real improve- 
 ment, since it at once raises emulation, and directs to the proper 
 objects. The age of Leo X. in Italy, is confessed to be the Augus- 
 tan age with them. The French writers seem agreed to give the 
 same appellation to that of Louis XIV. ; but the English are yet 
 undetermined with respect to themselves. 
 
 Some have looked upon the writers in the times of Queen Eliza- 
 beth as the true standard for future imitation ; others have de- 
 scended to the reign of James I., and others still lower, to that of 
 Charles II. "Were I to be permitted to offer an opinion upon 
 this subject, I should readily give my vote for the reign of Queen 
 Anne, or some years before that period. It was then that taste 
 was united to genius ; and as before our writers charmed with 
 their strength of thinking, so then they pleased with strength and 
 grace united. In that period of British glory, though no writer 
 attracts our attention singly, yet, like stars lost in each other's 
 brightness, they have cast such a lustre upon the age in which 
 they lived, that their minutest transactions will be attended to by 
 posterity with a greater eagerness than the most important occur- 
 rences of even empires which have been transacted in greater 
 obscurity. 
 
 At that period there seemed to be a just balance between 
 patronage and the press. Before it, men were little esteemed 
 whose only merit was genius ; and since, men who can prudently 
 be content to catch the public, are certain of living without de- 
 pendence. But the writers of the period of which I am speaking, 
 were sufficiently esteemed by the great, and not rewarded enough 
 by booksellers to set them above dependence. Fame, consequent- 
 ly, then was the truest road to happiness ; a sedulous attention to 
 the mechanical business of the day, makes the present never-fail- 
 ing resource. 
 
 The age of Charles II., which our countrymen term the age of 
 vvit and immorality, produced some writers that at once served to 
 improve our language and corrupt our hearts. The king him- 
 self had a large share of knowledge, and some wit ; and his 
 courtiers were generally men who had been brought up in the 
 >chool of afflicti.n and experience. For this reason, when the sun- 
 
478 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 shine of their fortune returned, they gave too great a loose to 
 pleasure, and language was by them cultivated only as a mode of 
 elegance. Hence it became more enervated, and was dashed with 
 quaintness, which gave the public writings of those times a very 
 illiberal air. 
 
 L'Estrange, who was by no means so bad a writer as some have 
 represented him, was sunk in party faction ; and, having generally 
 the worst side of the argument, often had recourse to scolding 
 pertness, and, consequently, a vulgarity that discovers itself even 
 in his more liberal compositions. He was the first writer who fe- 
 gularly enlisted himself under the banners of a party for pay, and 
 fought for it, through right and wrong, for upwards of forty liter- 
 ary campaigns. This intrepidity gained him the esteem of Crom- 
 well himself, and the papers he wrote even just before the Revo- 
 lution, almost with the rope about his neck, have his usual charac- 
 ters of impudence and perseverance. That he was a standard 
 writer cannot be disowned, because a great many very eminent 
 authors formed their style by his. But his standard was far from 
 being a just one ; though, when party considerations are set aside, 
 he certainly was possessed of elegance, ease, and perspicuity. 
 
 Dryden, though a great and undisputed genius, had the same 
 cast as L'Estrange. Even his plays discover him to be a party 
 man, and the same principle infects his style in subjects of the 
 lightest nature ; but the English tongue, as it stands at present, 
 is greatly his debtor. He first gave it regular harmony, and dis- 
 covered its latent powers. It was his pen that formed the Con- 
 greves, the Priors, and the Addisons, who succeeded him ; and 
 had it not been for Dryden, we never should have known a Pope, 
 at least, in the meridian lustre he now displays. But Dryden's 
 excellences as a writer were not confined to poetry alone. There 
 is in his prose writings an ease and elegance that have never yet 
 been so well united in works of taste or criticism. 
 
 The English language owes very little to Otway, though, next 
 to Shakspeare, the greatest genius England ever produced in 
 tragedy. His excellences lay in painting directly from nature, 
 in catching every emotion just as it rises from the soul, and in all 
 the powers of the moving and pathetic. He appears to have had 
 no learning, no critical knowledge, and to have lived in great 
 distress. AVhen he died, (which he did in an obscure house near 
 the Minories,) he had about him the copy of a tragedy, which, it 
 seems, he had sold for a trifle to Bentley the bookseller. I have 
 seen an advertisement at the end of one of L'Estrange's political 
 papers, offering a reward to any one who should bring it to hi3 
 shop. What an invaluable treasure was there irrretrievably lost 
 by the ignorance and neglect of the age he lived in ! 
 
VTI.] ESSAYS- THE BEE. 479 
 
 Lee had a great command of lauguage, and vast force of ex- 
 pression, both which the best of our succeeding dramatic poets 
 thought proper to take for their models. Rowe, in particular, 
 seems to have caught that manner, though in all other respects 
 inferior. The other poets of that reign contributed but little 
 towards improving the English tongue, and it is not certain 
 whether they did not injure, rather than improve it. Immorality 
 has its cant as well as party, and many shocking expressions now 
 crept into the language, and became the transient fashion of the 
 day. The upper galleries, by the prevalence of party spirit, were 
 courted with great assiduity, and a horse-laugh following ribaldry 
 was the highest instance of applause, the chastity as well as energy 
 of diction being overlooked or neglected. 
 
 Virtuous sentiment was recovered, but energy of style never 
 was. This, though disregarded in plays and party writings, still 
 prevailed amongst men of character and business. The despatches 
 of Sir Richard Fanshaw, Sir William Godolphin, Lord Arlington, 
 and many other ministers of state, are all of them, with respect 
 to diction, manly, bold, and nervous. Sir William Temple, 
 though a man of no learning, had great knowledge and experi- 
 ence. He wrote always like a man of sense and a gentleman ; 
 and his style is the model by which the best prose writers in the 
 reign of Qeeen Anne formed theirs. The beauties of Mr Locke's 
 style, though not so much celebrated, are as striking as that of 
 his understanding. He never says more nor less than he ought, 
 and never makes use of a word that he could have changed for a 
 better. The same observation holds good of Dr Samuel Clarke. 
 
 Mr Locke was a philosopher ; his antagonist, Stillingfleet, 
 Bishop of Worcester, was a man of learning ; and therefore the 
 contest between them was unequal. The clearness of Mr Locke's 
 head renders his language perspicuous, the learning of Stilling- 
 fleet's clouds his. This is an instance of the superiority of good 
 sense over learning, towards the improvement of every language. 
 
 There is nothing peculiar to the language of Archbishop Til- 
 lotson, but his manner of writing is inimitable ; for one who 
 reads him, wonders why he himself did not think and speak it in 
 that very manner. The turn of his periods is agreeable, though 
 artless, and everything he says seems to flow spontaneously from 
 inward conviction. Barrow, though greatly his superior in learn- 
 ing, falls short of him in other respects. 
 
 The time seems to be at hand when justice will be done to Mr 
 Cowley's prose as well as poetical writings ; and though liia 
 friend Dr Sprat, Bishop of Rochester, in his diction falls far short 
 of the abilities for which he has been celebrated, yet there is 
 sometimes a happy flow in his periods, something that looks like 
 
480 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 eloquence. The style of his successor, Atterbury, has been much 
 commended by his friends, which always happens when a man 
 distinguishes himself in party ; but there is in it nothing extraor- 
 dinary. Even the speech which he made for himself at the bar 
 of the House of Lords, before he was sent into exile, is void of 
 eloquence, though it has been cried up by his friends to such a 
 degree, that his enemies have suffered it to pass uncensured. 
 
 The philosophic manner of Lord Shaftesbury's writing is 
 nearer to that of Cicero than any English author has yet arrived 
 at ; but perhaps had Cicero written in English, his composition 
 would have greatly exceeded that of our countryman. The dic- 
 tion of the latter is beautiful, but such beauty as, upon nearer 
 inspection, carries with it evident symptoms of affectation. This 
 has been attended with very disagreeable consequences. Nothing 
 is so easy to copy as affectation, and his lordship's rank and fame 
 have procured him more imitators in Britain than any other 
 writer I know ; all faithfully preserving his blemishes, but un- 
 happily not one of his beauties. 
 
 Mr Trenchard and Dr Davenant were political writers of great 
 abilities in diction, and their pamphlets are now standards in 
 that way of writing. They were followed by Dean Swift, who, 
 though in other respects far their superior, never could arise to 
 that manliness and clearness of diction in political writing, for 
 which they were so justly famous. 
 
 They were all of them exceeded by the late Lord Bolingbroke, 
 whose strength lay in that province ; for as a philosopher and a 
 critic he was ill qualified, being destitute of virtue for the one, and 
 of learning for the other. His writings against Sir Robert Walpole 
 are incomparably the best part of his works. The personal and 
 perpetual antipathy he had for that family, to whose places he 
 thought his own abilities had a right, gave a glow to his style, 
 and an edge to his manner, that never yet have been equalled in 
 political writing. His misfortunes and disappointments gave his 
 mind a turn which his friends mistook for philosophy, and at one 
 time of his life he had the art to impose the same belief upon 
 some of his enemies. His idea of a patriot king, which I reckon 
 (as indeed it was) amongst his writings against Sir Robert Wal- 
 pole, is a masterpiece of diction. Even in his other works, his 
 style is excellent ; but where a man either does not, or will not, 
 understand the subject he writes on, there must always be a defi- 
 ciency. In politics, he was generally master of what he under- 
 took ; in morals, never. 
 
 Mr Addison, for a happy and natural style, will be always an 
 honour to British literature. His diction, indeed, t? ants strength, 
 but it i? equal to all the subjects he undertakes to handle, as he 
 
VII.] ESSAYS — THE BEE. 43 i 
 
 never (at least in his finished works) attempts anything either in 
 the argumentative or demonstrative way. 
 
 Though Sir Richard Steele's reputation as a public writer was 
 owing to his connexions with Mr Addison, yet, after their inti- 
 macy was formed, Steele sank in his merit as an author. This 
 was not owing so much to the evident superiority on the part of 
 Addison, as to the unnatural efforts which Steele made to equal 
 or eclipse him. This emulation destroyed that genuine flow of 
 diction which is discoverable in all his former compositions. 
 
 "Whilst their writings engaged attention and the favour of the 
 public, reiterated but unsuccessful endeavours were made towards 
 forming a grammar of the English language. The authors of 
 those efforts went upon wrong principles. Instead of endeavour- 
 ing to retrench the absurdities of our language, and bringing it 
 to a certain criterion, their grammars were no other than a col- 
 lection of rules attempting to naturalize those absurdities, and 
 bring them under a regular system. 
 
 Somewhat effectual, however, might have been done towards 
 fixing the standard of the English language, had it not been for 
 the spirit of party. For both AVhigs and Tories being ambitious 
 to stand at the head of so great a design, the Queen's death hap- 
 pened before any plan of an academy could be resolved on. 
 
 Meanwhile, the necessity of such an institution became every 
 day more apparent. The periodical and political writers, who 
 then swarmed, adopted the very worst manner of L 'Estrange, till 
 not only all decency, but all propriety of language, was lost in the 
 nation. Leslie, a pert writer, with some wit and learning, insul- 
 ted the government every week with the grossest abuse. His 
 style and manner, both of which were illiberal, were imitated by 
 Ridpath, Defoe, Dunton, and others of the opposite party, and 
 Toland pleaded the cause of atheism and immorality in much the 
 same strain ; his subject seemed to debase his diction, and he ever 
 failed most in one, when he grew most licentious in the other. 
 
 Towards the end of Queen Anne's reign, some of the greatest 
 men in England devoted their time to party, and then a much 
 better manner obtained in political writing. Mr Walpole, Mr 
 Addison, Mr Mainwaring, Mr Steele, and many members of both 
 houses of Parliament, drew their pens for the Whigs ; but they 
 seem to be over-matched, though not in argument, yet in writing, 
 by Bolingbroke, Prior, Swift, Arbuthnot, and the other friends of 
 the opposite party. They who oppose a ministry have always a 
 better field for ridicule and reproof than they who defend it. 
 
 Since that period, our writers have either been encouraged 
 above their merits, or below. Some who were possessed of the 
 meanest abilities acquired the highest preferments ; while others. 
 
 2h 
 
482 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 who seemed born to reflect a lustre upon their age, perished by 
 want or neglect. More, Savage, and Amherst, were possessed of 
 great abilities ; yet they were suffered to feel all the miseries that 
 usually attend the ingenious and the imprudent — that attend 
 men of strong passions, and no phlegmatic reserve in their com- 
 mand. 
 
 At present, were a man to attempt to improve his fortune or 
 increase his friendship by poetry, he would soon feel the anxiety 
 of disappointment. The press lies open, and is a benefactor to 
 every sort of literature, but that alone. 
 
 I am at a loss whether to ascribe this falling off of the public 
 to a vicious taste in the poet, or in them. Perhaps both are to 
 be reprehended. The poet, either dryly didactive, gives us rules 
 which might appear abstruse even in a system of ethics, or, 
 triflingly volatile, writes upon the most unworthy subjects ; con- 
 tent, if he can give music instead of sense ; content, if he can 
 paint to the imagination without any desires or endeavours to 
 affect : the public, therefore, with justice, discard such empty 
 ■ound, which has nothing but a jingle, or, what is worse, the un- 
 musical flow of blank verse, to recommend it. The late method, 
 also, into which our newspapers have fallen, of giving an epitome 
 of every new publication, must greatly damp the writer's genius. 
 He finds himself, in this case, at the mercy of men who have 
 neither abilities nor learning to distinguish his merit. He finds 
 his own composition mixed with the sordid trash of every daily 
 scribbler. There is a sufficient specimen given of his work to 
 abate curiosity, and yet so mutilated as to render him contemp- 
 tible. His first, and perhaps his second work, by these means 
 sink, among the crudities of the age, into oblivion. Fame, he 
 finds, begins to turn her back : he therefore flies to profit, which 
 invites him, and he enrols himself in the lists of dulness and of 
 avarice for life. 
 
 Yet there are still among us men of the greatest abilities, and 
 who, in some parts of learning, have surpassed their predecessors. 
 Justice and friendship might here impel me to speak of names 
 which will shine out to all posterity, but prudence restrains me 
 from what I should otherwise eagerly embrace. Envy might 
 rise against every honoured name I should mention, since scarcely 
 one of them has not those who are his enemies, or those who de- 
 spise him, &o. 
 
 OP THE OPERA IN ENGLAND. 
 
 The rise and fall of our amusements pretty much resemble that 
 of empire. They this day flourish without any visible cause for 
 
VII.] ESSAYS— THE BEE. 483 
 
 such vigour ; the next they decay without any reason that can 
 be assigned for their downfal. Some years ago, the Italian opera 
 was the only fashionable amusement among our nobility. The 
 managers of the play-houses dreaded it as a mortal enemy, and 
 our very poets listed themselves in the opposition : at present 
 the house seems deserted, the castrati sing to empty benches ; 
 even Prince Vologese himself, a youth of great expectations, sings 
 himself out of breath, and rattles his chain to no purpose. 
 
 To say the truth, the opera, as it is conducted among us, is but 
 a very humdrum amusement ; in other countries, the decorations 
 are entirely magnificent, the singers all excellent, ond the bur- 
 lettas, or interludes, quite entertaining ; the best poets compose 
 the words, and the best masters the music ; but with us it is 
 otherwise : the decorations are but trifling and cheap ; the singers, 
 Matei only excepted, but indifferent. Instead of interlude, we 
 nave those sort of skipping dances, which are calculated for the 
 galleries of the theatre. Every performer sings his favourite 
 song, and the music is only a medley of old Italian airs, or some 
 meagre modern capriceio. 
 
 When such is the case, it is not much to be wondered if the 
 opera is pretty much neglected. The lower orders of people have 
 neither taste nor fortune to relish such an entertainment ; they 
 would find more satisfaction in the " Roast Beef of Old England" 
 than in the finest closes of an eunuch ; they sleep amidst all 
 the agony of recitative. On the other hand, people of fortune 
 or taste can hardly be pleased, where there is a visible poverty 
 in the decorations, and an entire want of taste in the com- 
 position. 
 
 Would it not surprise one, that when Metastasio is so well 
 known in England, and so universally admired, the manager or 
 the composer should have recourse to any other operas than those 
 written by him ? I might venture to say, that " written by Me- 
 tastasio" put up in the bills of the day, would alone be sufficient 
 to fill a house, since thus the admirers of sense as well as sound 
 might find entertainment. 
 
 The performers also should be entreated to sing only their 
 parts, without clapping in any of their own favourite airs. I 
 must own, that such songs are generally to me the most disagree- 
 able in the world. Every singer generally chooses a favourite 
 air, not from the excellency of the music, but from difficulty ; 
 such songs are generally chosen as surprise rather than please, 
 where the performer may show his compass, his breath, and his 
 solubility. 
 
 Hence proceed those unnatural startings, those unmusical 
 closings, and shakes lengthened out to a painful continuance 
 
484 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 such, indeed, may show a voice, but it must give a truly delicate 
 ear the utmost uneasiness. Such tricks are not music ; neither 
 Corelli nor Pergolesi ever permitted them, and they begin even to 
 be discontinued in Italy, where they first had their rise. 
 
 And now I am upon the subject; our composers also should 
 affect greater simplicity — let their bass clef have all the variety 
 they can give it — let the body of the music (if I may so express 
 it) be as various as they please ; but let them avoid ornamenting 
 a barren groundwork, let them not attempt by flourishing to cheat 
 us of solid harmony. 
 
 The works of M. Rameau are never heard without a surprising 
 effect. I can attribute it only to the simplicity he everywhere 
 observes, insomuch that some of his finest harmonies are often 
 only octave and unison. This simple manner has greater powers 
 than is generally imagined ; and, were not such a demonstration 
 misplaced, I think from the principles of music it might be proved 
 to be most agreeable. 
 
 But to leave general reflection : with the present set of perform- 
 ers, the operas, if the conductor thinks proper, may be carried on 
 with some success, since they have all some merit, if not as actors, 
 at least as singer3. Signora Matei is at once both a perfect ac- 
 tress and a very fine singer. She is possessed of a fine sensibility 
 in her manner, and seldom indulges those extravagant and un- 
 musical flights of voice complained of before. Cornacini, on the 
 other hand, is a very indifferent actor — has a most unmeaning 
 face — seems not to feel his part — is infected with a passion of 
 showing his compass ; but to recompense all these defects, his 
 voice is melodious — he has vast compass and great volubility — 
 his swell and shake are perfectly fine, unless that he continues the 
 latter too long. In short, whatever the defects of his action may 
 be, they are amply recompensed by his excellency as a singer ; 
 nor can I avoid fancying that he might make a much greater 
 figure in an oratorio than upon the stage. 
 
 However, upon the whole, I know not whether ever operas can 
 be kept up in England ; they seem to be entirely exotic, and re- 
 quire the nicest management and care. Instead of this, the care 
 of them is assigned to men unacquainted with the genius and dis- 
 position of the people they would amuse, and whose onlv motives 
 are immediate gain. "Whether a discontinuance cf such enter- 
 tainments would be more to the Iojs or the advantage of the nation, 
 I will not take upon me to determine, since it is as much our in- 
 terest to induce foreigners of taste among us on the one hand, as 
 it is to discourage those trifling members of society who generally 
 compose the operatical dramatis personce on the other. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 A CITIZEN OF THE WOBLD. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 From Lien Chi Altanci, to the care of Fipsihi, resident in Moscow; to be 
 forwarded by the Russian caravan to Fum Hoam, first president of the 
 ceremonial Academy at Pekin in China. 
 
 FIEST I1TPEESSI0NS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Think not, thou guide of my youth, that absence can impair 
 my respect, or interposing trackless deserts blot your reverend 
 figure from my memory. The farther I travel I feel the pain of 
 separation with stronger force ; those ties that bind me to my 
 native country, and you, are still unbroken. By every remove, I 
 only drag a greater length of chain. 
 
 Could I find aught worth transmitting from so remote a region 
 as this to which I have wandered, I should gladly send it ; but 
 instead of this, you must be contented with a renewal of my for- 
 mer professions, and an imperfect account of a people with whom 
 I am as yet but superficially acquainted. The remarks of a man 
 who has been but three days in the country can only be those 
 obvious circumstances which force themselves upon the imagina- 
 tion : I consider myself here as a newly-created being introduced 
 into a new world ; every object strikes with wonder and surprise. 
 The imagination, still unsated, seems the only active principle of 
 the mind. The most trifling occurrences give pleasure, till the 
 gloss of novelty is worn away. "When I have ceased to wonder, I 
 may possibly grow wise ; I may then call the reasoning principle 
 to my aid, and compare those objects with each other which were 
 before examined without reflection. 
 
GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 Behold me then in London, gazing at the strangers, and they 
 at me : it seems they find somewhat absurd in my figure ; and 
 had I never been from home, it is possible I might find an infinite 
 fund of ridicule in theirs ; but by long travelling I am taught to 
 laugh at folly alone, and to find nothing truly ridiculous but 
 villany and vice. 
 
 When I had just quitted my native country, and crossed the 
 Chinese wall, I fancied every deviation from the customs and 
 manners of China was a departing from nature : I smiled at the 
 blue lips and red foreheads of the Tonguese ; and could hardly 
 contain when I saw the Daures dress their heads with horns. 
 The Ostiacs, powdered with red earth, and the Calmuck beauties, 
 tricked out in all the finery of sheep-skin, appeared highly ridi- 
 culous ; but I soon perceived that the ridicule lay not in them, 
 but in me ; that I falsely condemned others for absurdity, because 
 they happened to differ from a standard originally founded in 
 prejudice or partiality. 
 
 I find no pleasure therefore in taxing the English with depart- 
 ing from nature in their external appearance, which is all I yet 
 know of their character ; it is possible they only endeavour to 
 improve her simple plan, since every extravagance in dress pro- 
 ceeds from a desire of becoming more beautiful than nature made 
 us ; and this is so harmless a vanity, that I not only pardon, but 
 approve it : a desire to be more excellent than others is what 
 actually makes us so ; and as thousands find a livelihood in 
 society by such appetites, none but the ignorant inveigh against 
 them. 
 
 You are not insensible, most reverend Fum Hoam, what num- 
 berless trades, even among the Chinese, subsist by the harmless 
 pride of each other. Your nose-borers, feet-swathers, tooth- 
 stainers, eyebrow-pluckers, would all want bread, should their 
 neighbours want vanity. These vanities, however, employ much 
 fewer hands in China than in England ; and a fine gentleman or 
 a fine lady here, dressed up to the fashion, seems scarcely to have 
 a single limb that does not suffer some distortions from art. 
 
 To make a fine gentleman, several trades are required, but 
 chiefly a barber : you have undoubtedly heard of the Jewish 
 champion, whose strength lay in his hair : one would think that 
 the English were for placing all wisdom there : to appear wise, 
 nothing more is requisite here than for a man to borrow hair from 
 the heads of all his neighbours, and clap it like a bush on his own : 
 the distributors of law and physic stick on such quantities, that 
 it is almost impossible, even in idea, to distinguish between the 
 head and the hair. 
 
 Those whom I have been now describing affect the gravity of 
 
I.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 487 
 
 the lion : those I am going to describe more resemble the pert 
 vivacity of smaller animals. The barber, who is still master of 
 the ceremonies, cuts their hair close to the crown ; and then, with 
 a composition of meal and hog's-lard, plasters the whole in such 
 a manner as to make it impossible to distinguish whether the 
 patient wears a cap or a plaster ; but, to make the picture more 
 perfectly striking, conceive the tail of some beast, a grey-hound's 
 tail, or a pig's tail, for instance, appended to the back of the head, 
 and reaching down to that place where tails in other animals are 
 generally seen to begin : thus betailed and bepowdered, the man 
 of taste fancies he improves in beauty, dresses up his hard-featured 
 face in smiles, and attempts to look hideously tender. Thus 
 equipped, he is qualified to make love, and hopes for success more 
 from the powder on the outside of his head than the sentiments 
 within. 
 
 Yet when I consider what sort of a creature the fine young lady 
 is to whom he is supposed to pay his addresses, it is not strange 
 to find him thus equipped in order to please. She is herself every 
 whit as fond of powder, and tails, and hog's-lard, as he : to speak 
 my secret sentiments, most reverend Fum, the ladies here are 
 horribly ugly ; I can hardly endure the sight of them : they no 
 way resemble the beauties of China ; the Europeans have a quite 
 different idea of beauty from us ; when I reflect on the small-footed 
 perfections of an Eastern beauty, how is it possible I should have 
 eyes for a woman whose feet are ten inches long ? I shall never 
 forget the beauties of my native city of Nanfew. How very broad 
 their faces ! how very short their noses ! how very little their eyes ! 
 how very thin their lips ! how very black their teeth ! the snow 
 on the tops of Bao is not fairer than their cheeks ; and their eye- 
 brows are small as the line by the pencil of Quamsi. Here a lady 
 with such perfections would be frightful : Dutch and Chinese 
 beauties indeed have some resemblance, but English women are 
 entirely different ; red cheeks, big eyes, and teeth of a most odious 
 whiteness, are not only seen here, but wished for ; and then they 
 have such masculine feet, as actually serve some for walking. 
 
 Yet uncivil as nature has been, they seem resolved to outdo her 
 in unkindness : they use white powder, blue powder, and black 
 powder, for their hair, and a red powder for the face on some 
 particular occasions. 
 
 They like to have the face ©f various colours, as am&ng the 
 Tartars of Koreki, frequently sticking on with spittle little black 
 patches on every part of it, except on the tip of the nose, which I 
 have never seen with a patch. You'll have a better idea of their 
 manner of placing these spots, when I have finished a map of an 
 English face patched up to the fashion, which shall shortly ba 
 
188 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 sent to increase your curious collection of paintings, medals, and 
 monsters. 
 
 But what surprises more than all the rest is what I have just 
 now been credibly informed by one of this country. ' Most ladies 
 here/ says he, ' have two faces ; one face to sleep in, and another 
 to show in company : the first is generally reserved for the husband 
 and family at home ; the other, put on to please strangers abroad : 
 the family face is often indifferent enough, but the out-door one 
 looks something better ; this is always made at the toilet, where 
 the looking-glass and toad-eater sit in council, and settle the 
 complexion of the day.' 
 
 I can't ascertain the truth of this remark ; however, it is 
 actually certain, that they wear more clothes within doors than 
 without ; and I have seen a lady who seemed to shudder at a breeze 
 in her own apartment appear half naked in the streets. Farewell. 
 
 LETTER IT. 
 
 PiUDE OF THE ENGLISH. 
 
 The English seem as silent as the Japanese, yet vainer than the 
 inhabitants of Siam. Upon my arrival I attributed that reserve 
 to modesty, which I now find has its origin in pride. Condescend 
 to address them first, and you are sure of their acquaintance ; 
 stoop to flattery, and you conciliate their friendship and esteem. 
 They bear hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the miseries of life with- 
 out shrinking ; danger only calls forth their fortitude ; they even 
 exult in calamity ; but contempt is what they cannot bear. An 
 Englishman fears contempt more than death ; he often flies to 
 death as a refuge from its pressure ; and dies when he fancies the 
 world has ceased to esteem him. 
 
 Pride seems the source not only of their national vices, but of 
 their national virtues also. An Englishman is taught to love his 
 king as his friend, but to acknowledge no other master than the 
 laws which himself has contributed to enact. He despises those 
 nations who, that one may be free, are all content to be slaves ; 
 who first lift a tyrant into terror, and then shrink under his 
 power as if delegated from Heaven. Liberty is echoed in all 
 their assemblies ; and thousands might be found ready to offer 
 up their lives for the sound, though perhaps not one of all the 
 number understands its meaning. The lowest mechanic, however, 
 looks upon it as his duty to be a watchful guardian of his country's 
 freedom, and often uses a language that might seem haughty 
 
II.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 4i9 
 
 even in the mouth of the great emperor who traces his ancestry 
 to the moon. 
 
 A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, I could not 
 avoid stopping, in order to listen to a dialogue which I thought 
 might afford me some entertainment. The conversation was 
 carried on between a debtor through the grate of his prison, a 
 porter who had stopped to rest his burthen, and a soldier at the 
 window. The subject was upon a threatened invasion from 
 France, and each seemed extremely anxious to rescue his country 
 from the impending danger. * For my part/ cries the prisoner, 
 ' the greatest of my apprehensions is for our freedom : if the 
 French should conquer, what would become of English liberty ? 
 My dear friends, liberty is the Englishman's prerogative ; we 
 must preserve that at the expense of our lives : of that the 
 French shall never deprive us ; it is not to be expected that men 
 who are slaves themselves would preserve our freedom should 
 they happen to conquer.' ' Ay, slaves,' cries the porter, ■ they 
 are all slaves, fit ?nly to carry burthens, every one of them. Be- 
 fore I would stoop to slavery, may this be my poison, (and he held 
 the goblet in his hand.) may this be my poison — but I would 
 sooner list for a soldier.' 
 
 The soldier, taking the goblet from his friend, with much awe 
 fervently cried out, ' It is not so much our liberties as our religion 
 that would suffer by such a change : ay, our religion, my lads. 
 If the French should come over, our religion would be utterly 
 undone.' So saying, instead of a libation, he applied the goblet 
 to his lips, and confirmed his sentiments with a ceremony of the 
 most persevering devotion. 
 
 In short, every man here pretends to be a politician ; even the 
 fair sex are sometimes found to mix the severity of national alter- 
 cation with the blandishments of love, and often become con- 
 querors by more weapons of destruction than their eyes. 
 
 This universal passion for politics is gratified by daily gazettes, 
 as with us at China. But as in ours the emperor endeavours to 
 instruct his people, in theirs the people endeavour to instruct the 
 administration. You must not, however, imagine that they who 
 compile these papers have any actual knowledge of the politics or 
 the government of a state ; they only collect their materials from 
 the oracle of some coffee-house ; which oracle has himself gathered 
 them the night before from a beau at a gaming table, who has 
 pillaged his knowledge from a great man's porter, who has had 
 his information from the great man's gentleman, who has invented 
 the whole story for his own amusement the night preceding. 
 
 The English in general seem fonder of gaining the esteem than 
 the love of those they converse with : this gives a formality to 
 
490 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 their amusements ; their gayest conversations have something 
 too wise for innocent relaxation ; though in company you are 
 seldom disgusted with the absurdity of a fool, you are seldom lifted 
 into rapture by those strokes of vivacity which give instant, 
 though not permanent pleasure. 
 
 What they want, however, in gaiety, they make up in politeness. 
 You smile at hearing me praise the English for their politeness ; 
 you who have heard very different accounts from the missionaries 
 at Pekin, who have seen such a different behaviour in their mer- 
 chants and seamen at home. But I must still repeat it, the Eng- 
 lish seem more polite than any of their neighbours ; their great 
 art in this respect lies in endeavouring, while they oblige, to lessen 
 the force of the favour. Other countries are fond of obliging a 
 stranger ; but seem desirous that he should be sensible of the 
 obligation. The English confer their kindness with an appear- 
 ance of indifference, and give away benefits with an air as if they 
 despised them. 
 
 Walking a few days ago, between an English and a French 
 man into the suburbs of the city, we were overtaken by a heavy 
 shower of rain. I was unprepared ; but they had each large coats, 
 which defended them from what seemed to be a perfect inundation. 
 The Englishman seeing me shrink from the weather, accosted me 
 thus : * Psha, man, what dost shrink at ? here, take this coat ; I 
 don't want it ; I find it no way useful to me ; I had as lief be 
 without it.' The Frenchman began to show his politeness in turn. 
 * My dear friend/ cries he, * why won't you oblige me by making 
 use of my coat ? you see how well it defends me from the rain ; I 
 should not choose to part with it to others, but to such a friend 
 as you I could even part with my skin to do him service/ 
 
 From such minute instances as these, most reverend Fum Hoam, 
 I am sensible your sagacity will collect instruction. The volume 
 of Nature is the book of knowledge ; and he becomes most wise 
 who makes the most judicious selection. Farewell. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 I AM just returned from Westminster, the place of sepulture for 
 the philosophers, heroes, and kings of England. What a gloom 
 do monumental inscriptions and all the venerable remains of 
 deceased merit inspire ! Imagine a temple marked with the 
 hand of antiquity, solemn as religious awe, adorned with all the 
 
III. J LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 491 
 
 magnificence of barbarous profusion, dim windows, fretted pillars, 
 long colonnades, and dark ceilings. Think, then, what were my 
 sensations at being introduced to such a scene. I stood in the 
 midst of the temple, and threw my eyes round on the walls, filled 
 with the statues, the inscriptions, and the monuments of the 
 dead. 
 
 Alas, I said to myself, how does pride attend the puny child of 
 dust even to the grave ! Even humble as I am, I possess more 
 consequence in the present scene than the greatest hero of them 
 all ; they have toiled for an hour to gain a transient immortality, 
 and are at length retired to the grave, where they have no 
 attendant but the worm, none to flatter but the epitaph. 
 
 As I was indulging such reflections, a gentleman, dressed in 
 black, perceiving me to be a stranger, came up, entered into con- 
 versation, and politely offered to be my instructor and guide 
 through the temple. ■ If any monument,' said he, ■ should parti- 
 cularly excite your curiosity, I shall endeavour to satisfy your 
 demands.' I accepted with thanks the gentleman's offer, adding, 
 that ■ I was come to observe the policy, the wisdom, and the jus- 
 tice of the English, in conferring rewards upon deceased merit. 
 If adulation like this (continued I) be properly conducted, as it 
 can no ways injure those who are flattered, so it may be a glori- 
 ous incentive to those who are now capable of enjoying it. It is 
 the duty of every good government to turn this monumental pride 
 to its own advantage ; to become strong in the aggregate from 
 the weakness of the individual. If none but the truly great have 
 a place in this awful repository, a temple like this will give the 
 finest lessons of morality, and be a strong incentive to true ambi- 
 tion. I am told that none have a place here but characters of the 
 most distinguished merit.' The man in black seemed impatient 
 at my observations, so I discontinued my remarks, and we walked 
 on together to take a view of every particular monument as it 
 lay. 
 
 As the eye is naturally caught by the finest object, I could not 
 avoid being particularly curious about one monument, which 
 appeared more beautiful than the rest: 'That/ said I to my 
 guide, ' I take to be the tomb of some very great man. By the 
 peculiar excellence of the workmanship and the magnificence 
 of the design, this must be a trophy raised to the memory of some 
 king who has saved his country from ruin, or lawgiver who has 
 reduced his fellow-citizens from anarchy into just subjection.' — 
 1 It is not requisite,' replied my companion, smiling, ■ to have 
 such qualifications in order to have a very fine monument here. 
 More humble abilities will suffice.' — ' What ! I suppose, then, the 
 gaining two or three battles, or the taking half a score towns, is 
 
492 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 thought a sufficient qualification ?' — ' Gaining battles • or taking 
 towns/ replied the man in black, * may be of service ; but a 
 gentleman may have a very fine monument here without ever 
 seeing a battle or a siege.' — \ Thi3, then, is the monument of some 
 poet, I presume,-— of one whose wit has gained him immortality?' 
 — ' No, sir,' replied my guide, ' the gentleman who lies here never 
 made verses ; and as for wit, he despised it in others, because he 
 had none himself.'—' Pray tell me in a word,' said I, peevishly, 
 ' what is the man who lies here particularly remarkable for?' — 
 f Remarkable, sir !' said my companion ; ■ why, sir, the gentleman 
 that lies here is remarkable, very remarkable — for a tomb in 
 "Westminster Abbey.' — ' But, head of my ancestors ! how has he 
 got here ? I fancy he could never bribe the guardians of the 
 temple to give him a place. Should he not be ashamed to be seen 
 among company where even moderate merit would look like 
 infamy ?' — * I suppose,' replied the man in black, ' the gentleman 
 was rich, and his friends, as is usual in such a case, told him he 
 was great. He readily believed them ; the guardians of the 
 'temple, as they got by the self-delusions, were ready to believe 
 him too ; so he paid his money for a fine monument ; and the 
 workman, as you see, has made him one of the most beautiful. 
 Think not, however, that this gentleman is singular in his desire 
 of being buried among the great : there are several others in the 
 temple who, hated and shunned by the great while alive, have 
 come here fully resolved to keep them company now they are 
 dead.' 
 
 As we walked along to a particular part of the temple, ' There, 
 says the gentleman, pointing with his finger, ' that is the poet's 
 corner ; there you see the monuments of Shakspeare, and Milton, 
 and Prior, and Drayton.' — ' Drayton V I replied, ■ I never heard 
 of him before ; but I have been told of one Pope, — is he there ?' 
 — ' It i3 time enough,' replied my guide, ' these hundred years ; 
 he is not long dead ; people have not done hating him yet.' 
 — ■ Strange,' cried I ; ' can any be found to hate a man whose 
 life was wholly spent in entertaining and instructing his fellow- 
 creatures V — ' Yes,' says my guide, ■ they hate him for that very 
 reason. There are a set of men called answerers of books, who 
 take upon them to watch the republic of letters, and distribute 
 reputation by the sheet ; they somewhat resemble the eunuchs in 
 a seraglio, who are incapable of giving pleasure themselves, and 
 hinder those that would. These answerers have no other employ- 
 ment but to cry out ' dunce,' and ' scribbler,' to praise the dead 
 and revile the living ; to grant a man of confessed abilities some 
 small share of merit ; to applaud twenty blockheads, in order to 
 gain the reputation of candour ; and to revile the moral cha- 
 
lit.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 4 'J 3 
 
 racter of the man whose writings they cannot injure. Such 
 wretches are kept in pay by some mercenary bookseller, or more 
 frequently the bookseller himself take3 this dirty work off their 
 hands, as all that is required is to be very abusive and very dull. 
 Every poet of any genius is sure to find such enemies : he feels. 
 though he seems to despise their malice ; they make him miser' 
 able here ; and in the pursuit of empty fame, at last he gains 
 solid anxiety.' 
 
 I Has this been the case with every poet I see here V cried I. — 
 1 Yes, with every mother's son of them,' replied he, ' except he 
 happened to be born a mandarin. If he has much money, he may 
 buy reputation from your book-answerers, as well as a monument 
 from the guardians of the temple.' 
 
 ' But are there not some men of distinguished taste, as in China, 
 who are willing to patronise men of merit, and soften the rancour 
 of malevolent dulness V 
 
 I I own there are many,' replied the man in black ; ■ but, alas ! 
 sir, the book-answerers crowd about them, and call themselves the 
 writers of books ; and the patron is too indolent to distinguish : 
 thus poets are kept at a distance, while their enemies eat up all 
 their rewards at the mandarin's table.' 
 
 Leaving this part of the temple, we made up to an iron gate, 
 through which my companion told me we were to pass in order 
 to see the monuments of the kings. Accordingly I marched up 
 without further ceremony, and was going to enter, when a person, 
 who held the gate in his hand, told me I must pay first. I was 
 surprised at such a demand, and asked the man, ' whether the 
 people of England kept a show ? whether the paltry sum he de- 
 manded was not a national reproach ? whether it was not more 
 to the honour of the country to let their magnificence or their 
 antiquities be openly seen, than thus meanly to tax a curiosity 
 which tended to their own honour V ' As for your questions," 
 replied the gate-keeper, * to be sure they may be very right, 
 because I don't understand them : but as for that three-pence, 1 
 farm it from one who rents it from another, who hires it from a 
 third, who leases it from the guardians of the temple ; and we 
 all must live.' I expected, upon paying here, to see something 
 extraordinary, since what I had seen for nothing filled me with 
 so much surprise ; but in this I was disappointed ; there was 
 little more within than black coffins, rusty armour, tattered 
 standards, and some few slovenly figures in wax. I was sorry I 
 had paid, but I comforted myself by considering it would be my 
 last payment. A person attended us, who, without once blushing, 
 told a hundred lies : he talked of a lady who died by pricking 
 her finger ; of a king with a golden head, and twenty such pieces 
 
¥t>4 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 of abflurdity. — * Look ye there, gentlemen,' says he, pointing to 
 an old oak chair, ■ there's a curiosity for ye : in that chair the 
 kings of England were crowned ; you see also a stone underneath 3 
 and that stone is Jacob's pillow.' I could see no curiosity either 
 in the oak chair or the stone : could I, indeed, behold one of the 
 old kings of England seated in this, or Jacob's head laid upon 
 the other, there might be something curious in the sight ; but in 
 the present case there was no more reason for my surprise than 
 if I should pick a stone from their streets, and call it a curiosity, 
 merely because one of the kings happened to tread upon it as he 
 passed in a procession. 
 
 From hence our conductor led us through several dark walks 
 and winding ways, uttering lies, talking to himself, and flourish- 
 ing a wand which he held in his hand. He reminded me of the 
 black magicians of Kobi. After we had been almost fatigued 
 with a variety of objects, he, at last, desired me to consider at- 
 tentively a certain suit of armour, which seemed to show nothing 
 remarkable. ' This armour,' said he, * belonged to General 
 Monk.' — ' Very surprising, that a general should wear armour !' 
 — * And pray,' added he, ' observe this cap ; this is General 
 Monk's cap.' — ' Very strange indeed, very strange, that a gene- 
 ral should have a cap also ! Pray, friend, what might this car. 
 have cost originally ?' — ' That, sir,' says he, * I don't know ; 
 but this cap is all the wages I have for my trouble.' — ' A very 
 small recompense, truly,' said I. — * Not so very small,' replied 
 he, ' for every gentleman puts some money into it, and I spend 
 the money.' — ' What, more money ! still more money !' — ' Every 
 gentleman gives something, sir.' — ■ I'll give thee nothing,' re- 
 turned I ; ' the guardians of the temple should pay your wages, 
 friend, and not permit you to squeeze thus from every spectator. 
 When we pay our money at the door to see a show, we never give 
 more as we are going out. Sure, the guardians of the temple 
 can never think they get enough. Show me the gate ; if I stay 
 longer, I may probably meet with more of those ecclesiastical 
 beggars.' 
 
 Thus leaving the temple precipitately, I returned to my lodg- 
 ings, in order to ruminate over what was great, and to despise 
 what was mean in the occurrences of the day. 
 
IV.J LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 POLITICS OF ENGLAND AND FEANCE. 
 
 Were an Asiatic politician to read the treaties of peace and 
 friendship that have been annually making for more than a hun- 
 dred years among the inhabitants of Europe, he would probably 
 be surprised how it should ever happen that Christian princes 
 could quarrel among each other. Their compacts for peace are 
 drawn up with the utmost precision, and ratified with the greatest 
 solemnity : to these each party promises a sincere and inviolable 
 obedience, and all wear the appearance of open friendship and 
 unreserved reconciliation. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding those treaties, the people of Europe are 
 almost continually at war. There is nothing more easy than to 
 break a treaty ratified in all the usual forms, and yet neither 
 party be the aggressor. One side, for instance, breaks a trifling 
 article by mistake ; the opposite party, upon this, makes a small 
 but premeditated reprisal ; this brings on a return of greater from 
 the other ; both sides complain of injuries and infractions ; war 
 is declared ; they beat, are beaten ; some two or three hundred 
 thousand men are killed ; they grow tired, leave off just where 
 they began, and so sit coolly down to make new treaties. 
 
 The English and French seem to place themselves foremost 
 among the champion states of Europe. Though parted by a 
 narrow sea, yet they are entirely of opposite characters ; and 
 from their vicinity are taught to fear and admire each other. 
 They #re at present engaged in a very destructive war, have al- 
 ready spilled much blood, are excessively irritated ; and all upon 
 account of one side's desiring to wear greater quantities of furs 
 than the other. 
 
 The pretext of the war is about some lands a thousand leagues 
 off ; a country, cold, desolate, and hideous ; a country belonging 
 to a people who were in possession for time immemorial. The 
 savages of Canada claim a property in the country in dispute ; 
 they have all the pretensions which long possession can confer. 
 Here they had reigned for ages without rivals in dominion, and 
 knew no enemies but the prowling bear or insidious tiger ; their 
 native forests produced all the necessaries of life, and they found 
 ample luxury in the enjoyment. In this manner they might 
 have continued to live to eternity, had not the English been in- 
 formed that those countries produced furs in great abundance. 
 From that moment the country became an object of desire ; it 
 was found that furs were things very much wanted in England ; 
 
496 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 the ladies edged some of their clothes with furs, and muffs were 
 worn both by gentlemen and ladies. In short, furs were found 
 indispensably necessary for the happiness of the state ; and the 
 king was consequently petitioned to grant not only the country 
 of Canada, but all the savages belonging to it, to the subjects ot 
 England, in order to have the people supplied with proper quan- 
 tities of this necessary commodity. 
 
 So very reasonable a request was immediately complied with, 
 and large colonies were sent abroad to procure furs and take pos- 
 session. The French, who were equally in want of furs (for they 
 were equally as fond of muffs and tippets as the English), made 
 the very same request to their monarch, and met with the same 
 gracious reception from their king, who generously granted what 
 was not his to give. Wherever the French landed, they called 
 the country their own ; and the English took possession wherever 
 they came, upon the same equitable pretensions. The harmless 
 savages made no opposition ; and could the intruders have agreed 
 together, they might peaceably have shared this desolate country 
 between them. But they quarrelled about the boundaries of their 
 settlements, about grounds and rivers, to which neither side could 
 show any other right than that of power, and which neither could 
 occupy but by usurpation. Such is the contest, that no honest 
 man can heartily wish success to either party. 
 
 The war has continued for some time with various success. At 
 first the French seemed victorious ; but the English have of late 
 dispossessed them of the whole country in dispute. Think not, 
 however, that success on one side is the harbinger of peace : on 
 the contrary, both parties must be heartily tired to effect even a 
 temporary reconciliation. It should seem the business of the vic- 
 torious party to offer terms of peace ; but there are many in Eng- 
 land who, encouraged by success, are for still protracting the war. 
 
 The best English politicians, however, are sensible that to keep 
 their present conquests would be rather a burden than an advan- 
 tage to them ; rather a diminution of their strength than an in- 
 crease of power. It is in the politic, as in the human constitution ; 
 if the limbs grow too large for the body, their size, instead of im- 
 proving, will diminish the vigour of the whok. The colonies 
 should always bear an exact proportion to the mother country : 
 when they grow populous, they grow powerful ; and by becoming 
 powerful they become independent also : thus subordination is 
 destroyed, and a country swallowed up in the extent of its own 
 dominions. The Turkish empire would be more formidable were 
 it less extensive ; were it not for those countries which it can 
 neither command, nor give entirely away ; which it is obliged to 
 protect, but from which it has no power to exact obedience. 
 
V.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 497 
 
 Yet, obvious as these truths are, there are many Englishmen 
 who are for transplanting new colonies into this late acquisition, 
 for peopling the deserts of America with the refuse of their 
 countrymen, and (as they express it) with the waste of an exu- 
 berant nation. But who are those unhappy creatures who are to 
 be thus drained away ? not the sickly, for they are unwelcome 
 guests abroad as well as at home ; nor the idle, for they would 
 starve as well behind the Appalachian mountains as in the streets 
 of London. This refuse is composed of the laborious and enter- 
 prising, of such men as can be serviceable to their country at 
 home ; of men who ought to be regarded as the sinews of the 
 people, and cherished with every degree of political indulgence. 
 And what are the commodities which this colony, when estab- 
 lished, are to produce in return ? — why, raw silk, hemp, and 
 tobacco. England, therefore, must make an exchange of her best 
 and bravest subjects for raw silk, hemp, and tobacco ; her hardy 
 veterans and honest tradesmen must be trucked for a box of 
 snuff or a silk petticoat. Strange absurdity ! Sure the politics of 
 the Daures are not more strange, who sell their religion, their 
 wives, and their liberty, for a glass bead or a paltry penknife. 
 Farewell. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 The English are as fond of seeing plays acted as the Chinese ; 
 but there is a vast difference in the manner of conducting them. 
 "We play our pieces in the open air, the English theirs under 
 cover ; we act by daylight, they by the blaze of torches. One of 
 our plays continues eight or ten days successively ; an English 
 piece seldom takes up above four hours in the representation. 
 
 My companion in black, with whom I am now beginning to 
 contract an intimacy, introduced me a few nights ago to the play- 
 house, where we placed ourselves conveniently at the foot of the 
 stage. As the curtain was not drawn before my arrival, I had an 
 opportunity of observing the behaviour of the spectators, and 
 indulging those reflections which novelty generally inspires. 
 
 The rich in general were placed in the lowest seats, and the 
 poor rose above them in degrees proportioned to their poverty. 
 The order of precedence seemed here inverted ; those who were 
 undermost all the day, now enjoyed a temporary eminence, and 
 became masters of the ceremonies. It was they who called for the 
 
 _ 2i 
 
408 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 music, indulging every noisy freedom, and testifying all the inso- 
 lence of beggary in exaltation. 
 
 They who held the middle region seemed not so riotous as those 
 above them, nor yet so tame as those below ; to judge by their 
 looks, many of them seemed strangers there as well as myself; 
 they were chiefly employed, during this period of expectation, in 
 eating oranges, reading the story of the play, or making assigna- 
 tions. 
 
 Those who sat in the lowest rows, which are called the pit, 
 seemed to consider themselves as judges of the merit of the poet 
 and the performers ; they were assembled partly to be amused, and 
 partly to show their taste; appearing to labour under that restraint 
 which an affectation of superior discernment generally produces. 
 My companion, however, informed me, that not one in a hundred 
 of them knew even the first principles of criticism ; that they 
 assumed the right of being censors because there was none to 
 contradict their pretensions ; and that every man who now called 
 himself a connoisseur, became such to all intents and purposes. 
 
 Those who sat in the boxes appeared in the most unhappy situa- 
 tion of all. The rest of the audience came merely for their own 
 amusement ; these rather to furnish out a part of the entertain- 
 ment themselves. I could not avoid considering them as acting 
 parts in dumb show, not a courtesy or nod that was not the result 
 of art ; not a look nor a smile that was not designed for murder. 
 Gentlemen and ladies ogled each other through spectacles ; for 
 my companion observed, that blindness was of late become fashion- 
 able, all affected indifference and ease, while their hearts at the 
 same time burned for conquest. Upon the whole, the lights, the 
 music, the ladies in their gayest dresses, the men with cheerfulness 
 and expectation in their looks, all conspired to make a most agree- 
 able picture, and to fill a heart that sympathises at human happi- 
 ness with an inexpressible serenity. 
 
 The expected time for the play to begin at last arrived, the 
 curtain was drawn, and the actors came on. A woman who per- 
 sonated a queen, came in courtesying to the audience, who 
 clapped their hands upon her appearance. Clapping of hands is, 
 it seems, the manner of applauding in England ; the manner is 
 absurd, but every country, you know, has its peculiar absurdities. 
 I was equally surprised, however, at the submission of the actress, 
 who should have considered herself as a queen, as at the little 
 discernment of the audience who gave her such marks of applause 
 before she attempted to deserve them. Preliminaries between 
 her and the audience being thus adjusted, the dialogue was sup- 
 ported between her and a most hopeful youth, who acted the part 
 of her confidant. They both appeared in extreme distress, for it 
 
V.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 493 
 
 seems the queen had lost a child some fifteen years before, and 
 still keeps its dear resemblance next her heart, while her kind 
 companion bore a part in her sorrows. 
 
 Her lamentations grew loud, comfort is offered, but she detests 
 the very sound. She bids them preach comfort to the winds. 
 Upon this her husband comes in, who seeing the queen so much 
 afflicted, can himself hardly refrain from tears or avoid partaking 
 in the soft distress. After thus grieving through three scenes, 
 the curtain dropped for the first act. 
 
 * Truly,' said I to my companion, ' these kings and queens are 
 very much disturbed at no very great misfortune ; certain I am, 
 were people of humbler stations to act in this manner they would 
 be thought divested of common sense.' I had scarcely finished 
 this observation, when the curtain rose, and the king came on in 
 a violent passion. His wife had, it seems, refused his proffered 
 tenderness, had spurned his royal embrace ; and he seemed re* 
 solved not to survive her fierce disdain. After he had thus fret- 
 ted, and the queen had fretted through the second act, the cur- 
 tain was let down once more. 
 
 ' Now/ says my companion, ' you perceive the king to be a man 
 of spirit, he feels at every pore : one of your phlegmatic sons of 
 clay would have given the queen her own way, and let her come 
 to herself by degrees ; but the king is for immediate tenderness, 
 or instant death ; death and tenderness are leading passions of 
 every modern buskined hero ; this moment they embrace, and 
 the next stab, mixing daggers and kisses in every period.' 
 
 I was going to second hi3 remarks, when my attention was 
 engrossed by a new object ; a man came in balancing a straw 
 upon his nose, and the audience were clapping their hands in all 
 the raptures of applause. • To what purpose,' cried I, • does this 
 unmeaning figure make his appearance ; is he a part of the plot ?' 
 — 'Unmeaning do you call him?' replied my friend in black ; 
 this is one of the most important characters of the whole play ; 
 nothing pleases the people more than seeing a straw balanced ; 
 there is a great deal of meaning in the straw ; there is something 
 suited to every apprehension in the sight ; and a fellow possessed 
 of talents like these is sure of making his fortune.' 
 
 The third act now began with an actor who came to inform us 
 that he was the villain of the play, and intended to show strange 
 things before all was <over. He was joined by another, who 
 seemed as much disposed for mischief as he ; their intrigues con- 
 tinued through this whole division. * If that be a villain,' said I, 
 ' he must be a very stupid one to tell his secrets without being 
 asked ; such soliloquies of late are never admitted in China.' 
 
 The noise of clapping interrupted me once more ; a child of six 
 
500 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 years old was learning to dance on the stage, which gave the 
 ladies and mandarins infinite satisfaction. ' I am sorry,' said I, ■ to 
 see the pretty creature so early learning so bad a trade ; dancing 
 being, I presume, as contemptible here as in China.' — ' Quite 
 the reverse,' interrupted my companion, * dancing is a very re- 
 putable and genteel employment here ; men have a greater chance 
 fcr encouragement from the merit of their heels than their heads. 
 One who jumps up and flourishes his toes three times before he 
 comes to the ground, may have three hundred a year ; he who 
 flourishes them four times, gets four hundred ; but he who arrives 
 at five is inestimable, and may demand what salary he thinks 
 proper. The female dancers, too, are valued for this sort of jump- 
 ing and crossing ; and it is a cant word among them that she 
 deserves most who shows highest. But the fourth act is begun, 
 let us be attentive.' 
 
 In the fourth act the queen finds her long-lost child, now grown 
 up into a youth of smart parts and great qualifications ; where- 
 fore, she wisely considers that the crown will fit his head better 
 than tha>»f her husband, whom she knows to be a driveller. The 
 king discovers hei^Jggign, and here comes on the deep distress; 
 he loves the queen, *nfl he loves the kingdom, he resolves, there- 
 fore, in order to possess both, that her son must die. The queen 
 exclaims at his barbarity, is frantic with rage, and at length, 
 overcome with sorrow, falls into a fit ; upon which the curtain 
 drops, and the act is concluded. 
 
 ' Observe the art of the poet,' cries my companion ; ' when the 
 queen can say no more, she falls into a fit. While thus her eyes 
 are shut, while she is supported in the arms of Abigail, what hor- 
 rors do we fancy ! we feel it in every nerve, take my word for it, 
 that fits are the true aposiopesis of modern tragedy/ 
 
 The fifth act began, and a busy piece it was. Scenes shifting, 
 trumpets sounding, mobs hallooing, carpets spreading, guards 
 bustling from one door to another : gods, demons, daggers, racks, 
 and ratsbane. But whether the king was killed, or the queen 
 was drowned, or the son was poisoned, I have absolutely forgotten. 
 
 When the play was over, I could not avoid observing that the 
 persons of the drama appeared in as much distress in the first 
 act as the last : ' How is it possible,' said I, ' to sympathize with 
 them through five long acts ! Pity is but a short-lived passion ; 
 1 hate to hear an actor mouthing trifles : neither startings, strain- 
 ings, nor attitudes affect me, unless there be cause ; after I have 
 been once or twice deceived by those unmeaning alarms, my heart 
 sleeps in peace, probably unaffected by the principal distress. 
 There should be one great passion aimed at by the actor as well 
 as the poet, all the rest should be subordinate, and only contri- 
 
VI.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 501 
 
 bute to make that the greater ; if the actor, therefore, exclaims 
 upon every occasion in the tones of despair, he attempts to move 
 ns too soon ; he anticipates the blow, he ceases to affect, though 
 he gains our applause/ 
 
 I scarcely perceived that the audience were almost all departed, 
 wherefore, mixing with the crowd, my companion and I got into 
 the street ; where essaying a hundred obstacles from coach-wheels 
 and palanquin-poles, like birds in their flight through the branches 
 of a forest, after various turnings we both at length got home 
 in safety. Adieu. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 VIRTUES OF THE ENGLISH. 
 
 Yet, while I sometimes lament the case of humanity, and the 
 depravity of human nature, there now and then appear gleams 
 of greatness that serve to relieve the eye, oppressed with the 
 hideous prospect ; and resemble those cultivated spots that are 
 sometimes found in the midst of an Asiatic wilderness. I see 
 many superior excellences among the English, which it is not in 
 the power of all their follies to hide ; I see virtues, which in 
 other countries are known only to a few, practised here by every 
 rank of people. 
 
 I know not whether it proceeds from their superior opulence 
 that the English are more charitable than the rest of mankind ; 
 whether, by being possessed of all the conveniences of life them- 
 selves, they have more leisure to perceive the uneasy situation of 
 the distressed ; whatever be the motive, they are not only the 
 most charitable of any other nation, but most judicious in distin- 
 guishing the properest objects of compassion. 
 
 In other countries the giver is generally influenced by the im- 
 mediate impulse of pity ; his generosity is exerted as much to 
 relieve his own uneasy sensations, as to -comfort the object in dis- 
 tress. In England benefactions are of a more general nature. 
 Some men of fortune and universal benevolence propose the pro- 
 per objects ; the wants and the merits of the petitioners are can- 
 vassed by the people ; neither passion nor pity find a place in the 
 cool discussion ; and charity is then only exerted when it has 
 received the approbation of reason. 
 
 A late instance of this finely directed benevolence forces itseli 
 strongly on my imagination ; that it in a manner reconciles me 
 
502 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 to pleasure, and once more makes me the universal friend of 
 man. 
 
 The English and French have not only political reasons to in- 
 duce them to mutual hatred, but often the more prevailing 
 motive of private interest to widen the breach. A war between 
 o'her countries is carried on collectively : army fights against 
 army, and a man's own private resentment is lost in that of the 
 community ; but in England and France the individuals of each 
 country plunder each other at sea without redress, and consequently 
 feel that animosity against each other which passengers do at a 
 robber. They have for some time carried on an expensive war ; 
 and several captives have been taken on both sides : those made 
 prisoners by the French have been used with cruelty, and guard- 
 ed with unnecessary caution ; those taken by the English, being 
 much more numerous, were confined in the ordinary manner ; 
 and not being released by their countrymen, began to feel all 
 those inconveniences which arise from want of covering and long 
 confinement. 
 
 Their countrymen were informed of their deplorable situation ; 
 but they, more intent on annoying their enemies than relieving 
 their friends, refused the least assistance. The English now saw 
 thousands of their fellow-creatures starving in every prison, for- 
 saken by those whose duty it was to protect them, labouring with 
 disease, and without clothes to keep off the severity of the season. 
 National benevolence prevailed over national animosity; their 
 prisoners were indeed enemies, but they were enemies in distress : 
 they ceased to be hateful, when they no longer continued to be for- 
 midable : forgetting, therefore, their national hatred, the men who 
 were brave enough to conquer, were generous enough to forgive ; 
 and they, whom all the world seemed to have disclaimed, at last 
 found pity and redress from those they attempted to subdue. A 
 subscription was opened, ample charities collected, proper neces- 
 saries procured, and the poor, gay sons of a merry nation were 
 once more taught to resume their former gaiety. 
 
 "When I cast my eye over the list of those who contributed on 
 this occasion, I find the names almost entirely English : scarcely 
 one foreigner appears among the number. It was for English- 
 men alone to be capable of such exalted virtue. I own, I cannot 
 look over this catalogue of good men and philosophers without 
 thinking better of myself, because it makes me entertain a more 
 favourable opinion of mankind. I am particularly struck with 
 one who writes these words upon the paper that inclosed hia 
 benefaction : ' The mite of an Englishman, a citizen of the 
 world, to Frenchmen, prisoners of war and naked.' I only wish 
 that he may find as much pleasure from his virtues as I have 
 
VI.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 503 
 
 done in reflecting upon them ; that alone will amply reward him. 
 Such a one, my friend, is an honour to human nature ; he makes 
 no private distinctions of party ; all that are stamped with the 
 divine image of their Creator are friends to him : he is a native 
 of the world ; and the emperor of China may be proud that he 
 has such a countryman. 
 
 To rejoice at the destruction of our enemies is a foible, grafted 
 upon human nature, and we must be permitted to indulge it : 
 the true way of atoning for such an ill-founded pleasure, is thus 
 to turn our triumph into an act of benevolence, and to testify our 
 own joy by endeavouring to banish anxiety from others. 
 
 Hamti, the best and wisest emperor that ever filled the throne, 
 after having gained three signal victories over the Tartars, who 
 had invaded his dominions, returned to Nankin in order to enjoy 
 the glory of his conquest. After he had rested for some days, 
 the people, who were naturally fond of processions; impatiently 
 expected the triumphant entry which emperors upon such occa- 
 sions were accustomed to make : their murmurs came to the empe- 
 ror's ear ; he loved his people, and was willing to do all in his 
 power to satisfy their just desires. He therefore assured them, 
 that he intended, upon the next feast of the Lanterns, to exhibit 
 one of the most glorious triumphs that had ever been seen in 
 China. 
 
 The people were in raptures at his condescension : and on the 
 appointed day, assembled at the gates of the palace wiih the 
 most eager expectations. Here they waited for some time with- 
 out seeing any of those preparations which usually precede a 
 pageant. The lantern with ten thousand tapers was not yet. 
 brought forth ; the fireworks, which usually covered the city 
 walls, were not yet lighted : the people once more began to mur- 
 mur at this delay ; when in the midst of their impatience the 
 palace-gates flew open, and the emperor himself appeared, not in 
 splendour or magnificence, but in an ordinary habit, followed by 
 the blind, the maimed, and the strangers of the city, all in new 
 clothes, and each carrying in his hand money enough to supply 
 his necessities for the year. The people were at first amazed, but 
 soon perceived the wisdom of their king, who taught them, that 
 to make one man happy, was more truly great than having ten 
 thousand captives groaning at the wheels of his chariot. Adieu 
 
504 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 RISE AND DECLENSION OF THE KINGDOM OF LAO. 
 
 I was some days ago in company -with a politician, who very pa- 
 thetically declaimed upon the miserable situation of his country : 
 he assured me, that the whole political machine was moving in a 
 wrong track, and that scarcely even abilities like his own could 
 ever set it right again. * What have we/ said he, ' to do with 
 the wars on the Continent ? We are a commercial nation ; we 
 have only to cultivate commerce, like our neighbours the Dutch : 
 it is our business to increase trade by settling new colonies: 
 riches are the strength of a nation ; and for the rest, our ships, 
 our ships alone, will protect us.' I found it vain to oppose my 
 feeble arguments to those of a man who thought himself wise 
 enough to direct even the ministry : I fancied, however, that I 
 saw with more certainty, because 1 reasoned without prejudice : 
 I therefore begged leave, instead of argument, to relate a short 
 history. He gave me a smile at once of condescension and con- 
 tempt, and I proceeded, as follows, to describe The rise and 
 
 DECLENSION OE THE KINGDOM OF LAO. 
 
 Northward of China, and in one of the doublings of the great 
 wall, the fruitful province of Lao enjoyed its liberty, and a pecu- 
 liar government of its own. As the inhabitants were on all side3 
 surrounded by the wall, they feared no sudden invasion from the 
 Tartars : and being each possessed of property, they were zealous 
 in its defence. 
 
 The natural consequences of security and affluence in any 
 country is a love of pleasure ; when the wants of nature are sup- 
 plied, we seek after the conveniences ; when possessed of these-, 
 we desire the luxuries of life ; and, when every luxury is pro- 
 vided, it is then ambition takes up the man, and leaves him still 
 something to wish for ; the inhabitants of the country, from pri- 
 mitive simplicity, soon began to aim at elegance, and from ele- 
 gance proceeded to refinement. It was now found absolutely re- 
 quisite for the good of the state, that the people should be divided. 
 Formerly, the same hand that was employed in tilling the ground, 
 or in dressing up the manufactures, was also in time of need a 
 soldier ; but the custom was now changed ; for it was perceived, 
 that a man bred up from childhood to the arts of either peace or 
 war, became more eminent by this means in his respective pro- 
 fession. The inhabitants were, therefore, now distinguished into 
 artisans and soldiers ; and while those improved the luxuries oi 
 life, these watched for the security of the people. 
 
VII.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 505 
 
 A country possessed of. freedom, has always two sorts of enemies 
 to fear ; foreign foes who attack its existence from without, and 
 internal miscreants who betray its liberties within. The inhabi- 
 tants of Lao were to guard against both. A country of artisans 
 were most likely to preserve internal liberty ; and a nation of 
 soldiers were fittest to repel a foreign invasion. Hence, naturally 
 rose a division of opinion between the artisans and soldiers of the 
 kingdom. The artisans ever complaining that freedom was 
 threatened by an armed internal force, were for disbanding the 
 soldiers, and insisted that their walls, their walls alone, were suffi- 
 cient to repel the most formidable invasion : the warriors, on the 
 contrary, represented the power of the neighbouring kings, the com- 
 binations formed against their state, and the weakness of the wall, 
 which every earthquake might overturn. "While this aftercation 
 continued, the kingdom might be justly said to enjoy its greatest 
 share of vigour ; every order in the state, by being watchful over 
 each other, contributed to diffuse happiness equally, and balanced 
 the state. The arts of peace flourished, nor were those of war 
 neglected ; the neighbouring powers, who had nothing to appre- 
 hend from the ambition of men, whom they only saw solicitous, 
 not for riches, but freedom, were contented to traffic with them : 
 they sent their goods to be manufactured in Lao, and paid a large 
 price for them upon their return. 
 
 JBy these means this people at length became moderately rich, 
 and their opulence naturally invited the invader ; a Tartar prince 
 led an immense army against them, and they as bravely stood up 
 in their own defence ; they were still inspired with a love of their 
 country : they fought the barbarous enemy with fortitude, and 
 gained a complete victory. 
 
 From this moment, which they regarded as the completion of 
 their glory, historians date their downfall. They had risen in 
 strength by a love of their country, and fell by indulging ambition. 
 The country possessed by the invading Tartars seemed to them a 
 prize that would not only render them more formidable for the 
 future, but which would increase their opulence for the present ; it 
 was unanimously resolved, therefore, both by soldiers and artisans, 
 that those desolate regions should be peopled by colonies from Lao. 
 When a trading nation begins to act the conqueror, it is then per- 
 fectly undone : it subsists in some measure by the support of its 
 neighbours ; while they continue to regard it without envy or 
 apprehension, trade may flourish ; but when once it presumes to 
 assert as its right what is only enjoyed as a favour, each country 
 reclaims that part of commerce which it has power to take back, 
 and turns it into some other channel more honourable, though 
 perhaps less convenient. 
 
506 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 Every neighbour now began to regard with jealous eyes that 
 ambitious commonwealth, and forbade her subjects any future 
 intercourse with them. The inhabitants of Lao, however, still pur- 
 sued the same ambitious maxims ; it was from their colonies alone 
 they expected riches : and riches, said they, are strength, and 
 streDgth is security. Numberless were the migrations of the 
 desperate and enterprising of this country, to people the desolate 
 dominions lately possessed by the Tartar. Between these colonies 
 and the mother country a very advantageous traffic was at first 
 carried on ; the republic sent their colonies large quantities of the 
 manufactures of the country, and they in return provided the re- 
 public with an equivalent in ivory and ginseng. By this means 
 the inhabitants became immensely rich, and this produced an 
 equal degree of voluptuousness ; for men who have much money 
 will always find some fantastical modes of enjoyment. How shall 
 I mark the steps by which they declined ? Every colony in pro- 
 cess of time spreads over the whole country where it first was 
 planted. As it grows more populous, it becomes more polite ; 
 and those manufactures for which it was in the beginning obliged 
 to others, it learns to dress up itself : such was the case with the 
 colonies of Lao ; they, in less than a century, became a powerful 
 and a polite people, and the more polite they grew, the less ad- 
 vantageous was the commerce which still subsisted between them 
 and others. By this means the mother-country being abridged in 
 its commerce, grew poorer, but not less luxurious. Their former 
 wealth had introduced luxury ; and wherever luxury once fixes, 
 no art can either lessen or remove it. Their commerce with 
 their neighbours was totally destroyed, and that with their colo- 
 nies was every day naturally and necessarily declining ; they 
 still, however, preserved the insolence of wealth, without a power 
 to support it, and persevered in being luxurious, while contemp- 
 tible from poverty. In short, the state resembled one of those 
 bodies bloated with disease, whose bulk is only a symptom of its 
 wretchedness. 
 
 Their former opulence only rendered them more impotent, as 
 those individuals who are reduced from riches to poverty, are of 
 all men the most unfortunate and helpless. They had imagined, 
 because their colonies tended to make them rich upon the first 
 acquisition, they would still continue to do so ; they now found, 
 however, that on themselves alone they should have depended for 
 support ; that colonies ever afforded but temporary affluence, and 
 when cultivated and polite, are no longer useful. From such a 
 concurrence of circumstances, they soon became contemptible. 
 The emperor Honti invaded them with a powerful army. His- 
 torians do not say whether their colonies were too remote to lend 
 
VIII.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 507 
 
 assistance, or else were desirous of shaking off their dependence ; 
 but certain it is, they scarcely made any resistance ; their walla 
 were now found but a weak defence, and they at length were 
 obliged to acknowledge subjection to the empire of China. 
 
 Happy, very happy, might they have been, had they known 
 when to bound their riches and their glory : had they known that 
 extending empire is often diminishing power ; that countries are 
 ever strongest which are internally powerful ; that colonies, by 
 draining away the brave and enterprising, leave the country in 
 the hands of the timid and the avaricious : that walls give little 
 protection, unless manned with resolution : that too much com- 
 merce may injure a nation as well as too little ; and that there is 
 a wide difference between a conquering and a flourishing empire. 
 Adieu. 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 THE CHAEITABLE 3tAN\ 
 
 Though fond of many acquaintances, I desire an intimacy only 
 with a few. The man in black, whom I have often mentioned, is 
 one whose friendship I could wish to acquire, because he possesses 
 my esteem. His manners, it is true, are tinctured with some 
 strange inconsistencies : and he may be justly termed a humourist 
 in a nation of humourists. Though he is generous even to profu 
 sion, he affects to be thought a prodigy of parsimony and prudence ; 
 though his conversation be replete with the most sordid and selfish 
 maxims, his heart is dilated with the most unbounded love. I 
 have known him profess himse'f a man-hater, while his cheek was 
 glowing with compassion ; and while his looks were softened into 
 pity, I have heard him use the language of the most unbounded 
 ill-nature. Some affect humanity and tenderness, others boast of 
 having such dispositions from nature ; but he is the only man I 
 ever knew who seemed ashamed of his natural benevolence. He 
 takes as much pains to hide his feelings, as any hypocrite would 
 to conceal his indifference ; but on every unguarded moment the 
 mask drops off, and reveals him to the most superficial observer. 
 In one of our late excursions into the country, happening to dis- 
 course upon the provision that was made for the poor in England, 
 he seemed amazed how any of his countrymen could be so foolishly 
 weak as to relieve occasional objects of charity, when the laws had 
 made such ample provision for their support. ' In every parish- 
 house,' says he, * the poor are supplied with food, clothes, fire, and 
 
508 goldsmith's those works. 
 
 a bed to lie on ; they want no more : I desire no more myself ; yet 
 still they seem discontented. I am surprised at the inactivity of 
 our magistrates, in not taking up such vagrants, who are only a 
 weight upon the industrious ; I am surprised that the people are 
 found to relieve them, when they must be at the same time sen- 
 sible that it, in some measure, encourages idleness, extravagance, 
 and imposture. Were I to advise any man for whom I had the 
 least regard, I would caution him by all means not to be imposed 
 upon by their false pretences ; let me assure you, sir, they are im- 
 postors, every one of them, and rather merit a prison than relief.' 
 
 He was proceeding in this strain, earnestly, to dissuade me from 
 an imprudence of which I am seldom guilty, when an old man, 
 who still had about him the remnants of tattered finery, implored 
 our compassion. He assured us, that he was no common beggar, 
 but forced into the shameful profession, to support a dying wife 
 and five hungry children. Being prepossessed against such false- 
 hoods, his story had not the least influence upon me ; but it was 
 quite otherwise with the man in black ; I could see it visibly ope- 
 rate upon his countenance, and effectually interrupt his harangue. 
 I could easily perceive, that his heart burned to relieve the five 
 starving children, but he seemed ashamed to discover his weakness 
 to me. While he thus hesitated between compassion and pride, I 
 pretended to look another way, and he seized this opportunity of 
 giving the poor petitioner a piece of silver, bidding him at the 
 same time, in order that I should not hear, go work for his bread, 
 and not teaze passengers with such impertinent falsehoods for the 
 future. 
 
 As he had fancied himself quite unperceived, he continued, as 
 we proceeded, to rail against beggars with as much animosity as 
 before ; he threw in some episodes on his own amazing prudence 
 and economy, with his profound skill in discovering impostors ; 
 he explained the manner in which he would deal with beggars 
 were he a magistrate, hinted at enlarging some of the prisons for 
 their reception, and told two stories of ladies that were robbed by 
 beggar-men. He was beginning a third to the same purpose, when 
 a sailor with a wooden leg once more crossed our walks, desiring 
 our pity, and blessing ourlimbs. I was for going on without taking 
 any notice, but my friend, looking wishfully upon the poor peti- 
 tioner, bid me stop, and he would show me with how much ease 
 he could at any time detect an impostor. 
 
 He now, therefore, assumed a look of importance, and in an 
 angry tone began to examine the sailor, demanding in what en- 
 gagement he was thus disabled and rendered unfit for service. 
 The sailor replied, in a tone as angrily as he, that he had been an 
 officer on board a private ship of war 3 and that he had lost his 
 
VIII.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 509 
 
 leg abroad in defence of those who did nothing at home. At thi3 
 reply, all my friend's importance vanished in a moment ; he had 
 not a single question more to ask ; he now only studied what 
 method he should take to relieve him unobserved. He had, how- 
 ever, no easy part to act, as he was obliged to preserve the ap- 
 pearance of ill-nature before me, and yet relieve himself by re- 
 lieving the sailor. Casting, therefore, a furious look upon some 
 bundles of chips which the fellow carried in a string at his back, 
 my friend demanded how he sold his matches ; but not waiting 
 for a reply, desired, in a surly tone, to have a shilling's worth. 
 The sailor seemed at first surprised at his demand, but soon re- 
 collected himself, and presenting his whole bundle, ■ Here, master/ 
 Bays he, ' take all my cargo, and a blessing into the bargain.* 
 
 It is impossible to describe with what an air of triumph my 
 friend marched off with his new purchase ; he assured me, that he 
 was firmly of opinion that those fellows must have stolen their 
 goods, who could thus afford to sell them for half their value. He 
 informed me of several different uses to which those chips might 
 be applied ; he expatiated largely vtpon. the savings that would 
 result from lighting candles with a match instead of thrusting 
 them into the fire. He averred, that he would as soon have parted 
 with a tooth as his money to those vagabonds, unless for some 
 valuable consideration. I cannot tell how long this panegyric up- 
 on frugality and matches might have continued, had not his at- 
 tention been called off by another object more distressful than 
 either of the former. A woman in rags, with one child in her 
 arms and another on her back, was attempting to sing ballads, 
 but with such a mournful voice, that it was difficult to determine 
 whether she was singing or crying. A wretch who, in the deepest 
 distress, still aimed at good-humour, was an object my friend was 
 by no means capable of withstanding ; his vivacity and his dis- 
 course were instantly interrupted ; upon this occasion his very 
 dissimulation had forsaken him. Even in my presence he imme- 
 diately applied his hands to his pockets, in order to relieve her ; 
 but guess his confusion, when he found he had already given away 
 all the money he carried about him to former objects ! The misery 
 painted in the woman's visage was not half so strongly expressed 
 as the agony in his. He continued to search for some time, but 
 to no purpose, till, at length recollecting himself, with a face of 
 ineffable good-nature, as he had no money, he put into her hands 
 his shilling's worth of matches. 
 
510 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 THE SAME CONTINUED. 
 
 As there appeared something reluctantly good in the character 
 of my companion, I must own it surprised me what could be his 
 motives for thus concealing virtues which others take such pains 
 to display. I was unable to repress my desire of knowing the 
 history of a man who thus seemed to act under continual restraint, 
 and whose benevolence was rather the effect of appetite than 
 reason. 
 
 It was not, however, till after repeated solicitations he thought 
 proper to gratify my curiosity. * If you are fond/ says he, ' of 
 hearing hair-breadth 'scapes, my history must certainly please ; for 
 I have been for twenty years upon the very verge of starving, 
 without ever being starved. 
 
 ' My father, the younger son of a good family, was possessed of 
 a small living in the church. His education was above his fortune, 
 and his generosity greater than his education. Poor as he was, 
 he had his flatterers still poorer than himself; for every dinner 
 he gave them, they returned equivalent in praise ; and this was 
 all he wanted. The same ambition that actuates a monarch at 
 the head of an army, influenced my father at the head of his table , 
 he told the story of the ivy-tree, and that was laughed at : he re- 
 peated the jest of the two scholars and one pair of breeches, and 
 the company laughed at that ; but the story of Taffy and the 
 sedan-chair was sure to set the table in a roar. Thus his pleasure 
 increased in proportion to the pleasure he gave ; he loved all the 
 world, and he fancied all the world loved him. 
 
 1 As his fortune was but small, he lived up to the very extent 
 of it : he had no intention of leaving his children money, for that 
 was dross ; he was resolved they should have learning ; for learn- 
 ing, he used to observe, was better than silver or gold. For this 
 purpose he undertook to instruct us himself ; and took as much 
 pains to form our morals, as to improve our understanding. We 
 were told that universal benevolence was what first cemented so- 
 ciety ; we were taught to consider all the wants of mankind as our 
 own , to regard the human face divine with affection and esteem : 
 he wound us up to be mere machines of pity, and rendered us in- 
 capable of withstanding the slightest impulse made either by real 
 or fictitious distress: in a word, we were perfectly instructed in 
 the arts of giving away thousands, before we were taught the more 
 necessary qualifications of getting a farthing. 
 
 ' I cannot avoid imagining, that thus refined by his lessons out 
 
IX.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. bl\ 
 
 of all my suspicion, and divested of even all the little cunning 
 which nature had given me, I resembled, upon my first entrance 
 into the busy and insidious world, one of those gladiators who 
 were exposed without armour in the amphitheatre at Rome. My 
 father, however, who had only seen the world on one side, seemed 
 to triumph in my superior discernment : though my whole stock 
 of wisdom consisted in being able to talk like himself upon sub- 
 jects that once were useful, because they were then topics of the 
 busy world ; but that now were utterly useless, because connected 
 with the busy world no longer. 
 
 ' The first opportunity he had of finding his expectations dis- 
 appointed, was at the very middling figure I made in the univer- 
 sity ; he had flattered himself that he should soon see me rising 
 into the foremost rank in literary reputation, but was mortified to 
 find me utterly unnoticed and unknown. His disappointment 
 might have been partly ascribed to his having over-rated my ta- 
 lents, and partly to my dislike of mathematical reasonings, at a 
 time when my imagination and memory, yet unsatisfied, were 
 more eager after new objects, than desirous of reasoning upon 
 those I knew. This did not, however, please my tutors, who 
 observed, indeed, that I was a little dull, but at the same time 
 allowed, that I seemed to be very good-natured, and had no harm 
 in me. 
 
 1 After I had resided at college seven years, my father died, 
 and left me — his blessing. Thus shoved from shore without ill- 
 nature to protect, or cunning to guide, or proper stores to subsist 
 me in so dangerous a voyage, I was obliged to embark in the wide 
 world at twenty-two. But, in order to settle in life, my friends 
 advised (for they always advise when they begin to despise us), 
 they advised me, I say, to go into orders. 
 
 1 To be obliged to wear a long wig, when I liked a short one, or 
 a black coat, when I generally dressed in brown, I thought was 
 such a restraint upon my liberty, that I absolutely rejected the 
 proposal. A priest in England is not the same mortified creature 
 with a bonze in China ! with us, not he that fasts best, but eats 
 best, is reckoned the best liver ; yet I rejected a life of luxury, 
 indolence, and ease, from no other consideration but that boyish 
 one of dress. So that my friends were now perfectly satisfied I 
 was undone ; and yet they thought it a pity for one who had not 
 the least harm in him, and was so very good-natured. 
 
 * Poverty naturally begets dependence, and I was admitted as 
 flatterer to a great man. At first I was surprised that the situa- 
 tion of a flatterer at a great man's table could be thought disa- 
 greeable ; there was no great trouble in listening attentively wheii 
 his lordship spoke, and laughing when he looked round for &;.- 
 
512 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 plause. This even good manners might have obliged me to per* 
 form. I found, however, too soon, that his lordship was a greater 
 dunce than myself ; and from that very moment flattery was at 
 an end. I now rather aimed at setting him right, than at receiv- 
 ing his absurdities with submission : to flatter those we do not 
 know is an easy task ; but to flatter our intimate acquaintances, 
 all whose foibles are strongly in our eyes, is drudgery insupport- 
 able. Every time I now opened my lips in praise, my falsehood 
 went to my conscience ; his lordship soon perceived me to be very 
 unfit for service : I was, therefore, discharged ; my patron at the 
 same time being graciously pleased to observe, that he believed I 
 was tolerably good-natured, and had not the least harm in me. 
 
 * Disappointed in ambition, I had recourse to love. A young 
 lady, who lived with her aunt, and was possessed of a pretty for- 
 tune in her own disposal, had given me, as I fancied, some reason 
 to expect success. The symptoms by which I was guided were 
 striking. She had always laughed with me at her awkward ac- 
 quaintance, and at her aunt among the number ; she always 
 observed, that a man of sense would make a better husband than 
 a fool ; and as I constantly applied the observation in my own 
 favour, she continually talked, in my company, of friendship and 
 the beauties of the mind, and spoke of Mr Shrimp, my rival's 
 high-heeled shoes, with detestation. These were circumstances 
 which I thought strongly in my favour ; so, after resolving and 
 re-resolving, I had courage enough to tell her my mind. Miss 
 heard my proposals with serenity, seeming at the same time to 
 study the figures of her fan. Out at last it came. There was 
 but one small objection to complete our happiness ; which was no 
 more, than — that she was married three months before to Mr 
 Shrimp, with high-heeled shoes ! By way of consolation, however, 
 she observed, that though I was disappointed in her, my addresses 
 to her aunt would probably kindle her into' sensibility ; as the 
 old lady always allowed me to be very good-natured, and not to 
 have the least share of harm in me. 
 
 * Yet still I had friends, numerous friends, and to them I was 
 resolved to apply. O friendship ! thou fond soother of the human 
 breast, to thee we fly in every calamity ; to thee the wretched 
 seek for succour ; on thee the care-tired son of misery fondly 
 relies ; from thy kind assistance the unfortunate always hope for 
 relief, and may be ever sure of — disappointment ! My first appli- 
 cation was to a city scrivener, who had frequently offered to lend 
 me money when he knew I did not want it. I informed him, that 
 now was the time to put his friendship to the test ; that I wanted 
 to borrow a couple of hundreds for a certain occasion, and was 
 resolved to take it up from him. " And pray, sir," cried my friend, 
 
IX.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 513 
 
 " do you want all this money ?" — " Indeed I never wanted it more/' 
 returned I. *' I am sorry for that," cries the scrivener, " with all 
 my heart ; for they who want money when they come to borrow, 
 will always want money when they should come to pay." 
 
 1 From him I flew with indignation to one of the best friends I 
 had in the world, and made the same request. " Indeed, Mr 
 Dry-bone," cries my friend, " I always thought it would come to 
 this. You know, sir, I would not advise you but for your own 
 good ; but your conduct has hitherto been ridiculous in the highest 
 degree, and some of your acquaintance always thought you a 
 very silly fellow. Let me see, you want two hundred pounds. 
 Do you only want two hundred, sir, exactly ?" " To confess a 
 a truth," returned I, " I shall want three hundred ; but then I 
 have another friend, from whom I can borrow the rest." — " Why 
 then," replied my friend, " if you would take my advice (and 
 you know I should not presume to advise you but for your own 
 good) I would recommend it to you to borrow the whole sum from 
 that other friend, and then one note will serve for all, you know." 
 
 ' Poverty now began to come fast upon me ; yet instead of 
 growing more provident and cautious as I grew poor, I became 
 every day more indolent and simple. A friend was arrested for 
 fifty pounds ; I was unable to extricate him except by becoming 
 his bail : when at liberty he fled from his creditors, and left me 
 to take his place. In prison I expected greater satisfaction than 
 I had enjoyed at large. I hoped to converse with men in this 
 new world simple and believing like myself; but I found them 
 as cunning and as cautious as those in the world I had left be- 
 hind. They spunged up my money whilst it lasted, borrowed my 
 coals and never paid for them, and cheated me when I played at 
 cribbage. All this was done because they believed me to be 
 very good-natured, and knew that I had no harm in me. 
 
 * Upon my first entrance into this mansion, which is to some 
 the abode of despair, I felt no sensations different from those I 
 experienced abroad. I was now on one side the door, and those 
 who were unconfined were on the other ; this was all the differ- 
 ence between us. At first, indeed, I felt some uneasiness, in 
 considering how I should be able to provide this week for the 
 wants of the week ensuing ; but after some time, if I found my- 
 self sure of eating one day, I never troubled my head how I was 
 to be supplied another. I seized every precarious meal with the 
 utmost good-humour ; indulged no rants of spleen at my situation ; 
 never called down heaven and all the stars to behold me dining 
 upon a halfpenny-worth of radishes ; my very companions were 
 taught to believe that I liked salad better than mutton. I con- 
 tented myself with thinking, that all my life I should either eat 
 
 2k 
 
514 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 white bread or brown ; considered that all that happened was 
 best ; laughed when I was not in pain, took the world as it went, 
 and read Tacitus often, for want of more books and company. 
 
 I How long I might have continued in this torpid state of sim- 
 plicity I cannot tell, had I not been roused by seeing an old ac- 
 quaintance, whom I knew to be a prudent blockhead, preferred 
 to a place in the government. I now found that I had pursued 
 a wrong track, and that the true way of being able to relieve 
 others, was first to aim at independence myself ; my immediate 
 care, therefore, was to leave my present habitation, and make an 
 entire reformation in my conduct and behaviour. For a free, 
 open, undesigning deportment, I put on that of closeness, pru- 
 dence, and economy. One of the most heroic actions I ever per- 
 formed, and for which I shall praise myself as long as I live, was 
 the refusing half-a-crown to an old acquaintance, at the time 
 when he wanted it, and I had it to spare ; for this alone I deserve 
 to be decreed an ovation. 
 
 I I now, therefore, pursued a course of uninterrupted frugality, 
 seldom wanted a dinner, and was, consequently, invited to twenty. 
 I soon began to get the character of a saving hunks that had 
 money, and insensibly grew into esteem. Neighbours have asked 
 my advice in the disposal of their daughters ; and I have always 
 taken care not to give any. I have contracted a friendship with 
 an alderman, only by observing, that if we take a farthing from 
 a thousand pounds, it will be a thousand pounds no longer. I 
 have been invited to a pawnbroker's table, by pretending to hate 
 gravy ; and am now actually upon treaty of marriage with a 
 rich widow, for only having observed that the bread was rising. 
 If ever I am asked a question, whether I know it or not, instead 
 of answering, I only smile and look wise. If a charity is pro- 
 posed, I go about with the hat, but put nothing in myself. If a 
 wretch solicits my pity, I observe that the world is filled with 
 impostors ; and take a certain method of not being deceived, by 
 nev^.r relieving. In short, I now find the truest way of finding 
 esteem even from the indigent, is to give away rwthing, and thui 
 have much in our power to give.* 
 
X.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 515 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 as invitation to dinner. 
 
 I AM disgusted, Fum Hoam, even to sickness disgusted. Is it 
 possible to bear the presumption of those islanders, when they 
 pretend to instruct me in the ceremonies of China ? They lay it 
 down as a maxim, that every person who comes from thence 
 must express himself in metaphor ; swear by Alia, rail against 
 wine, and behave and talk and write like a Turk or Persian. 
 They make no distinction between our elegant manners, and the 
 voluptuous barbarities of our eastern neighbours. "Wherever T 
 come, I raise either diffidence or astonishment : some fancy me 
 no Chinese, because I am formed more like a man than a mon- 
 ster ; and others wonder to find one, born five thousand miles 
 from England, endued with common sense. Strange, say they, 
 that a man who has received his education at such a distance 
 from London should have common sense ; to be born out of Eng- 
 land, and yet have common sense ! impossible ! He must be 
 some Englishman in disguise ; his very visage has nothing of the 
 true exotic barbarity. 
 
 I yesterday received an invitation from a lady of distinction, 
 who it seems had collected all her knowledge of eastern manners 
 from fictions every day propagated here under the titles of eastern 
 tales and oriental histories : she received me very politely, but 
 seemed to wonder that I neglected bringing opium and a tobacco- 
 box. Yrhen chairs were drawn for the rest of the company. I 
 was assigned my place on a cushion on the floor. It was in vain 
 that I protested the Chinese used chairs as in Europe ; she under- 
 stood decorums too well to entertain me with the ordinary civili- 
 ties. 
 
 I had scarcely been seated according to her directions, when 
 the footman was ordered to pin a napkin under my chin ; this I 
 protested against, as being no way Chinese ; however, the whole 
 company, who it seems were a club of connoisseurs, gave it unani- 
 mously against me, and the napkin was pinned accordingly. 
 
 It was impossible to be angry with people who seemed to err 
 only from an excess of politeness, and I sat contented, expecting 
 their importunities were now at an end ; but as soon as ever din- 
 ner was served, the lady demanded whether I was for a plate of 
 boor's claivs, or a slice of bird's nests ? As these were dishes with 
 which I was utterly unacquainted, I was desirous of eating only 
 what I knew, and therefore begged to be helped from a piece cf 
 beef that lay on the side-table : my request at once disconcerted 
 
516 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 the whole company. A Chinese eat beef ! that could never be ! 
 there wa3 no local propriety in Chinese beef, whatever there 
 might be in Chinese pheasant. ■ Sir/ said my entertainer, ■ I 
 think I have some reason to fancy myself a judge of these mat- 
 ters : in short, the Chinese never eat beef ; so that I must be 
 permitted to recommend the pilaw. There was never better 
 dressed at Pekin ; the saffron and rice are well boiled, and the 
 spices in perfection.' 
 
 I had no sooner begun to eat what was laid before me, than I 
 found the whole company as much astonished as before ; it seems 
 I made no use of my chop-sticks. A grave gentleman, whom I 
 take to be an author, harangued very learnedly (as the company 
 seemed to think) upon the use which was made of them in China. 
 He entered into a long argument with himself about their first 
 introduction, without once appealing to me, who might be sup- 
 posed best capable of silencing the inquiry. As the gentleman, 
 therefore, took my silence for a mark of his own superior sagacity, 
 he was resolved to pursue the triumph : he talked of our cities, 
 mountains, and animals, as familiarly as if he had been born in 
 Quamsi, but as erroneously as if a native of the moon. He at- 
 tempted to prove that I had nothing of the true Chinese cut in 
 my visage ; showed that my cheek-bones should have been higher, 
 and my forehead broader. In short, he almost reasoned me out 
 of my country, and effectually persuaded the rest of the company 
 to be of his opinion. 
 
 I was going to expose his mistakes, when it was insisted that I 
 had nothing of the true eastern manner in my delivery. ■ This 
 gentleman's conversation,' says one of the ladies, who was a great 
 reader, ' is like our own, mere chit-chat and common sense : there 
 is nothing like sense in the true eastern style, where nothing more 
 is required but sublimity. Oh ! for a history of Abulfaouris, the 
 grand voyager, — of genii, magicians, rocks, bags of bullet3, giant3 
 and enchanters, where all is great, obscure, magnificent, and un- 
 intelligible !' — ' I have written many a sheet of eastern tale my- 
 self,' interrupts the author, ■ and I defy the severest critic to say 
 but that I have stuck close to the true manner. I have compared 
 a lady's chin to the snow upon the mountains of Bomek ; a soldier's 
 sword, to the cloud3 that obscure the face of heaven. If riches 
 are mentioned, I compare them to the flocks that graze the ver- 
 dant Tefflis ; if poverty, to the mists that veil the brow of mount 
 Baku. I have used thee and thou upon all occasions ; I have de- 
 scribed fallen stars, and splitting mountains ; not forgetting the 
 little Houries, who make a pretty feature in every description : 
 but you shall hear how I generally begin. " Eben-ben-bolo, who 
 was the son of Ban, wa3 born on the foggy summits of Bendera- 
 
X.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 517 
 
 bassi. His beard was whiter than the feathers which veil the 
 breast of the penguin ; his eyes were like the eyes of doves, when 
 washed by the dews of the morning; his hair, which hung like 
 the willow weeping over the glassy stream, was so beautiful that 
 it seemed to reflect its own brightness ; and his feet were as the 
 feet of a wild deer which fleeth to the tops of the mountains." 
 There, there is the true eastern taste for you ! every advance made 
 towards sense is only a deviation from sound. Eastern tales should 
 always be sonorous, lofty, musical, and unmeaning.' 
 
 I could not avoid smiling to hear a native of England attempt 
 to instruct me in the true eastern idiom ; and after he lookec'jj 
 round for some time for applause, I presumed to ask him whetlr/ 
 he had ever travelled into the East ; to which he replied in te 
 negative. I demanded whether he understood Chinese or Ara'c 
 to which also he answered as before. ' Then how, sir,' sa-l I> 
 ■ can you pretend to determine upon the eastern style, wh are 
 entirely unacquainted with the eastern writings ? Take, p'j the 
 word of one who is professedly a Chinese, and who is -e anally 
 acquainted with the Arabian writers, that what is palmi upon 
 you daily for an imitation of eastern writing, no way rambles 
 their manner, either in sentiment or diction. In the Ea-> similes 
 are seldom used, and metaphors almost wholly unknot 5 but in 
 China, particularly, the very reverse of what you allu e to takes 
 place : a cool phlegmatic method of writing prevails - ie " e » The 
 writers of that country, ever more assiduous to insect than to 
 please, address rather the judgment than the fa~y« Unlike 
 many authors of Europe, who have no consideration f the reader's 
 time, they generally leave more to be understood than they ex- 
 press. 
 
 * Besides, sir, you must not expect from an inh oitant of China, 
 the same ignorance, the same unlettered simplify, that J ou ^ n ^- 
 in a Turk, Persian, or a native of Peru. The Chinese are versed 
 in the sciences as well as you, and are mastersof several arts un- 
 known to the people of Europe. Many of tiem are instructed 
 not only in their own national learning, btf are perfectly well 
 acquainted with the languages and learningof the West. If my 
 word in such a case is not to be taken, consut your own travellers 
 on this head, who affirm that the scholars o Pekin and Siam sus- 
 tain theological theses in Latin. " The colhge of Masprend, which 
 is but a league from Siam," says one of yoir travellers, " came in 
 a body to salute our ambassador. Nothiig gave me more sincere 
 pleasure than to behold a number of priests, venerable both from 
 age and modesty, followed by a number of youths of all nations, 
 Chinese, Japanese, Tonquinese, of Cochin China, Pegu, and Siam, 
 all williDg to pay their respects in the most polite manner ima- 
 
51S 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 -ir 
 
 ginable. A CocMn Chinese made an excellent Latin oration 
 upon the occasion ; lie was succeeded and even outdone by a stu- 
 dent of Tonquin, who was as well skilled in the western learning 
 as any scholar of Paris." Now, sir, if youths, who never stirred 
 from home, are so perfectly skilled in your laws and learning, 
 surely more must be expected from one like me, who have tra- 
 velled so many thousand miles ; who have conversed familiarly 
 for several years with the English factors established at Canton, 
 and the missionaries sent us from every part of Europe. The 
 unaffected of every country nearly resemble each other, and a 
 j jpage of our Confucius and of your Tillotson have scarcely any 
 aaterial difference. Paltry affectation, strained allusions, and 
 disgusting finery, are easily attained by those who choose to wear 
 them ; and they are but too frequently the badges of ignorance, 
 or of stupidity, whenever it would endeavour to please.' 
 
 I was proceeding in my discourse, when, looking round, I per- 
 ceived the company no way attentive to what I attempted, with 
 so much earnestness, to enforce. One lady was whispering to her 
 that sat next, another was studying the merits of a fan, a third 
 began to yawn, and the author himself fell fast asleep. I thought 
 it, therefore, high time to make a retreat ; nor did the company 
 seem to show any regret at my preparations for departure ; even 
 the lady who had invited me, with the most mortifying insensi- 
 bility, saw me seize my hat and rise from my cushion : nor was I 
 invited to repeat my visit, because it was found that I aimed at 
 appearing rather a reasonable creature, than an outlandish idiot. 
 Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 From Hingpo, a slave in Persia, to Altangi, a travelling philosopher 
 of China, by the way of Moscow. 
 
 Fortune has made me the slave of another, but nature and incli- 
 nation render me entirely subservient to you : a tyrant commands 
 my body, but you are master of my heart. And yet let not thy 
 inflexible nature condemn me when I confess that I find my soul 
 shrink with my circumstances. I feel my mind not less than my 
 body bend beneath the rigours of servitude ; the master whom I 
 serve grows every day more formidable. In spite of reason, which 
 should teach me to despise him, his hideous image fills even my 
 dreams with horror. % 
 
 A 
 
XI.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 519 
 
 A few days ago, a Christian slave, who wrought in the gardens, 
 happening to enter an arbour where the tyrant was entertaining 
 the ladies of his harem with coffee, the unhappy captive was 
 immediately stabbed to the heart for his intrusion. I have been 
 preferred to his place, which, though less laborious than my for- 
 mer station, is yet more ungrateful, as it brings me nearer him 
 whose presence excites sensations at once of disgust and appre- 
 hension. 
 
 Into what a state of misery are the modern Persians fallen ! 
 A nation famous for setting the world an example of freedom, is 
 now become a land of tyrants and a den of slaves. The house- 
 less Tartar of Kamtschatka, who enjoys his herbs and his fish in 
 unmolested freedom, may be envied, if compared to the thousands 
 who pine here in hopeless servitude, and curse the day that gave 
 them being. Is this just dealing, Heaven ! to render millions 
 wretched to swell up the happiness of a few ? — cannot the power- 
 ful of this earth be happy without our sighs and tears ; must 
 every luxury of the great be woven from the calamities of the 
 poor? It must, it must surely be, that this jarring discordant 
 life is but the prelude to some future harmony ; the soul, attuned 
 to virtue here, shall go from hence to fill up the universal choir 
 where Tien presides in person, where there shall be no tyrants to 
 frown, no shackles to bind, nor no whips to threaten ; where I 
 shall once more meet my father with rapture, and give a loose to 
 filial piety ; where I shall hang on his neck, and hear the wisdom 
 of his lips, and thank him for all the happiness to which he has 
 introduced me. 
 
 The wretch whom fortune has made my master has lately pur- 
 chased several slaves of both sexes ; among the rest I hear a 
 Christian captive talked of with admiration. The eunuch who 
 bought her, and who is accustomed to survey beauty with indif- 
 ference, speaks of her with emotion ! Her pride, however, 
 astonishes her attendant slaves not less than her beauty. It is 
 reported that her lord has even offered to make her one of his 
 four wives upon changing her religion, and conforming to his. It 
 is probable she cannot refuse such extraordinary offers, and her 
 delay is perhaps intended to enhance her favours. 
 
 I have just now seen her ; she inadvertently approached the 
 place without a veil, where I sat writing. She seemed to regard 
 the heavens alone with fixed attention : there her most ardent 
 gaze was directed. Genius of the sun ! what unexpected softness ! 
 what animated grace ! her beauty seemed the transparent cover- 
 ing of virtue. Celestial beings could not wear a look of more per- 
 fection, while sorrow humanised her form, and mixed my admira- 
 tion with pity. I rose from the bartk on which I sat, and she 
 
520 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 retired ; happy that none observed us, for such an interview 
 might have been fatal. 
 
 I have regarded, till now, the opulence and the power of my 
 tyrant, without envy ; I saw him with a mind incapable of enjoy- 
 ing the gift of fortune, and consequently regarded him as one 
 loaded, rather than enriched, with its favours ; but at present, 
 when I think that so much beauty is reserved only for him, that 
 so many charms shall be lavished on a wretch incapable of feel- 
 ing the greatness of the blessing, I own I feel a reluctance to which 
 I hare hitherto been a stranger. 
 
 But let not my father impute those uneasy sensations to so 
 trifling a cause as love. No, never let it be thought that your 
 son, and the pupil of the wise Fum Hoam, could stoop to so de- 
 grading a passion. I am only displeased at seeing so much ex- 
 cellence so unjustly disposed of. 
 
 The uneasiness which I feel is not for myself, but for the beau- 
 tiful Christian. When I reflect on the barbarity of him for whom 
 she is designed, I pity, indeed I pity her ; when I think that she 
 must only share one heart, who deserves to command a thousand, 
 excuse me, if I feel an emotion which universal benevolence 
 extorts from me. As I am convinced that you take a pleasure in 
 those sallies of humanity, and are particularly pleased with com- 
 passion, I could not avoid discovering the sensibility with which 
 L felt this beautiful stranger's distress. I have for a while forgot, 
 in hers, the miseries of my own hopeless situation : the tyrant 
 grows every day more severe ; and love, which softens all other 
 minds into tenderness, seems only to have increased his severity. 
 Adiet. 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 . FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The whole harem is filled with a tumultuous joy ! Zelis, the 
 beautiful captive, has consented to embrace the religion of Maho- 
 met, and become one of the wives of the fastidious Persian. It is 
 impossible to describe the transport that sits on every face on 
 this occasion. Music and feasting fill every apartment ; the most 
 miserable slave seems to forget his chains, and sympathises with 
 the happiness of Mostadad. The herb we tread beneath our feet 
 is not made more for our use, than every slave around him for 
 
XII.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 521 
 
 their imperious master ; mere machines of obedience, they wait 
 with silent assiduity, feel his pains, and rejoice in his exultation. 
 Heavens ! how much is requisite to make one man happy ! 
 
 Twelve of the most beautiful slaves, and I among the number, 
 have got orders to prepare for carrying him in triumph to the 
 bridal apartments. The blaze of perfumed torches is to imitate 
 the day : the dancers and singers are hired at a vast expense. 
 
 What will not riches procure ! a hundred domestics, who curse 
 the tyrant in their souls, are commanded to wear a face of joy, 
 and they are joyful. A hundred flatterers are ordered to attend, 
 and they fill his ears with praise. Beauty, all-commanding 
 beauty, sues for admittance, and scarcely receives an answer ; 
 even love itself seems to wait upon fortune, or though the passion 
 be only feigned, yet it wears every appearance of sincerity ; and 
 what greater pleasure can even true sincerity confer, or what 
 would the rich have more ? 
 
 Mostadad, my father, is no philosopher ; and yet he seems 
 perfectly contented with ignorance. Possessed of numberless 
 slaves, camels, and women, he desires no greater possession. He 
 never opened the page of Mentius, and yet all the slaves tell me 
 that he is happy. 
 
 Forgive the weakness of my nature, if I sometimes feel my 
 heart rebellious to the dictates of wisdom, and eager for happiness 
 like his. Yet why wish for his wealth with his ignorance ; to be, 
 like him, incapable of sentimental pleasures, incapable of feeling 
 the happiness of making others happy, incapable of teaching the 
 beautiful Zelis philosophy ? 
 
 What ! shall I in a transport of passion give up the golden 
 mean, the universal harmony, the unchanging essence, for the 
 possession of a hundred camels, as many slaves, thirty-five beau- 
 tiful horses, and seventy-three fine women ? First blast me to 
 the centre ! degrade me beneath the most degraded ! pare my 
 nails, ye powers of heaven ! ere I would stoop to such an ex- 
 change. What ! part with philosophy, which teaches me to sup- 
 press my passions instead of gratifying them, which teaches me 
 even to divest my soul of passion ; which teaches serenity in 
 the midst of tortures ; philosophy, by which even now I am so 
 very serene, and so very much at ease, to be persuaded to part 
 with it for any other enjoyment ! Never, never, even though per- 
 suasion spoke in the accents of Zelis ! 
 
 A female slave informs me that the bride is to be arrayed in a 
 tissue of silver, and her hair adorned with the largest pearls of 
 Ormus ; but why tease you with particulars, in which we are both 
 so little concerned ? The pain I feel in separation throws a gloom 
 over my mind, which in this scene of universal joy I fear may be 
 
522 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 attributed to some other cause ; how wretched are those who are, 
 like me, denied even the last resource of misery, their tears ! 
 Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF IGNORANCE. 
 
 I begin to have doubts whether wisdom be alone sufficient to 
 make us happy ; whether every step we make in refinement is 
 not an inlet into new disquietudes. A mind too vigorous and 
 active serves only to consume the body to which it is joined, as 
 the richest jewels are soonest found to wear their settings. 
 
 "When we rise in knowledge, as the prospect widens the objects 
 of our regard become more obscure ; and the unlettered peasant, 
 whose views are only directed to the narrow sphere around him, 
 beholds Nature with a finer relish, and tastes her blessings with 
 a keener appetite, than the philosopher whose mind attempts to 
 grasp a universal system. 
 
 As I was some days ago pursuing this subject among a circle 
 of my fellow-slaves, an ancient Guebre of the number, equally 
 remarkable for his piety and wisdom, seemed touched with my 
 conversation, and desired to illustrate what I had been saying, 
 with an allegory taken from the Zendavesta of Zoroaster : * By 
 this we shall be taught,' says he, ■ that they who travel in pur- 
 suit of wisdom walk only in a circle ; and after all their labour, 
 at last return to their pristine ignorance ; and in this also we 
 shall see that enthusiastic confidence or unsatisfying doubts ter- 
 minate all our inquiries. 
 
 ' In early times, before myriads of nations covered the earth, the 
 whole human race lived together in one valley. The simple inhabi- 
 tants, surrounded on every side by lofty mountains, knew no 
 other world but the little spot to which they were confined. They 
 fancied the heavens bent down to meet the mountain tops, and 
 formed an impenetrable wall to surround them. None had ever 
 yet ventured to climb the steepy cliff, in order to explore those 
 regions that lay beyond it ; they knew the nature of the skies 
 only from a tradition which mentioned their being made of ada- 
 mant ; traditions make up the reasonings of the simple, and serve 
 to silence every inquiry. 
 
 1 In this sequestered vale, blessed with all the spontaneous pro- 
 ductions of Nature, the honeyed blossom, the refreshing breeze, 
 the gliding brook, the golden fruitage, the simple inhabitants 
 Eeemed happy in themselves, happy in each other; they desired 
 
XIII.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WOELD. 523 
 
 no greater pleasures, they knew of none greater ; ambition, pride, 
 and envy were vices unknown among them ; and from the pecu- 
 liar simplicity of its possessors, the country was called The Valley 
 of Ignorance. 
 
 1 At length, however, an unhappy youth, more aspiring than 
 the rest, undertook to climb the mountain's side, and examine 
 the summits which were deemed hitherto inaccessible. The in- 
 habitants from below gazed with wonder at his intrepidity ; some 
 applauded his courage, others censured his folly : still, however, 
 he proceeded towards the place where the earth and heavens 
 seemed to unite, and at length arrived at the wished-for height 
 with extreme labour and assiduity. 
 
 ' His first surprise was to find the skies, not as he expected, 
 within his reach, but still as far off as before ; his amazement in- 
 creased when he saw a wide extended region lying on the oppo- 
 site side of the mountain, but it rose to astonishment when he 
 beheld a country at a distance more beautiful and alluring than 
 even that he had just left behind. 
 
 1 As he continued to gaze with wonder, a genius, with a look of 
 infinite modesty, approaching, offered to be his guide and instruc- 
 tor. The distant country which you so much admire, says the 
 angelic being, is called The Land of Certainty ; in that charming 
 retreat, sentiment contributes to refine every sensual banquet : 
 the inhabitants are blessed with every solid enjoyment, and still 
 more blessed in a perfect consciousness of their own felicity ; igno- 
 rance in that country is wholly unknown, all there is satisfaction 
 without alloy, for every pleasure first undergoes the examination of 
 reason. As for me, I am called the Genius of Demonstration, and 
 am stationed here in order to conduct every adventurer to that land 
 of happiness, through those intervening regions you see overhung 
 with fogs and darkness, and horrid with forests, cataracts, 
 caverns, and various other shapes of danger. But follow me, 
 and in time I may lead you to that distant desirable land of tran- 
 quillity. 
 
 1 The intrepid traveller immediately put himself under the direc- 
 tion of the genius, and both journeying on together with a slow 
 but agreeable pace, deceived the tediousness of the way, by con- 
 versation. The beginning of the journey seemed to promise true 
 satisfaction, but as they proceeded forward, the skies became more 
 gloomy and the way more intricate : they often inadvertently 
 approached the brow of some frightful precipice, or the brink of 
 a torrent, and were obliged to measure back their former way ; 
 the gloom increasing as they proceeded, their pace became more 
 glow ; they paused at every step, frequently stumbled, and their 
 distrust and timidity increased. The Genius of Demonstration 
 
524 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 now therefore advised his pupil to grope upon his hands and feet, 
 as a method, though more slow, yet less liable to error. 
 
 1 In this manner they attempted to pursue their journey for 
 some time, when they were overtaken by another genius, who with 
 a precipitate pace seemed travelling the same way. He was 
 instantly known by the other to be the Genius of Probability, He 
 wore two wide extended wings at his back, which incessantly 
 tvaved, without increasing the rapidity of his motion ; his counte- 
 nance betrayed a confidence that the ignorant might mistake for 
 sincerity, and he had but one eye, which was fixed in the middle 
 of his forehead. 
 
 1 u Servant of Hormizda," cried he, approaching the mortal 
 pilgrim, " if thou art travelling to the Land of Certainty, how is it 
 possible to arrive there under the guidance of a genius, who pro- 
 ceeds forward so slowly, and is so little acquainted with the way ? 
 follow me, we shall soon perform the journey to where every 
 pleasure waits our arrival." 
 
 * The peremptory tone in which this genius spoke, and the speed 
 with which he moved forward, induced the traveller to change his 
 conductor, and leaving his modest companion behind, he proceeded 
 forward with his more confident director, seeming not a little 
 pleased at the increased velocity of his motion. 
 
 ' But soon he found reason to repent. AVhenever a torrent 
 crossed their way, his guide taught him to despise the obstacle by 
 plunging him in ; whenever a precipice presented, he was directed 
 to fling himself forward. Thus each moment miraculously escap- 
 ing, his repeated escapes only served to increase his temerity. 
 He led him therefore forward, amidst infinite difficulties, till they 
 arrived at the borders of an ocean, which appeared unnavigable 
 from the black mists that lay upon its surface. Its unquiet waves 
 were of the darkest hue, and gave a lively representation of the 
 various agitations of the human mind. 
 
 * The Genius of Probability now confessed his temerity, owned 
 his being an improper guide to the Land of Certainty, a country 
 where no mortal had ever been permitted to arrive ; but at the 
 same time offered to supply the traveller with another conductor, 
 who should carry him to the Land of Confidence, a region where 
 the inhabitants lived with the utmost tranquillity, and tasted 
 almost as much satisfaction as if in the Land of Certainty. Not 
 waiting for a reply, he stamped three times on the ground, and 
 called forth the Demon of Error, a gloomy fiend of the servants 
 of Arimanes. The yawning earth gave up the reluctant savage, 
 who seemed unable to bear the light of day. His stature was 
 enormous, his colour black and hideous, his aspect betrayed a 
 thousand varying passions, and he spread forth pinions that were 
 
XIV.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 525 
 
 fitted for the most rapid flight. The traveller at first was shocked 
 with the spectre ; but finding him obedient to superior power, he 
 assumed his former tranquillity. 
 
 1 " I have called you to duty," cries the genius to the demon, 
 " co bear on your back a son of mortality over the Ocean of Doubts 
 into the Land of Confidence : I expect you will perform your com- 
 mission with punctuality. And as for you," continued the genius, 
 addressing the traveller, " when once I have bound this fillet 
 round your eyes, let no voice of persuasion, nor threats the most 
 terrifying, persuade you to unbind it in order to look rouad ; keep 
 the fillet fast, look not at the ocean below, and you may certainly 
 expect to arrive at a region of pleasure." 
 
 i Thus saying, and the traveller's eyes being covered, the 
 demon, muttering curses, raised him on his back, and instantly 
 up-borne by his strong pinions, directed his flight among the clouds. 
 Xeither the loudest thunder, nor the most angry tempest, could 
 persuade the traveller to unbind his eyes. The demon directed 
 his flight downwards, and skimmed the surface of the ocean ; a 
 thousand voices, some with loud invectives, others in the sarcastio 
 tones of contempt, vainly endeavoured to persuade him to look 
 round ; but he still continued to keep his eyes covered, and would 
 in all probability have arrived at the happy land, had not flattery 
 effected what other means could not perform. For now he heard 
 himself welcomed on every side to the promised land, and a uni- 
 versal shout of joy was sent forth at his safe arrival ; the wearied 
 traveller, desirous of seeing the long-wished-for country, at length 
 pulled the fillet from his eyes, and ventured to look round him. 
 But he had unloosed the band too soon ; he was not yet above 
 half-way over. The demon, who was still hovering in the air, and 
 had produced those sounds only in order to deceive, was now freed 
 from his commission ; wherefore, throwing the astonished traveller 
 from his back, the unhappy youth fell headlong into the subjacent 
 Ocean of Doubts, from whence he never after was seen to rise.' 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fmn Hoam. 
 
 THE GLASS OF LAO. 
 
 Upon finishing my last letter I retired to rest, reflecting upon the 
 wonders of the glass of Lao, wishing to be possessed of one here, 
 and resolving in such a case to oblige every lady with a sight of 
 it for nothing. "What fortune denied me waking, fancy supplied 
 
&26 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 me in a dream ; the glass, I know not how, was put into my pos- 
 session, and I could perceive several ladies approaching, some 
 voluntarily, others driven forward against their wills by a set of 
 discontented genii, who by intuition I knew were their husbands. 
 
 The apartment in which I was to show away was filled with 
 several gaming-tables, as if just forsaken : the candles were burnt 
 to the socket, and the hour was five o'clock in the morning. Placed 
 at one end of the room, which was of prodigious length, I could 
 more easily distinguish every female figure as she marched up 
 from the door : but guess my surprise, when I could scarcely per- 
 ceive one blooming or agreeable face among the number ! This, 
 however, I attributed to the early hour, and kindly considered 
 that the face of a lady just risen from bed ought always to find a 
 compassionate advocate. 
 
 The first person who came up in order to view her intellectual 
 face was a commoner's wife, who, as I afterward found, being bred 
 up during her virginity in a pawnbroker's shop, now attempted 
 to make up the defects of breeding and sentiment by the magni- 
 ficence of her dress and expensiveness of her amusements. * Mr 
 Showman,' cried she, approaching, ' I am told you has something 
 to show in that there sort of magic lantern, by which folks can see 
 themselves on the inside ; I protest, as my Lord Beetle says, I am 
 sure it will be vastly pretty, for I have never seen anything like 
 it before. 
 
 As when a first-rate beauty, after having with difficulty 
 escaped the small-pox, revisits her favourite mirror, that mirror 
 which had repeated the flattery of every lover, and even added 
 force to the compliment, expecting to see what had so often given 
 her pleasure, she no longer beholds the cherry lip, the polished 
 forehead, and speaking blush, but a hateful phiz, quilted into a 
 thousand seams by the hand of deformity ; grief, resentment, and 
 rage fill her bosom by turns ; she blames the fates and the stars, 
 but most of all the unhappy glass feels her resentment. So it was 
 with the lady in question ; she had never seen her own mind be- 
 fore, and was now shocked at its deformity. One single look was 
 sufficient to satisfy her curiosity : I held up the glass to her face, 
 and she shut her eyes ; no entreaties could prevail upon her to 
 gaze once more ! she was even going to snatch it from my hands, 
 and break it in a thousand pieces. I found it was time therefore 
 to dismiss her as incorrigible, and show away to the next that 
 offered. 
 
 This was an unmarried lady. No woman was louder at a revel 
 than she, perfectly free-hearted, and almost in every respect a 
 man ; she understood ridicule to perfection, and was once known 
 even to sally out in order to beat the watch. ' Here you, my dear, 
 
XIV.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 527 
 
 with, the outlandish face,' cried she, addressing me, * let me take 
 a single peep. Not that I care what figure I may cut in the 
 glass of such an tld-fashioned creature ; if I am allowed the 
 beauties of the face by people of fashion, I know the world will 
 be complaisant enough to toss me the beauties of the mind into 
 the bargain.' I held my glass before her as she desired, and 
 must confess was shocked with the reflection. The lady, however, 
 gazed for some time with the utmost complacency ; and at last 
 turning to me with the most satisfied smile, said, ' She never 
 could think she had been half so handsome.' 
 
 Upon her dismission a lady of distinction was reluctantly hauled 
 along to the glass by her husband : in bringing her forward, a3 
 he came first to the glass himself, his mind appeared tinctured 
 with immoderate jealousy, and I was going to reproach him for 
 using her with such severity ; but when the lady came to pre- 
 sent herself I immediately retracted ; for, alas ! it was seen that 
 he had but too much reason for his suspicions. 
 
 The next was a lady who usually teased all her acquaintance 
 in desiring to be told of her faults, and then never mended any. 
 Upon approaching the glass I could readily perceive vanity, 
 affectation, and some other ill-looking blots on her mind ; where- 
 fore by my advice she immediately set about mending. But I 
 could easily find she was not earnest in the work ; for as she re- 
 paired them on one side, they generally broke out on another. 
 Thus, after three or four attempts, she began to make the ordi- 
 nary use of the glass in settling her hair. 
 
 The company now made room for a woman of learning, who 
 approached with a slow pace and a solemn countenance, which 
 for her own sake I could wish had been cleaner. ■ Sir,' cried the 
 lady, flourishing her hand, which held a pinch of snuff, ' I shall 
 be enraptured by having presented to my view a mind with which 
 I have so long studied to be acquainted ; but, in order to give 
 the sex a proper example, I must insist that all the company 
 may be permitted to look over my shoulder.' I bowed assent, 
 and presenting the glass, showed the lady a mind by no means 
 so fair as she expected to see. Ill-nature, ill-placed pride, and 
 spleen, were too legible to be mistaken. Nothing could be more 
 amusing than the mirth of her female companions who had locked 
 over. They had hated her from the beginning, and now the 
 apartment echoed with a universal laugh. Nothing but a forti- 
 tude like hers could have withstood their raillery ; she stood it, 
 however ; and when the burst was exhausted, with great tran- 
 quillity she assured the company, that the whole was a deceptio 
 visus, and that sh9 was too well acquainted with her own mind to 
 believe any false representations from another. Thus saying she 
 
528 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 retired with a sullen satisfaction, resolved not to mend her faults, 
 but to write a criticism on the mental reflector. 
 
 I must own, by this time, I began myself to suspect the fidelity 
 of my mirror ; for as the ladies appeared at least to have the 
 merit of rising early, since they were up at five, I was amazed to 
 find nothing of this good quality pictured upon their minds in 
 the reflection ; I was resolved, therefore, to communicate my 
 suspicions to a lady, whose intellectual countenance appeared 
 more fair than any of the rest, not having above seventy-nine 
 spots in all, besides slips and foibles. ' I own, young woman, 5 
 said I, ' that there are some virtues upon that mind of yours ; 
 but there is still one which I did not see represented ; I mean 
 that of rising betimes in the morning ; I fancy the glass false in 
 that particular.' The young lady smiled at my simplicity ; and 
 with a blush confessed, that she and the whole company had been 
 up all night gaming. 
 
 By this time all the ladies except one had seen themselves 
 successively, and disliked the show, or scolded the showman ; I 
 was resolved, however, that she who seemed to neglect herself, 
 and was neglected by the rest, should take a view ; and going up 
 to a corner of the room, where she still continued sitting, I pre- 
 sented my glass full in her face. Here it was that I exulted in 
 my success ; no blot, no stain appeared on any part of the faith- 
 ful mirror. As when the large, unwritten page presents its snowy 
 spotless bosom to the writer's hand, so appeared the glass to my 
 view. ' Hear, O ye daughters of English ancestors,' cried I, * turn 
 hither, and behold an object worthy imitation : look upon the 
 mirror now, and acknowledge its justice, and this woman's pre- 
 eminence !' The ladies obeyed the summons, came up in a group, 
 and looking on acknowledged there was some truth in the picture, 
 as the person now represented had been deaf, dumb, and a fool 
 from her cradle. 
 
 Thus much of my dream I distinctly remember ; the rest was 
 filled with chimeras, enchanted castles, and flying dragons, as 
 usual. As you, my dear Fum Hoam, are particularly versed in 
 the interpretation of those midnight warnings, what pleasure 
 should I find in your explanation ! but that our distance pre- 
 vents : I make no doubt, however, but that from my description 
 you will very much venerate the good qualities of the English 
 ladies in general, since dreams, you know, go always by contra- 
 ries. Adieu. 
 
XV.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WOP.O 
 
 LETTER XY. 
 
 BEAU TTBB3. 
 
 Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay y, and 
 
 take every opportunity of thus dismissing the mind from duty. 
 From this motive I am often found in the centre ■: . : and 
 
 wherever pleasure is to be sold, am always a purchaser. In those 
 places, without being marked by any, I join in whatever g : es for- 
 ward, work my passions into a similitude of frivolous earnestness. 
 shout as they shout, and condemn as they happen to disappi 
 A mind thus sunk for a while below its natural standard, is q 
 fied for stronger flights, as those first retire who would spring for- 
 ward with greater vigour. 
 
 Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my friend and I Is 
 went to gaze upon the company in one of the public ws tka near 
 the city. Here we sauntered together for some time, either prais- 
 ing the beauty of such as were handsome, or the dresses of such 
 as had nothing else to recommend them. We hoi gone thus de- 
 liberately forward for some time, when stopping on a sudden, my 
 friend caught me by the elbow, and led me out of the public • 
 I could perceive by the quickness of his race, anil 
 looking behind, that he was attempting to avoid Bomebbd y 
 followed ; we now turned to the right, then to the left ; as ^e went 
 forward, he still went faster, but in voin ; the person whom he at- 
 tempted to escape, hunted us through every doubling in 1 :*iined 
 upon us each moment ; so that at last we fairly stood still, resol r- 
 ing to face what we could not ov::i. 
 
 Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the familiarity 
 of an old acquaintance. 'My dear Dry-bone, ' cries he. shaking 
 my friend's hand, ' where have you been hiding this half century ? 
 Positively I had fancied you were gone down to cultivate matri- 
 mony and your estate in the country.' During the reply, I had 
 an opportunity of surveying the appearance :: jut new : :r_\ anion ; 
 his hat was pinched up with peculiar smartness ; his 1: jfes ^ere 
 pale, thin, and sharp ; round his neck he wore a broad black riband, 
 and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass ; his coat was 
 trimmed with tarnished twist ; he wore by his side a sword with 
 a black hilt ; and his stockings of silk, though newly washe ;. . —ere 
 grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged with toe 
 peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter part :: 
 my friend's reply, in which he complimented Mr Tibbs on the 
 taste of his clothes, and the bloom in his countenance : ' Fsha, 
 psha, Will, 5 cried the figure, ' no more of that if you love me ; yon 
 
 2l 
 
530 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PPwOSE WORKS. 
 
 know I hate flattery, on my soul I do ; and yet, to be sure, an 
 intimacy with the great will improve one's appearance, and a 
 course of venison will fatten ; and yet faith I despise the great as 
 much as you do ; but there are a great many honest fellows 
 among them ; and we must not quarrel with one-half because the 
 other wants weeding. If they were all such as my Lord Muddler, 
 one of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, 
 I should myself be among the number of their admirers. I was 
 yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's ; my lord was 
 there. " Ned," says he to me, " Ned," says he, " I'll hold gold 
 to silver, I can tell where you were poaching last night." " Poach- 
 ing, my lord," said I ; " faith you ha^e missed already ; for I stayed 
 at home, and let the girls poach for me. That's my way ; I take 
 a fine woman as some animals do their prey ; stand still, and 
 swoop, they fall into my mouth." ' 
 
 1 Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,' cried my companion, with 
 looks of infinite pity, * I hope your fortune is as much improved 
 as your understanding in such company V — * Improved ?' replied 
 the other; * you shall know, — but let it go no farther, — a great 
 secret, — five hundred a year to begin with. — My lord's word of 
 honour for it — his lordship took me down in his own chariot yes- 
 terday, and we had a tete-d-tete dinner in the country ; where wo 
 talked of nothing else.' — ' I fancy you forget, sir,' cried I, ' you 
 told us but this moment of your dining yesterday in town !' — 
 * Did I say so ?' replied he, coolly, • to be sure if I said so it was 
 so — dined in town ; egad, now I do remember, I did dine in town ; 
 but I dined in the country too ; for you must know, my boys, I eat 
 two dinners. By the by, I am grown nice in my eating. I'll tell 
 you a pleasant affair about that : we were a select party of us to 
 dine at Lady Grogram's, an affected piece, but let it go no farther 
 — a secret : well, there happened to be no assafcetida in the sauce 
 to a turkey, upon which, says I, I'll hold a thousand guineas, and 
 say done first, that — but dear Dry-bone, you are an honest creature, 
 lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till — but, 
 heark'e, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may be twenty 
 to one but I forget to pay you.' 
 
 When he left us, our conversation naturally turned upon so ex- 
 traordinary a character. * His very dress,' cries my friend, ' is 
 not less extraordinary than his conduct. If you meet him this 
 day you find him in rags, if the next in embroidery. With those 
 persons of distinction, of whom he talks so familiarly, he has 
 scarcely a coffee-house acquaintance. However, both for the in- 
 terests of society, and perhaps for his own, heaven has made him 
 poor ; and while all the world perceives his wants, he fancies them 
 concealed from every eye. An agreeable companion because he 
 
XVI.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 531 
 
 understands flattery, and all must be pleased with the first part 
 of his conversation, though all are sure of its ending with a de- 
 mand on their purse. — While his youth countenances the levity 
 of his conduct, he may thus earn a precarious subsistence, but 
 when age comes on, the gravity of which is incompatible with 
 buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken by all : condemned 
 in the decline of life to hang upon some rich family whom he once 
 despised, there to undergo all the ingenuity of studied contempt, 
 to be employed only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear to 
 fright the children into obedience.' Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 BEAU TIBBS CONTINUED. 
 
 I am apt to fancy I have contracted a new acquaintance whom 
 it will be no easy matter to shake off. My little beau of yesterday 
 overtook me again in one of the public walks, and slapping me on 
 the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most perfect familiarity. 
 His dress was the same as usual, except that he had more powder 
 in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and 
 his hat under his arm. 
 
 As I knew him to be a harmless, amusing, little thing, I could 
 not return his smiles with any degree of severity ; so we walke J 
 forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes 
 discussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began 
 to appear ; he bowed to several well-dressed persons, who, by 
 their manner of returning the compliment, appeared perfect 
 strangers. At intervals he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to 
 take memorandums before all the company, with much impor- 
 tance and assiduity. In this manner he led me through the 
 length of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and fancy- 
 ing myself laughed at not less than him by every spectator. 
 
 When we were got to the end of the procession, ■ Hang me,' 
 cries he, with an air of vivacity, ' I never saw the Park so thin 
 in my life before ; there's no company at all to-day. Not a single 
 face to be seen.' — ' No company,' interrupted I, peevishly ;' no 
 company where there is such a crowd ! why man, there's too 
 much. WTiat are the thousands that have been laughing at us 
 but company V — ' La, my dear/ returned he, * with the utmost 
 good-humour, ' you seem immensely chagrined ; but, hang me, 
 
532 
 
 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 when the world laughs at me, I laugh at all the world, and so we 
 are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash the Creolian, and I, some- 
 times make a party at being ridiculous ; and so we say and do a 
 thousand things for the joke. But I see you are grave, and if 
 you are for a fine grave sentimental companion, you shall dine 
 with me and my wife to-day, I must insist on't : I'll introduce you 
 to Mrs Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifications as any in nature ; 
 she was bred, but that's between ourselves, under the inspection 
 of the Countess of All-night. A charming body of voice, but no 
 more of that, she wiD give us a song. You shall see my little 
 girl, too, Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty crea- 
 ture : I design her for my Lord Drumstick's eldest son, but that's 
 in friendship, let it go no farther ; she's but six years ol'd, and 
 yet she walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar immensely 
 already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possible in every ac- 
 complishment. In the first place, I'll make her a scholar; I'll 
 teach her Greek myself, and learn that language purposely to in- 
 struct her ; but let that be a secret.' 
 
 Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the 
 arm, and hauled me along. "We passed through many dark 
 alleys and winding ways ; for, from some motives to me unknown, 
 he seemed to have a particular aversion to every street ; at last, 
 however, we got to the door of a dismal-looking house in the out- 
 lets of the town, where he informed me he chose to reside for the 
 benefit of the air. 
 
 We entered the lower door, which ever seemed to lie most hos- 
 pitably open ; and I began to ascend an old and creaking stair- 
 case, when, as he mounted to show me the way, he demanded 
 whether I delighted in prospects, to which answering in the affir- 
 mative, * Then,' says he, * I shall show you one of the most 
 charming in the world out of my windows ; we shall see the ships 
 sailing, and the whole country for twenty niiles round, tip-top, 
 quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten thousand guineas 
 for such a one ; but, as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always 
 like to keep my prospects at home, that my friends may see me 
 the oftener.' 
 
 By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit 
 us to ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to 
 call the first floor down the chimney, and knocking at the door, a 
 voice from within demanded, ■ "Who's there V My conductor 
 answered that it was he. But this not satisfying the querist, the 
 voice again repeated the demand ; to which he answered louder 
 than before ; and now the door was opened by an old woman with 
 cautious reluctance. 
 
 When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with great 
 
XVI.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 533 
 
 ceremony, and turning to the old woman, asked where was her 
 lady ? * Good troth/ replied she, in a peculiar dialect, * she's 
 washing your two shirts at the next door, because they have taken 
 an oath against lending out the tub any longer .— ' My two shirts V 
 cries he, in a tone that faltered with confusion, ' what does the 
 idiot mean ?' — * I ken what I mean well enough,' replied the other ; 
 * she's washing your two shirts next door, because' — ' Fire and 
 fury, no more of thy stupid explanations,' cried he, — ' Go and 
 inform her we have got company. "Were that Scotch hag to be 
 for ever in the family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget 
 that absurd poisonous accent of hers, or testify the smallest speci- 
 men of breeding or high-life ; and yet it is very surprising too, as 
 I had her from a parliament-man, a friend of mine, from the 
 Highlands, one of the politest men in the world : but that's a 
 secret.' 
 
 We waited some time for Mrs Tibbs's arrival, during which 
 interval I had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and 
 all its furniture ; which consisted of four chairs with old wrought 
 bottoms, that he assured me were his wife's embroidery ; a square 
 table that had been once japanned, a cradle in one corner, a 
 lumbering cabinet in the other ; a broken shepherdess, and a 
 mandarin without a head, were stuck over the chimney ; and 
 round the walls, several paltry, unframed pictures, which he 
 observed were all his own drawing. ' What do you think, sir, of 
 that head in a corner, done in the manner of Grisoni ? there's 
 the true keeping in it : it's my own face, and though there 
 happens to be no likeness, a countess offered me a hundred for its 
 fellow : I refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you 
 know.' 
 
 The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a 
 coquette ; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. 
 She made twenty apologies for being seen in such odious dishabille, 
 but hoped to be excused, as she had staid out all night at the 
 Gardens with the countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. 
 ' And, indeed, my dear,' added she, turning to her husband, ' his 
 lordship drank your health in a bumper.' — ' Poor Jack,' cries he, 
 ' a dear good-natured creature, I know he loves me ; but I hope, 
 my dear, you have given orders for dinner ; you need make no 
 great preparations neither, there are but three of us, something 
 elegant, and little will do ; a turbot, an ortolan, or a—" Or what 
 do you think, my dear,' interrupts the wife, * of a nice pretty bit 
 of oxcheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce ?' 
 — ' The very thing,' replies he, 'it will eat best with some smart 
 bottled beer ; but be sure to let's have the sauce his grace was so 
 fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat, that is country &U 
 
534 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 over ; extreme disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted 
 with high life.' 
 
 By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to 
 increase ; the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at 
 last nrver fails to rendering us melancholy ; I therefore pretended 
 to recollect a prior engagement, and after having shown my respect 
 to the house, according to the fashion of the English, by giving 
 the old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave. 
 Mr Tibbs assured me that dinner, if I staid, would be ready at 
 least in less than two hours. 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 From Hingpo to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow. 
 
 You will probably be pleased to see my letter dated from Terki, 
 a city which lies beyond the bounds of the Persian empire : here, 
 blessed with security, with all that is dear, I double my raptures 
 by communicating them to you ; the mind sympathising with the 
 freedom of the body, my whole soul is dilated in gratitude, love, 
 and praise. 
 
 Yet were my own happiness all that inspired my present joj , 
 my raptures might justly merit the imputation of self-interest ; 
 but when I think that the beautiful Zelis is also free, forgive my 
 triumph when I boast of having rescued from captivity the most 
 deserving object upon earth. 
 
 You remember the reluctance she testified at being obliged to 
 marry the tyrant she hated. Her compliance at last was only 
 feigned, in order to gain time, to try some future means of escape. 
 During the interval between her promise and the intended perfor- 
 mance of it, she came undiscovered one evening to the place where 
 I generally retired after the fatigues of the day ; her appearance 
 was like that of an aerial genius, when it descends to minister 
 comfort to undeserved distress ; the mild lustre of her eye served 
 to banish my timidity ; her accents were sweeter than the echo 
 of some distant symphony. ' Unhappy stranger,' said she, in the 
 Persian language, ' you here perceive one more wretched than 
 yourself ; all this solemnity of preparation, this elegance of dress, 
 and the number of my attendants, serve but to increase my mis- 
 eries ; if you have courage to rescue an unhappy woman from 
 approaching ruin, and our detested tyrant, you may depend upon 
 my future gratitude.' I bowed to the ground, and she left me, 
 filled with rapture and astonishment. Night brought me no rest, 
 
XVII.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 535 
 
 nor could the ensuing morning calm the anxieties of my mind. 
 I projected a thousand methods for her delivery ; but each, when 
 strictly examined, appeared impracticable ; in this uncertainty 
 the evening again arrived, and I placed myself in my former sta- 
 tion in hopes of a repeated visit. After some short expectation, 
 the bright perfection again appeared ; I bowed, as before, to the 
 ground ; when, raising me up, she observed that the time was not 
 to be spent in useless ceremony : she observed that the day fol- 
 lowing was appointed for the celebration of her nuptials, and that 
 something was to be done that very night for our mutual deliver- 
 ance. I offered with the utmost humility to pursue whatever 
 scheme she should direct ; upon which she proposed that instant 
 to scale the garden wall, adding, that she had prevailed upon a 
 female slave, who was now waiting at the appointed place, to 
 assist her with a ladder. 
 
 Pursuant to this information, I led her trembling to the place 
 appointed ; but instead of the slave we expected to see, Mostadad 
 himself was there awaiting our arrival ; the wretch in whom we 
 confided, it seems, had betrayed our design to her master, and we 
 now saw the most convincing proofs of her information. He was 
 just going to draw his sabre, when a principle of avarice repressed 
 his fury, and he resolved, after a severe chastisement, to dispose 
 of me to another master ; in the mean time ordered me to be con- 
 fined in the strictest manner, and the next day to receive a hun- 
 dred blows on the soles of my feet. 
 
 When the morning came I was led out in order to receive the 
 punishment, which, from the severity with which it is generally 
 inflicted upon slaves, is worse eren than death. 
 
 A trumpet was to be a signal for the solemnisation of the nup- 
 tials of Zelis, and for the infliction of my punishment. Each 
 ceremony, to me equally dreadful, was just going to begin, when 
 we were informed that a large body of Circassian Tartars had 
 invaded the town, and were laying all in ruin. Every person now 
 thought only of saving himself ; I instantly unloosed the cords 
 with which I was bound, and seizing a scimiter from one of the 
 slaves who had not courage to resist me, flew to the women's 
 apartment where Zelis was confined, dressed out for the intended 
 nuptials. I bade her follow me without delay ; and going forward, 
 cut my way through the eunuchs, who made but a faint resistance. 
 The whole city was now a scene of conflagration and terror ; every 
 person was willing to save himself, unmindful of others. In this 
 confusion, seizing upon two of the fleetest coursers in the stable 
 of Mostadad, we fled northward towards the kingdom of Circassia. 
 As there were several others flying in the same manner, we passed 
 without notice, and in three days arrived at Terki, a city that 
 
536 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 lies in a valley within the bosom of the frowning mountains of 
 Caucasus. 
 
 Here, free from every apprehension of danger, we enjoy all 
 those satisfactions which are consistent with virtue ; though I 
 find my heart at intervals give way to unusual passions, yet such 
 is my admiration for my fair companion, that I lose even tender- 
 ness in distant respect. Though her person demands particular 
 regard even among the beauties of Circassia, yet is her mind far 
 more lovely. How very different is a woman who thus has culti- 
 vated her understanding, and been refined into delicacy of senti- 
 ment, from the daughters of the East, whose education is only 
 formed to improve the person, and make them more tempting 
 objects of prostitution ! Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo. 
 
 AN ADVICE. 
 
 The news of your freedom lifts the load of former anxiety from 
 my mind ; I can now think of my son without regret, applaud his 
 resignation under calamities, and his conduct in extricating him- 
 self from them. 
 
 You are now free, just let hose from the bondage of a hard master : 
 this is the crisis of your fate ; and as you now manage fortune, 
 succeeding life will be marked with happiness or misery : a few 
 years' perseverance in prudence, which at your ago is but another 
 name for virtue, will ensure comfort, pleasure, tranquillity, esteem : 
 too eager an enjoyment of every good that now offers will reverse 
 the medal, and present you with poverty, anxiety, remorse, con- 
 tempt. 
 
 As it has been observed, that none are better qualified to give 
 others advice than those who have taken the least of it themselves ; 
 so in this respect I find myself perfectly authorized to offer mine, 
 even though I should waive my paternal authority upon this oc- 
 casion. 
 
 The most usual way among young men, who have no resolution 
 of their own, is first to ask one friend's advice, and follow it for 
 some time ; then to ask advice of another, and turn to that ; so of 
 a third, still unsteady, always changing. However, be assured 
 that every change of this nature is for the worse ; people may tell 
 you of your being unfit for some peculiar occupations in life, but 
 heed them not : whatever employment you follow with perseverance 
 
XVIII.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 537 
 
 and assiduity will be found fit for you ; it will be your support in 
 youth, and comfort in age. In learning the useful part of every 
 profession, very moderate abilities will suffice ; even if the mind 
 be a little balanced with stupidity, it may in this case be useful. 
 Great abilities have always been less serviceable to the possessors 
 than moderate ones. Life has been compared to a race, but the 
 allusion still improves, by observing that the most swift are ever 
 the least manageable. 
 
 To know one profession only is enough for one man to know ; 
 and this (whatever the professors may tell you to the contrary) is 
 soon learned. Be contented therefore with one good employment ; 
 for if you understand two at a time, people will give you business 
 in neither. 
 
 A conjuror and a tailor once happened to converse together. 
 * Alas/ cries the tailor, ' what an unhappy poor creature am I ! 
 if people should ever take it in their heads to live without clothes, 
 I am undone : I have no other trade to have recourse to.' ■ In- 
 deed, friend, I pity you sincerely,' replies the conjuror, ■ but, thank 
 Heaven, things are not quite so bad with me ; for if one trick 
 should fail, I have a hundred tricks more for them yet. How- 
 ever, if at any time you are reduced to beggary, apply to me, and 
 I will relieve you.' A famine overspread the land ; the tailor 
 made a shift to live, because his customers could not be without 
 clothes ; but the poor conjuror, with all his hundred tricks, could 
 find none that had money to throw away : it was in vain that he 
 promised to eat fire, or to vomit pins ; no single creature would 
 relieve him, till he was at last obliged to beg from the very tailor 
 whose calling he had formerly despised. 
 
 There are no obstructions more fatal to fortune than pride and 
 resentment. If you must resent injuries at all, at least suppress 
 your indignation until you become rich, and then show away ; the 
 resentment of a poor man is like the efforts of a harmless insect 
 to sting ; it may get him crushed, but cannot defend him. "Who 
 values that anger which is consumed only in empty menaces ? 
 
 Once upon a time a goose fed it3 young by a pond side ; and a 
 goose in such circumstances is always extremely proud, and ex- 
 cessively punctilious. If any other animal, without the least de" 
 sign to offend, happened to pass that way, the goose was imme- 
 diately at him. The pond, she said, was hers, and she would 
 maintain a right in it, and support her honour, while she had a 
 bill to hiss, or a wing to flutter. In this manner she drove away 
 ducks, pigs, and chickens ; nay, even the insidious cat was seen 
 to scamper. A lounging mastiff, however, happened to pass by, 
 and thought it no harm if he should lap a little of the water, as 
 he was thirsty. The guardian goose flew at him like a fury, 
 
538 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 pecked at him with her beak, and slapped him with her feathers. 
 The dog grew angry, had twenty times a good mind to give her a 
 sly snap ; but suppressing his indignation, because his master was 
 nigh, ' A pox take thee,' cries he, ' for a fool ! sure those who 
 have neither strength nor weapons to fight, at least should be 
 civil ; that fluttering and hissing of thine may one day get thine 
 head snapped off, but it can neither injure thy enemies, nor ever 
 protect thee.' So saying, he went forward to the pond, quenched 
 his thirst in spite of the goose, and followed his master. 
 
 Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, that while they 
 are willing to take offence from none, they are also equally de- 
 sirous of giving none offence. From hence they endeavour to 
 please all, comply with every request, attempt to suit themselves 
 to every company ; have no will of their own, but, like wax, catch 
 every contiguous impression. By thus attempting to give universal 
 satisfaction, they at last find themselves miserably disappointed ; 
 to bring the generality of admirers on our side, it is sufficient to 
 attempt pleasing a very few. 
 
 A painter of eminence was once resolved to finish a piece which 
 should please the whole world. When, therefore, he had drawn 
 a picture, in which his utmost skill was exhausted, it was exposed 
 in the public market-place, with directions at the bottom for everj? 
 spectator to mark with a brush, which lay by, every limb and 
 feature which seemed erroneous. The spectators came, and in 
 general applauded ; but each, willing to show his talent at criti« 
 cism, marked whatever he thought proper. At evening, when the 
 painter came, he was mortified to find the whole picture one uni* 
 versal blot ; not a single stroke that was not stigmatised with 
 marks of disapprobation ; not satisfied with this trial, the next day 
 he was resolved to try them in a different manner, and exposing 
 his picture as before, desired that every spectator would mark 
 those beauties he approved or admired. The people complied, and 
 the artist returning, found his picture replete with the marks of 
 beauty : every stroke that had been yesterday condemned now 
 received the character of approbation. ■ Well,' cries the painter, 
 ' I now find that the best way to please one half of the world is 
 not to mind what the other half says : since what are faults in the 
 eyes of these, shall be by those regarded as beauties.' 
 
XIX.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 CATHERINE OF RUSSIA. 
 
 A character such as you have represented that of your fair 
 companion, which continues virtuous, though loaded with infamy, 
 is truly great. Many regard virtue because it is attended with 
 applause ; your favourite, only for the internal pleasure it con- 
 fers. I have often wished that ladies like her were proposed as 
 models for female imitation, and not such as have acquired fame 
 by qualities repugnant to the natural softness of the sex. 
 
 Women famed for their valour, their skill in politics, or their 
 learning, leave the duties of their own sex, in order to invade the 
 privileges of ours. I can no more pardon a fair one for endea- 
 vouring to wield the club of Hercules, than I could him for at- 
 tempting to twirl her distaff. 
 
 The modest virgin, the prudent wife, or the careful matron, are 
 much more serviceable in life than petticoated philosophers, blus- 
 tering heroines, or virago queens. She who makes her husband 
 and her children happy, who reclaims the one from vice, and 
 trains up the other to virtue, is a much greater character than 
 ladies described in romance, whose whole occupation is to murder 
 mankind with shafts from their quiver or their eyes. 
 
 Women, it has been observed, are not naturally formed for 
 great cares themselves, but to soften ours. Their tenderness is 
 the proper reward for the dangers we undergo for their preser- 
 vation ; and the ease and cheerfulness of their conversation our 
 desirable retreat from the fatigues of intense application. They 
 are confined within the narrow limits of domestic assiduity ; and 
 when they stray beyond them, they move beyond their sphere, 
 and consequently without grace. 
 
 Fame, therefore, has been very unjustly dispensed among the 
 female sex. These who least deserved to be remembered meet 
 our admiration and applause ; while many, who have been an 
 honour to humanity, are passed over in silence. Perhaps no age 
 has produced a stronger instance of misplaced fame than the 
 present : the Semiramis and the Thalestris of antiquity are talk- 
 ed of, while a modern character, infinitely greater than either, is 
 unnoticed and unknown. 
 
 Catherina Alexowna * born near Derpat, a little city in Livo- 
 nia, was heir to no other inheritance than the virtues and fruga- 
 lity of her parents. Her father being dead, she lived with her 
 
 * This account seems taken from the manuscript memoirs of H. Spill- 
 man, Esq. 
 
540 GOLDSMITH S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 aged mother in their cottage, covered with straw ; and both, 
 though very poor, were very contented. Here, retired from the 
 gaze of the world, by the labour of her hands she supported her 
 parent, who was now incapable of supporting herself. When 
 Catherina spun, the woman would sit by and read some book of 
 devotion : thus, when the fatigues of the day were over, both 
 would sit down contentedly by their fireside, and enjoy the frugal 
 meal with vacant festivity. 
 
 Though her face and person were models of perfection, yet her 
 whole attention seemed bestowed upon her mind ; her mother 
 taught her to read, and an old Lutheran minister instructed her 
 in the maxims and duties of religion. Nature had furnished her 
 not only with a ready, but a solid turn of thought ; not only with 
 a strong, but a right understanding. Such truly female accom- 
 plishments procured her several solicitations of marriage from the 
 peasants of the country ; but their offers were refused ; for she 
 loved her mother too tenderly to think of a separation. 
 
 Catherina was fifteen when her mother died ; she now therefore 
 left her cottage, and went to live with the Lutheran minister, by 
 whom she had been instructed from her childhood. In his house 
 she resided in quality of governess to his children, at once recon- 
 ciling in her character unerring prudence with surprising viva- 
 city. 
 
 The old man, who regarded her as one of his own children, 
 had her instructed in dancing and music by the masters who 
 attended the rest of his family ; thus she continued to improve till 
 he died, by which accident she was once more reduced to pristine 
 poverty. The country of Livonia was at that time wasted by war, 
 and lay in a most miserable state of desolation. Those calamities 
 are ever most heavy upon the poor ; wherefore Catherina, though 
 possessed of so many accomplishments, experienced all the miseries 
 of hopeless indigence. Provisions becoming every day more scarce, 
 and her private stock being exhausted, she resolved at last to 
 travel to Marienburgh, a city of great plenty. 
 
 With her scanty wardrobe packed up in a wallet, she set out on 
 her journey on foot ; she was to walk through a region miserable 
 by nature, but rendered still more hideous by the Swedes and 
 Russians, who, as each happened to become masters, plundered it 
 at discretion ; but hunger had taught her to despise the dangers 
 and fatigues of the way. 
 
 One evening, upon her journey, as she had entered a cottage by 
 the way-side, to take up her lodging for the night, she was insulted 
 by two Swedish soldiers, who insisted upon qualifying her, as they 
 termed it, to follow the camp. They might probably have carried 
 their insults into violence, had not a subaltern officer, accidentally 
 
XIX.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 541 
 
 passing by, come in to her assistance ; upon his appearing, the 
 soldiers immediately desisted ; but her thankfulness wa3 hardly 
 greater than her surprise, when she instantly recollected in her 
 deliverer the son of the Lutheran minister, her former instructor, 
 benefactor, and friend. 
 
 This was a happy interview for Catherina : the little stock of 
 money she had brought from home was by this time quite exhaust- 
 ed ; her clothes were gone, piece by piece, in order to satisfy those 
 who had entertained her in their houses ; her generous country- 
 man, therefore, parted with what he could spare to buy her clothes, 
 furnished her with a horse, and gave her letters of recommenda- 
 tion to Mr Gluck, a faithful friend of his father's, and superinten- 
 dant of Marienburgh. 
 
 Our beautiful stranger had only to appear to be well received ; 
 she was immediately admitted into the superintendant's family, 
 as governess to his two daughters ; and though yet but seventeen, 
 showed herself capable of instructing her sex, not only in virtue, 
 but politeness. Such was her good sense and beauty, that her 
 master himself in a short time offered her his hand, which to his 
 great surprise she thought proper to refuse. Actuated by a prin- 
 ciple of gratitude, she was resolved to marry her deliverer only 
 even though he had lost an arm, and was otherwise disfigured by 
 wounds in the service. 
 
 In order, therefore, to prevent farther solicitations from others, 
 as soon as the officer came to town upon duty, she offered him her 
 person, which he accepted with transport, and their nuptials were 
 solemnised as usual. But all the lines of her fortune were to be 
 striking : the very day on which they were married, the Russians 
 laid siege to Marienburgh ; the unhappy soldier had now no time 
 to enjoy the well-earned pleasures of matrimony ; he was called 
 off before the consummation to an attack, from which he was never 
 after seen to return. 
 
 In the mean time, the siege went on with fury, aggravated on 
 one side by obstinacy, on the other by revenge. This war between 
 the two Northern powers at that time was truly barbarous; the 
 innocent peasant and the harmless virgin often shared the fate of 
 the soldier in arms. Marienburgh was taken by assault ; and 
 such was the fury of the assailants, that not only the garrison, but 
 almost all the inhabitants, men, women, and children, were put 
 to the sword ; at length, when the carnage was pretty well over, 
 Catherina was found hid in an oven. 
 
 She had been hitherto poor, but still was free ; she was now to 
 conform to her hard fate, and learn what it was to be a slave : in 
 this situation, however, she behaved with piety and humility ; 
 and though misfortunes had abated her vivacity, yet she was 
 
542 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 cheerful. The fame of her merit and resignation reached even 
 Prince Menzikoff, the Russian general ; he desired to see her, was 
 struck with her beauty, bought her from the soldier her master, 
 and placed her under the direction of his own sister. Here she 
 was treated with all the respect which her merit deserved, while 
 her beauty every day improved with her good fortune. 
 
 She had not been long in this situation, when Peter the Great 
 paying the prince a visit, Catherina happened to come in with 
 some dry fruits, which she served round with peculiar modesty. 
 The mighty monarch saw, and was struck with her beauty. He 
 returned the next day, called -for the beautiful slave, asked her 
 several questions, and found her understanding even more perfect 
 than her person. 
 
 He had been forced when young to marry from motives of inte- 
 rest ; he was now resolved to marry pursuant to his own inclina- 
 tions. He immediately inquired the history of the fair Livonian, 
 who was not yet eighteen. He traced her through the vale of 
 obscurity, through all the vicissitudes of her fortune, and found 
 her truly great in them all. The meanness of her birth was no 
 obstruction to his design ; their nuptials were solemnised in 
 private : the prince assuring his courtiers that virtue alone was 
 the properest ladder to a throne. 
 
 We now see Catherina, from the low mud-walled cottage, em- 
 press of the greatest kingdom upon earth. The poor solitary 
 wanderer is now surrounded by thousands, who find happiness in 
 her smile. She, who formerly wanted a meal, is now capable of 
 diffusing plenty upon whole nations. To her fortune she owed a 
 part of this pre-eminence, but to her virtues more. 
 
 She ever after retained those great qualities which first placed 
 her on a throne ; and while the extraordinary prince, her hus- 
 band, laboured for the reformation of his male subjects, she 
 studied in her turn the improvement of her own sex. She altered 
 their dresses, introduced mixed assemblies, instituted an order of 
 female knighthood ; and at length, when she had greatly filled 
 all the stations of empress, friend, wife, and mother, bravely died 
 without regret ; regretted by ail. Adieu. 
 
AX.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 543 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam. 
 
 MAD DOGS. 
 
 Indulgent nature seems to have exempted this island from 
 many of those epidemic evils "which are so fatal in other parts of 
 the world. A want of rain but a few days beyond the expected 
 season, in China, spreads famine, desolation, and terror over the 
 whole country ; the winds that blew from the brown bosom of the 
 western desert are impregnated with death in every gale ; but iu 
 this fortunate land of Britain, the inhabitant courts health in 
 every breeze, and the husbandman ever sows in joyful expecta- 
 tion. 
 
 But though the nation be exempt from real evils, think not, 
 my friend, that it is more happy on this account than others. 
 They are afflicted, it is true, with neither famine nor pestilence, 
 but then there is a disorder peculiar to the country, which every 
 season makes strange ravages among them ; it spreads with pes- 
 tilential rapidity, and infects almost every rank of people ; what 
 is still more strange, the natives have no name for this peculiar 
 malady, though well enough known to foreign physicians by the 
 appellation of Epidemic Terror. 
 
 A season is never known to pass in which the people are not 
 visited by this cruel calamity in one shape or another, seemingly 
 different though ever the same : one year it issues from a baker's 
 shop in the shape of a sixpenny loaf, the next it takes the ap- 
 pearance of a comet with a fiery tail, a third it threatens like a 
 flat-bottomed boat, and a fourth it carries consternation at the 
 bite of a mad dog. The people, when once infected, lose their 
 relish for happiness, saunter about with looks of despondence, ask 
 after the calamities of the day, and receive no comfort but in 
 heightening each other's distress. It is insignificant how remote 
 or near, how weak or powerful the object of terror may be, when 
 once they resolve to fright and be frighted, the merest trifles sow 
 consternation and dismay, each proportions his fears, not to the 
 object, but to the dread he discovers in the countenance of others ; 
 for when once the fermentation is begun, it goes on of itself, 
 though the original cause be discontinued which first set it in 
 motion. 
 
 A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror which now prevails, 
 and the whole nation is at present actually groaning under the 
 malignity of its influence. The people sally from their houses 
 with that circumspection which is prudent in such as expect a 
 
544 
 
 goldsmith's PROSE WORKS. 
 
 mad dog at every turning. The physician publishes his prescrip- 
 tion, the beadle prepares his halter, and a few of unusual bravery 
 arm themselves with boots and buff gloves, in order to face the 
 enemy, if he should offer to attack them, in short the whole people 
 stand bravely upon their defence, and seem, by their present 
 spirit, to show a resolution of not being tamely bit by mad dogs 
 any longer. 
 
 When epidemic terror is thus once exicted, every morning comes 
 loaded with some new disaster ; as in stories of ghosts each loves 
 to hear the account, though it only serves to make him uneasy ; 
 so here each listens with eagerness, and adds to the tidings new 
 circumstances of peculiar horror. A lady, for instance, in the 
 country, of very weak nerves, has been frighted by the barking 
 of a dog ; and this, alas ! too frequently happens. The story soon 
 is improved and spreads, that a mad dog has frighted a lady of 
 distinction. These circumstances begin to grow terrible before 
 they have reached the neighbouring village ; and there the report 
 is, that a lady of quality was bit by a mad mastiff. This account 
 every moment gathers new strength, and grows more dismal as it 
 approaches the capital ; and, by the time it has arrived in town, 
 the lady i3 described, with wild eyes, foaming mouth, running 
 mad upon all-fours, barking like a dog, biting her servants, and 
 at last smothered between two beds by the advice of her doctors ; 
 while the mad mastiff is, in the mean time, ranging the whole 
 country over, slavering at the mouth, and ' seeking whom he 
 may devour.' 
 
 Were most stories of this nature thoroughly examined, it 
 would be found that numbers of such as have been said to suffer 
 were no way injured : and that of those who have been actually 
 bitten, not one in a hundred was bit by a mad dog. Such accounts 
 in general therefore only serve to make the people miserable by 
 false terrors ; and sometimes fright the patient into actual frenzy, 
 by creating those very symptoms they pretended to deplore. 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam. 
 
 BEAU TIBBS AT VAUXHALL. 
 
 The people of London are as fond of walking as our friends at 
 Pekin of riding ; one of the principal entertainments of the citi- 
 zens here in summer is to repair, about nightfall, to a garden not 
 
XXI.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. bVo 
 
 far from town, where they walk about, show their best clothes and 
 best faces, and listen to a concert provided for the occasion. 
 
 I accepted an invitation, a few evenings ago, from my old friend, 
 the man in black, to be one of a party that was to sup there, and 
 at the appointed hour waited upon him at his lodgings. There I 
 found the company assembled, and expecting my arrival. Our 
 party consisted of my friend, in superlative finery, — his stockings 
 rolled, a black velvet waistcoat, which was formerly new ; and a 
 grey wig, combed down in imitation of hair ; a pawnbroker's 
 widow, of whom, by-the-bye, my friend was a professed admirer, 
 dressed out in green damask, with three gold rings on every finger ; 
 Mr Tibbs, the second-rate beau, I have formerly described ; to- 
 gether with his lady, in flimsy silk, dirty gauze instead of linen, 
 and a hat as big as an umbrella. 
 
 Our first difficulty was in settling how we should set out. Mrs 
 Tibbs had a natural aversion to the water, and the widow being 
 a little in flesh, as warmly protested against walking ; a coach 
 was therefore agreed upon, which being too small to carry five, 
 Mr Tibbs consented to sit in his wife's lap. 
 
 In this manner, therefore, we set forward, being entertained by 
 the way with the bodings of Mr Tibbs, who assured us he did not 
 expect to see a single creature for the evening above the degree 
 of a cheesemonger ; that this was the last night of the gardens, 
 and that consequently we should be pestered with the nobility and 
 gentry from Thames-street and Crooked-lane, with several other 
 prophetic ejaculations, probably inspired by the uneasiness of his 
 situation. 
 
 The illuminations began before we arrived, and I must confess 
 that, upon entering the gardens, I found every sense overpaid, 
 with more than expected pleasure ; the lights everywhere glimmer- 
 ing through the scarcely-moving trees ; the full-bodied concert 
 bursting on the stillness of the night ; the natural concert of the 
 birds, in the more retired part of the grove, vying with that which 
 was formed by art ; the company gaily-dressed, looking satisfac- 
 tion, and the tables spread with various delicacies, all conspired 
 to fill my imagination with the visionary happiness of the Arabian 
 lawgiver, and lifted me into an ecstacy of admiration. * Head of 
 Confucius,' cried I to my friend, ' this is fine ! this unites rural 
 beauty with courtly magnificence : if we except the virgins of 
 Immortality that hang on every tree, and may be plucked at every 
 desire, I do not see how this falls short of Mahomet's paradise !' 
 
 I was going to second his remarks, when we were called to a 
 consultation by Mr Tibbs, and the rest of the company, to know 
 in what manner we were to lay out the evening to the greatest 
 advantage. Mrs Tibbs was for keeping the genteel walk of the 
 
 2m 
 
546 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 garden, where, she observed, there was always the very best com- 
 pany ; the widow, on the contrary, who came but once a season, 
 was for securing a good standing-place to see the water-works, 
 which she assured us would begin in less than an hour at furthest ; 
 a dispute, therefore, began, and as it was managed between two 
 of very opposite characters, it threatened to grow more bitter at 
 every reply. Mrs Tibbs wondered how people could pretend to 
 know the polite world, who had received all their rudiments of 
 breeding behind a counter ; to which the other replied, ' that 
 though some people sat behind counters, yet they could sit at the 
 head of their own tables too, and carve three good dishes of hot 
 meat whenever they thought proper, which was more than some 
 people could say for themselves, that hardly knew a rabbit and 
 onions from a green goose and gooseberries.' 
 
 It is hard to say where this might have ended, had not the 
 husband, who probably knew the impetuosity of his wife's dispo- 
 sition, proposed to end the dispute by adjourning to a box, and 
 try if there was anything to be had for supper that was support- 
 able. To this we all consented : but here a new distress arose ; 
 Mr and Mrs Tibbs would sit in none but a genteel box, a box 
 where they might see and be seen ; one, as they expressed it, in 
 the very focus of public view : but such a box was not easy to be 
 obtained : for though we were perfectly convinced of our own 
 gentility, and the gentility of our appearance, yet we found it a 
 difficult matter to persuade the keepers of the boxes to be of our 
 opinion ; they chose to reserve genteel boxes for what they judged 
 more genteel company. 
 
 At last, however, we were fixed, though somewhat obscurely, 
 and supplied with the usual entertainment of the place. The 
 widow found the supper excellent, but Mrs Tibbs thought every- 
 thing detestable : ' Come, come, my dear,' cries the husband, by 
 way of consolation, * to be sure we can't find such dressing here 
 as we have at Lord Crump's or Lady Crump's ; but for Yauxhall 
 dressing it is pretty good : it is not their victuals indeed I find 
 fault with, but their wine ; their wine/ cries he, drinking off a 
 glass, ■ indeed is most abominable.' 
 
 By this last contradiction, the widow was fairly conquered in 
 point of politeness. She perceived now that she had no preten- 
 sions in the world to taste, her very senses were vulgar, since she 
 had praised detestable custard, and smacked at wretched wine ; 
 she was therefore contented to yield the victory, and for the rest 
 of the night to listen and improve. It is true she would now and 
 then forget herself, and confess she was pleased : but they soon 
 brought her back again to miserable refinement. She once 
 praised the painting of the box in which we were sitting ; but 
 
XXI.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 54? 
 
 was soon convinced that such paltry pieces ought rather to excite 
 horror than satisfaction : she ventured again to commend one of 
 the singers ; but Mrs Tibbs soon let her know, in the style of a 
 connoisseur, that the singer in question had neither ear, voice, nor 
 judgment. 
 
 Mr Tibbs, now willing to prove that his wife's pretensions to 
 music were just, entreated her to favour the company with a 
 song ; but to this she gave a positive denial ; i For you know very 
 well, my dear,' says she, * that I am not in voice to-day, and 
 when one's voice is not equal to one's judgment, what signifies 
 singing ! besides, as there is no accompaniment, it would be but 
 spoiling music.' All these excuses, however, were overruled by 
 the rest of the company, who, though one would think they 
 already had music enough, joined in the entreaty. But particu- 
 larly the widow, now willing to convince the company of her 
 breeding, pressed so warmly, that she seemed determined to take 
 no refusal. At last then the lady complied, and after humming 
 for some minutes, began with such a voice and such affectation, 
 as I could perceive gave but little satisfaction to any except her 
 husband. He sat with rapture in his eye, and beat time with his 
 hand on the table. 
 
 You must observe, my friend, that it is the custom of thi3 
 country, when a lady or gentleman happens to sing, for the com- 
 pany to sit as mute and motionless as statues. Every feature, 
 every limb, must seem to correspond in fixed attention, and while 
 the song continues they are to remain in a state of universal 
 petrifaction. In this mortifying situation we had continued for 
 some time, listening to the song, and looking with tranquillity, 
 when the master of the box came to inform us that the water- 
 works were going to begin. At this information I could instantly 
 perceive the widow bounce from her seat ; but, correcting herself, 
 she sat down again, repressed by motives of good-breeding. Mrs 
 Tibbs, who had seen the water-works a hundred times, resolving 
 not to be interrupted, continued her song without any share of 
 mercy, nor had the smallest pity on our impatience. The widow's 
 face, I own, gave me high entertainment ; in it I could plainly 
 read the struggle she felt between good-breeding and curiosity ; 
 she talked of the water-works the whole evening before, and 
 seemed to have come merely in order to see them ; but then she 
 could not bounce out in the very middle of a song, for that would 
 be forfeiting all pretensions to high life, or high-lived company, 
 ever after. Mrs Tibbs, therefore, kept on singing, and we con- 
 tinued to listen, till at last, when the song was just concluded, the 
 waiter came to inform us that the water-works were over. 
 
 * The water-works over !' cried the widow, ( the water-works 
 
548 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 over already, that's impossible, they can't be over so soon !' 
 f It's not my business,' replied the fellow, c to contradict your 
 ladyship, I'll run again and see ;' he went, and soon returned 
 with a confirmation of the dismal tidings. No ceremony could 
 now bind my friend's disappointed mistress, she testified her dis- 
 pleasure in the openest manner ; in short, she now began to find 
 fault in turn, and at last insisted upon going home, just at the 
 time that Mr and Mrs Tibbs assured the company that the polite 
 hours were going to begin, and that the ladies would instantane- 
 ously be entertained with the horns. Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 From Hingpo to Lien Chi Altangi 
 
 REGION OF BEAUTY AND VALLEY OF THE GRACES. 
 
 I still remain at Terki, where I have received that money 
 which was remitted here, in order to release me from captivity. 
 My fair companion still improves in my esteem ; the more I know 
 her mind, her beauty becomes more poignant; she appears 
 charming, even among the daughters of Circassia. 
 
 Yet were I to examine her beauty with the art of a statuary, 1 
 should find numbers here that far surpass her ; nature has not 
 granted her the boasted Circassian regularity of features, and yet 
 fhe greatly exceeds the fairest of the country, in the art of seiz- 
 ing the affections. Whence, have I often said to myself, this re- 
 sistless magic that attends even moderate charms ; though I re- 
 gard the beauties of the country with admirati§n, every interview 
 weakens the impression, but the form of Zelis grows upon my 
 imagination ; I never behold her without an increase of tender- 
 ness and respect. Whence this injustice of the mind in preferring 
 Imperfect beauty to that which nature seems to have finished 
 with care ? Whence the infatuation, that he whom a comet 
 3ould not amaze, should be astonished at a meteor ? When rea- 
 son was thus fatigued to find an answer, my imagination pursued 
 the subject, and this was the result. 
 
 I fancied myself placed between two landscapes, this called 
 the Region of Beauty, and that the Valley of the Graces : the one 
 adorned with all that luxuriant nature could bestow ; the fruits 
 of various climates adorned the trees, the grove resounded with 
 music, the gale breathed perfume, every charm that could arise 
 from symmetry and exact distribution were here conspicuous, 
 the whole offering a prospect of pleasure without end. The 
 
XXII. J LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 549 
 
 Valley of the Graces, on the other hand, seemed by no means so 
 inviting, the streams and the groves appeared just a3 they usually 
 do in frequented countries ; no magnificent parterres, no concert 
 in the grove, the rivulet was edged with weeds, and the rook 
 joined its voice to that of the nightingale. All was simplicity 
 and nature. 
 
 The most striking objects ever first allure the traveller. I en- 
 tered the Region of Beauty with increased curiosity, and promised 
 myself endless satisfaction in being introduced to the presiding 
 goddess. I perceived several strangers, who entered with the 
 same design, and what surprised me not a little, was to see seve« 
 ral others hastening to leave this abode of seeming felicity. 
 
 After some fatigue, I had at last the honour of being introduced 
 to the goddess, who represented Beauty in person. She was seated 
 on a throne, at the foot of which stood several strangers lately 
 introduced like me ; all regarding her form in ecstacy. ' Ah, 
 what eyes ! what lips ! how clear her complexion ! how perfect 
 her shape V at these exclamations, Beauty, with downcast eyes, 
 would endeavour to counterfeit modesty, but soon again looking 
 round as if to confirm every spectator in his favourable sentiments : 
 sometimes she would attempt to allure us by smiles ; and at inter- 
 vals would bridle back, in order to inspire us with respect as well 
 as tenderness. 
 
 This ceremony lasted for some time, and had so much employed 
 our eyes, that we had forgot all this while that the goddess was 
 silent. "We soon, however, began to perceive the defect : * What, 1 
 said we, among each other, ' are we to have nothing but languish- 
 ing airs, soft looks, and inclinations of the head ? will the goddess 
 only deign to satisfy our eyes ?' Upon this one of the company 
 stepped up to present her with some fruits he had gathered by tha 
 way. She received the present most sweetly smiling, and with 
 one of the whitest hands in the world, but still not a word escaped 
 her lips. 
 
 I now found that my companions grew weary of their homage 
 they went off one by one, and resolving not to be left behind, I 
 offered to go in my turn ; when just at the door of the temple I 
 was called back by a feuale, whose name was Pride, and who 
 seemed displeased at the behaviour of the company. * "Where are 
 you hastening ?' said she to me, with an angry air ; ' the Goddess 
 ti Beauty is here.' — * I have been to visit her, madam,' replied I, 
 and find her more beautiful even than report had made her.' — 
 And why then will you leave her ?' added the female. ' I have 
 seen her long enough,' returned I ; ' I have got all her features 
 by heart. Her eyes are still the same. Her nose is a very fine one, 
 but it is still just such a nose now as it was half an hour ago : could 
 
550 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 she throw a little more mind into her face, perhaps I should be for 
 wishing to have more of her company .' — * What signifies/ replied 
 my female, \ whether she has a mind or not : has she any occasion 
 for mind, so formed as she is by nature ? If she had a common 
 face, indeed, there might be some reason for thinking to improve 
 it ; but when features are already perfect, every alteration would 
 but impair them. A fine face is already at the point of perfection, 
 and a fine lady should endeavour to keep it so ; the impression it 
 would receive from thought, would but disturb its whole economy.' 
 
 To this speech I gave no reply, but made the best of my way 
 to the Valley of the Graces. Here I found all those who before 
 had been my companions in the Region of Beauty, now upon the 
 same errand. 
 
 As we entered the valley, the prospect insensibly seemed to 
 improve ; we found everything so natural, so domestic, and pleas- 
 ing, that our minds, which before were congealed in admiration, 
 now relaxed into gaiety and good-humour. We had designed to 
 pay our respects to the presiding goddess, but she was nowhere 
 to be found. One of our companions asserted that her temple 
 lay to the right ; another, to the left ; a third insisted that it was 
 straight before us ; and a fourth that we had left it behind. In 
 short, we found everything familiar and charming, but could not 
 determine where to seek for the Grace in person. 
 
 In this agreeable incertitude we passed several hours, and 
 though very desirous of finding the goddess, by no means impa- 
 tient of the delay. Every part of the valley presented some 
 minute beauty, which, without offering itself at once, stole within 
 the soul, and captivated us with the charms of our retreat. Still, 
 however, we continued to search, and might still have continued, 
 had we not been interrupted by a voice which, though we could 
 not see from whence it came, addressed us in this manner: 
 
 1 If you would find the Goddess of Grace, seek her not under 
 one form, for she assumes a thousand. Ever changing under the 
 eye of inspection, her variety, rather than her figure, is pleasing. 
 In contemplating her beauty, the eye glides over every perfection 
 with giddy delight, and, capable of fixing nowhere, is charmed 
 with the whole. She is now Contemplation with solemn look, 
 again Compassion with humid eye ; she now sparkles with joy, soon 
 every feature speaks distress : her looks at times invite our 
 approach, at others repress our presumption : the goddess cannot 
 be properly called beautiful under any one of these forms, but, 
 by combining them all, she becomes irresistibly pleasing.' Adieu, 
 
SXIII.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 551 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 From Fum Hoam to Lien CM AltangL 
 
 ON EUSSIA. 
 
 You tell me the people of Europe are wise ; but where lies their 
 wisdom ? You say they are valiant too ; yet I have some reasons 
 to doubt of their valour. They are engaged in war among each 
 other, yet apply to the Russians, their neighbours and ours, for 
 assistance. Cultivating such an alliance argues at once impru- 
 dence and timidity. All subsidies paid for such an aid is 
 strengthening the Russians, already too powerful, and weakening 
 the employers, already exhausted by intestine commotions. 
 
 I cannot avoid beholding the Russian empire as the natural 
 enemy of the more western parts of Europe ; as an enemy already 
 possessed of great strength, and, from the nature of the government, 
 every day threatening to become more powerful. This extensive 
 empire, which, both in Europe and Asia, occupies almost a third 
 of the old world, was, about two centuries ago, divided into sepa- 
 rate kingdoms and dukedoms, and from such a division conse- 
 quently feeble. Since the times, however, of Johan Basilides, it 
 has increased in strength and extent ; and those untrodden 
 forests, those innumerable savage animals which formerly covered 
 the face of the country, are now removed, and colonies of man- 
 kind planted in their room. A kingdom thus enjoying peace in- 
 ternally, possessed of an unbounded extent of dominion, and 
 learning the military art at the expense of others abroad, must 
 every day grow more powerful ; and it is probable we shall hear 
 Russia, in future times, as formerly, called the Officina Gentium. 
 
 It was long the wish of Peter, their great monarch, to have a 
 fort in some of the western parts of Europe ; many of his schemes 
 and treaties were directed to this end, but happily for Europe he 
 failed in them all. A fort in the power of this people would be 
 like the possession of a floodgate ; and whenever ambition, inte- 
 rest, or necessity prompted, they might then be able to deluge 
 the whole western world with a barbarous inundation. 
 
 Believe me, my friend, I cannot sufficiently contemn the poli- 
 ticians of Europe, who thus make this powerful people arbitrators 
 in their quarrel. The Russians are now at that period between 
 refinement and barbarity, which seems most adapted to military 
 achievement, and if once they happen to get footing in the west- 
 ern parts of Europe, it is not the feeble efforts of the sons of 
 effeminacy and dissension that can serve to remove them. The 
 fertile valley and soft climate will ever be sufficient inducements 
 
552 
 
 goldsmith's prose works. 
 
 to draw whole myriads from their native deserts, the trackless 
 wild or snowy mountain. 
 
 History, experience, reason, nature, expand the book of wisdom 
 before the eyes of mankind, but they will not read. We have 
 seen with terror a winged phalanx of famished locusts, each 
 singly contemptible, but from multitude become hideous, cover, 
 like clouds, the face of day, and threaten the whole world with 
 ruin. We have seen them settling on the fertile plains of India 
 and Egypt, destroying in an instant the labours and the hopes of 
 nations ; sparing neither the fruit of the earth, nor the verdure 
 of the fields, and changing into a frightful desert landscapes of 
 once luxuriant beauty. We have seen myriads of ants issuing 
 together from the southern desert, like a torrent whose source 
 was inexhaustible, succeeding each other without end, and re- 
 newing their destroyed forces with unwearied perseverance, 
 bringing desolation wherever they came, banishing men and 
 animals, and, when destitute of all subsistence, in heaps infecting 
 the wilderness which they had made ! Like these have been the 
 migrations of men. When as yet savage, and almost resembling 
 their brute partners in the forest, subject, like them, only to the 
 instincts of nature, and directed by hunger alone in the choice of 
 an abode, how have we seen whole armies starting wild at once 
 from their forests and their dens ! Goths, Huns, Vandals, Sara- 
 cens, Turks, Tartars, myriads of men, animals in human form, 
 without country, without name, without laws, overpowering by 
 numbers all opposition, ravaging cities, overturning empires, and, 
 after having destroyed whole nations, and spread extensive deso- 
 lation, how have we seen them sink oppressed by some new 
 enemy, more barbarous and even more unknown than they ! 
 Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 From Hingpo in Moscow, to Lien Chi Altangi in London. 
 
 Where will my disappointment end ? Must I still be doomed 
 to accuse the severity of my fortune, and show my constancy in 
 distress rather than moderation in prosperity ? I had at least 
 hopes of conveying my charming companion safe from the reach 
 of every enemy, and of again restoring her to her native soil. 
 But those hopes are now no more. 
 
 Upon leaving Terki we took the nearest road to the dominions 
 of Russia. We passed the Ural mountains covered with eternal 
 
XXIV.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 553 
 
 snow, and traversed the forests of Usa, -where the prowling bear 
 and shrieking hyaena keep an undisputed possession. We next 
 embarked upon the rapid river Bulija, and made the best of our 
 way to the banks of the Wolga, where it waters the fruitful 
 valleys of Casan. 
 
 There were two vessels in company properly equipped and 
 armed in order to oppose the "VVolga pirates, who we were inform- 
 ed infested this river. Of all mankind these pirates are the most 
 terrible. They are composed of the criminals and outlawed 
 peasants of Russia, who fly to the forests that lie along the banks 
 of the Wolga for protection. Here they join in parties, lead a 
 savage life, and have no other subsistence but plunder. Being 
 deprived of houses, friends, or a fixed habitation, they become 
 more terrible even than the tiger, and as insensible to all the 
 feelings of humanity. They neither give quarter to those they 
 conquer, nor receive it when overpowered themselves. The seve- 
 rity of the laws against them serves to increase their barbarity, 
 and seems to make them a neutral species of beings between the 
 wildness of the lion and the subtlety of the man. "When taken 
 alive their punishment is hideous. A floating gibbet is erected, 
 which is let run down with the stream ; here, upon an iron hook 
 stuck under their ribs, and upon which the whole weight of their 
 body depends, they are left to expire in the most terrible agonies ; 
 some being thus found to linger several days successively. 
 
 "We were but three days' voyage from the confluence of this 
 river into the Wolga, when we perceived at a distance behind us 
 an armed bark coming up with the assistance of sails and oars in 
 order to attack us. The dreadful signal of death was hung upon 
 the mast, and our captain with his glass could easily discern 
 them to be pirates. It is impossible to express our consternation 
 on the occasion ; the whole crew instantly came together to con- 
 sult the properest means of safety. It was, therefore, soon deter- 
 mined to send off our women and valuable commodities in one of 
 our vessels, and the men should stay in the other, and boldly 
 oppose the enemy. This resolution was soon put into execution, 
 and I now reluctantly parted from the beautiful Zelis for the first 
 time since our retreat from Persia. The vessel in which she was, 
 disappeared to my longing eyes in proportion as that of the 
 pirates approached us. They soon came up ; but, upon examin- 
 ing our strength, and perhaps sensible of the manner in which we 
 had sent off our most valuable effects, they seemed more eager to 
 pursue the vessel we had sent away, than attack U3. In this 
 manner they continued to harass us for three days, still endea- 
 vouring to pass us without fighting. But, on the fourth day, find- 
 ing it entirely impossible, and despairing to seize the expected 
 
554 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 booty, they desisted from their endeavours and left us to pursue 
 our voyage without interruption. 
 
 Our joy on thi3 occasion was great ; but soon a disappointment 
 more terrible, because unexpected, succeeded. The bark, in 
 which our women and treasure were sent off, was wrecked upon 
 the banks of the Wolga, for want of a proper number of hands to 
 manage her, and the whole crew carried by the peasants up the 
 country. Of this, however, we were not sensible till our arrival 
 at Moscow ; where, expecting to meet our separated bark, we 
 were informed of its misfortune, and our loss. Need I paint the 
 situation of my mind on this occasion ! Need I describe all I 
 feel, when I despair of beholding the beautiful Zelis more ! 
 Fancy had dressed the future prospect of my life in the gayest 
 colouring; but one unexpected stroke of fortune has robbed it of 
 every charm. Her dear idea mixes with every scene of pleasure, 
 and without her presence to enliven it the whole becomes tedious, 
 insipid, insupportable. I will confess, now that she is lost, I will 
 confess I loved her ; nor is it in the power of time or of reason to 
 erase her image from my heart. Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam. 
 
 THE ENGLISH SAILOR. 
 
 The misfortunes of the great, my friend, are held up to engage 
 our attention, are enlarged upon in tones of declamation, and the 
 world is called upon to gaze at the noble sufferers : they have at 
 once the comfort of admiration and pity. 
 
 Yet where is the magnanimity of bearing misfortunes when 
 the whole world is looking on ? men in such circumstances can 
 act bravely even from motives of vanity. He only who, in the 
 vale of obscurity, can brave adversity, who without friends to 
 encourage, acquaintances to pity, or even without hope to allevi- 
 ate his distresses, can behave with tranquillity and indifference, 
 is truly great ; whether peasant or courtier, he deserves admira- 
 tion, and should be held up for our imitation and respect. 
 
 The miseries of the poor are, however, entirely disregarded ; 
 though some undergo more real hardships in one day than the 
 great in their whole lives. It is indeed inconceivable what diffi- 
 culties the meanest English sailor or soldier endures without 
 murmuring or regret. Every day is to him a day of misery, and 
 yet he bears his hard fate without repining ! 
 
XXV.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 655 
 
 With what indignation do I hear the heroes of tragedy com- 
 plain of misfortunes and hardships, whose greatest calamity i3 
 founded in arrogance and pride ! Their severest distresses are 
 pleasures, compared to what many of the adventuring poor every 
 day sustain without murmuring. These may eat, drink, and 
 sleep, have slaves to attend them, and are sure of subsistence for 
 life ; while many of their fellow-creatures are obliged to wander, 
 without a friend to comfort or to assist them, find enmity in every 
 law, and are too poor to obtain even justice. 
 
 I have been led into these reflections from accidentally meeting, 
 some days ago, a poor fellow begging at one of the outlets of this 
 town, with a wooden leg. I was curious to learn what had reduced 
 him to his present situation ; and, after giving him what I thought 
 proper, desired to know the history of his life and misfortunes, and 
 the manner in which he was reduced to his present distress. The 
 disabled soldier, for such he was, with an intrepidity truly British, 
 leaning on his crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply with 
 my request, and gave me his history as follows : — 
 
 ' As for misfortunes, sir, I cannot pretend to have gone through 
 more than others. Except the loss of my limb, and my being 
 obliged to beg, I don't know any reason, thank Heaven, that I 
 have to complain : there are some who have lost both legs and an 
 eye ; but, thank Heaven, it is not quite so bad with me. 
 
 * My father was a labourer in the country, and died when I was 
 five years old ; so I was put upon the parish. As he had been a 
 wandering sort of man, the parishioners were not able to tell to 
 ,what parish I belonged, or where I was born ; so they sent me to 
 another parish, and that parish sent me to a third ; till at last it 
 was thought I belonged to no parish at all. At length, however, 
 they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a scholar, and had 
 actually learned my letters ; but the master of the workhouse put 
 me to business as soon as I was able to handle a mallet. 
 
 1 Here I lived an easy kind of a life for five years. I only 
 wrought ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink pro- 
 vided for my labour. It is true, I was not suffered to stir far from 
 the house, for fear I should run away : but what of that ? I had 
 the liberty of the whole house, and the yard before the door, and 
 that was enough for me. 
 
 ' I was next bound out to a farmer, where I was up both early 
 and late, but I ate and drank well, and liked my business well 
 enough, till he died. Being then obliged to provide for myself, I 
 was resolved to go and seek my fortune. Thus I lived, and went 
 from town to town, working when I could get employment, and 
 starving when I could get none, and might have lived so still ; 
 but happening one day to go through a field belonging to a magis- 
 
556 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 trate, I spied a hare crossing the path just before me. I believe 
 the devil put it into my head to fling my stick at it: well what 
 will you have on it ? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away 
 in triumph, when the justice himself met me : he called me a 
 villain, and collaring me, desired I would give an account of 
 myself. I began immediately to give a full account of all that I 
 knew of my breed, seed, and generation : but though I gave a very 
 long account, the justice said I could give no account of myself; 
 so I was indicted, and found guilty of being poor, and sent to 
 Newgate, in order to be transported to the plantations. 
 
 ' People may say this and that of being in jail ; but, for my part, 
 I found Newgate as agreeable a place as ever I was in all my life. 
 I had my belly-full to eat and drink, and did no work ; but alas ! 
 this kind of life was too good to last for ever ! I was taken out of pri- 
 son, after five months, put on board of a ship, and sent off with two 
 hundred more. Our passage was but indifferent, for we were all 
 confined in the hold, and died very fast, for want of sweet air and 
 provisions ; but for my part, I did not want meat, because I had 
 a fever all the way : Providence was kind ; when provisions grew 
 short, it took away my desire of eating. When we came ashore, 
 we were sold to the planters. I was bound for seven years, and 
 as I was no scholar (for I had forgot my letters) I was obliged to 
 work among the negroes, and served out my time as in duty bound 
 to do. 
 
 * When my time was expired, I worked my passage home, and 
 glad I was to see Old England again, because I loved my country. 
 liberty ! liberty ! liberty ! that is the property of every English- 
 man, and I will die in its defence ; I was afraid, however, that 1 
 Ehould be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did not much care 
 to go into the country, but kept about town, and did little jobs 
 when I could get them, I was very happy in this manner foi 
 some time ; till one evening, coming home from work, two men 
 knocked me down, and then desired me to stand still. They 
 belonged to a press-gang ; I was carried before the justice, and 
 as I could give no account of myself (that was the thing that 
 always hobbled me), I had my choice left, whether to go on board 
 a man-of-war, or list for a soldier. I chose to be a soldier ; and 
 in this post of a gentleman I served two campaigns, was at the 
 battles in Flanders, and received but one wound through the breast, 
 which is troublesome to this day. 
 
 1 W T hen the peace came on, I was discharged ; and as I could 
 not work, because my wound was sometimes painful, I listed for 
 a landman in the East India Company's service. I here fought 
 the French in six pitched battles ; and verily believe, that if 1 
 could read or write, our captain would have given me promotion 
 
XXV.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 55'/ 
 
 and made me a corporal. But that was not my good fortune, 1 
 soon fell sick, and when I became good-for-nothing, got leave to 
 return home again with forty pounds in my pocket, which I saved 
 in the service. This was at the beginning of the present war, so ] 
 hoped to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of spending mj 
 money ; but the government wanted men, and I was pressed again 
 before ever I could set foot on shore. 
 
 1 The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate fellow : he 
 swore that I understood my business perfectly well, but that I 
 pretended sickness merely to be idle : God knows, I knew nothing 
 of sea-business ! he beat me without considering what he was 
 about. But still my forty pounds was some comfort to me under 
 every beating : the money was my comfort ; and the money I 
 might have had to this day, but that our ship was taken by the 
 French, and so I lost it all ! 
 
 ' Our crew was carried into a French prison, and many of them 
 died, because they were not used to live in a jail ; but for my part 
 3t was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. One night, however, as 
 I was sleeping on the bed of boards, with a warm blanket about 
 me (for I always loved to lie well), I was awaked by the boatswain, 
 who had a dark-lantern in his hand. " Jack," says he to me, 
 " will you knock out the French sentry's brains ?" — " I don't care," 
 says I, striving to keep myself awake, " if I lend a hand." — " Then 
 follow me," says he, " and I hope we shall do business." So up I 
 got, and tied my blanket, which was all the clothes I had, about 
 my middle, and went with him to fight the Frenchmen : we had 
 no arms ; but one Englishman is able to beat five French at any 
 time : so we went down to the door, where both the sentries were 
 posted, and rushing upon them, seized their arms in a moment, 
 and knocked them down. From thence, nine of us ran together 
 to the quay, and, seizing the first boat we met, got out of the 
 harbour, and put to sea ; we had not been here three days before 
 we were taken up by an English privateer, who was glad of sc 
 many good hands ; and we consented to run our chance. However, 
 we had not so much luck as we expected. In three days we fell 
 in with a French man-of-war, of forty guns, while we had but 
 twenty-three ; so to it we went. The fight lasted for three hours, 
 and I verily believe we should have taken the Frenchman, but 
 unfortunately we lost almost all our men just as we were going to 
 get the victory. I was once more in the power of the French, and 
 I believe it would have gone hard with me had I been brought 
 back to my old jail in Brest ; but by good fortune we were retaken, 
 and carried to England once more. 
 
 * I had almost forgot to tell you, that in this last engagement I 
 was wounded in two places ; I lost four fingers of the left hand 
 
558 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 and my leg was shot off. Had I the good fortune to have lost nay 
 leg and use of my hand on board a king's ship, and not a privateer, 
 I should have been entitled to clothing and maintenance during 
 the rest of my life, but that was not my chance ; one man is born 
 with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another with a wooden ladle. 
 However, blessed be God, I enjoy good health, and have no enemy 
 in the world that I know of, but the French and the justice of 
 peace.' 
 
 Thus saying, he limped off, leaving my friend and me in admi- 
 ration of his intrepidity and content : nor could we avoid acknow- 
 ledging, that an habitual acquaintance with misery is the truest 
 school of fortitude and philosophy. Adieu. 
 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 THE WEDDING. 
 
 After a variety of disappointments, my wishes are at length 
 fully satisfied. My son, so long expected, is arrived ; at once, by 
 his presence banishing my anxiety, and opening a new scene of 
 unexpected pleasure. His improvements in mind and person 
 have far surpassed even the sanguine expectations of a father. I 
 left him a boy, but he is returned a man ; pleasing in his person, 
 hardened by travel, and polished by adversity. His disappoint- 
 ment in love, however, had infused an air of melancholy into his 
 conversation, which seemed at intervals to interrupt our mutual 
 ?atisfaction. I expected that this could find a cure only from 
 time ; but fortune, as if willing to load us with her favours, has 
 in a moment repaid every uneasiness with rapture. 
 
 Two days after his arrival, the man in black, with his beauti- 
 ful niece, came to congratulate us upon this pleasing occasion; 
 but, guess our surprise, when my friend's lovely kinswoman was 
 found to be the very captive my son had rescued from Persia, 
 and who had been wrecked on the Wolga, and was carried by the 
 Russian peasants to the port of Archangel. Were I to hold the 
 pen of a novelist, I might be prolix in describing their feelings, 
 at so unexpected an interview ; but you may conceive their joy, 
 without my assistance ; words were unable to express their tran- 
 sports, then how can words describe it ? 
 
 When two young persons are sincerely enamoured of each 
 other, nothing can give me such pleasure as seeing them married ; 
 whether I know the parties or not, I am happy in thus binding 
 one link more in the universal chain. Nature has, in some mea- 
 
1 XXVI.] LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 559 
 
 sure, formed me for a match-maker, and given me a soul to sympa- 
 thise with every mode of human felicity. I instantly, therefore, 
 consulted the man in black, whether we might not crown their 
 mutual wishes by marriage; his soul seems formed of similar 
 materials with mine, he instantly gave his consent, and the next 
 day was appointed for the solemnization of their nuptials. 
 
 All the acquaintance which I had made since my arrival were 
 present at this gay solemnity. The little beau was constituted 
 master of the ceremonies, and his wife, Mrs Tibbs, conducted the 
 entertainment with proper decorum. The man in black and the 
 pawnbroker's widow were very sprightly and tender upon this 
 occasion. The widow was dressed up under the direction of Mrs 
 Tibbs : and as for her lover, his face was set off by the assistance 
 of a pig-tail wig, which was lent by the little beau, to fit him for 
 making love with proper formality. The whole company easily 
 perceived, that it would be a double wedding before all was over, 
 and, indeed, my friend and the widow seemed to make no secret 
 of their passion ; he even called me aside, in order to know my 
 candid opinion, whether I did not think him a little too old to be 
 married. * As for my own part,' continued he, ' I know I am 
 going to play the fool, but all my friends will praise my wisdom, 
 and produce me as the very pattern of discretion to others.' 
 
 At dinner, everything seemed to run on with good-humour, 
 harmony, and satisfaction. Every creature in company thought 
 themselves pretty, and every jest was laughed at ; the man in 
 black sat next his mistress, helped her plate, chimed her glass, 
 and jogging her knees and her elbow, he whispered something 
 arch in her ear, on which she patted his cheek ; never was anti- 
 quated passion so playful, so harmless, and amusing, as between 
 this reverend couple. 
 
 The second course was now called for ; and among a variety of 
 other dishes, a fine turkey was placed before the widow. The 
 Europeans, you know, carve as they eat ; my friend therefore 
 begged his mistress to help him to a part of the turkey. The 
 widow, pleased with an opportunity of showing her skill in carv- 
 ing, an art upon which it seemed she piqued herself, began to cut 
 it up by first taking off the leg. ' Madam,' cries my friend, ' if I 
 might be permitted to advise, I would begin by cutting off the 
 wing, and then the leg will come off more easily.' — « Sir,' replies 
 the widow, ' give me leave to understand cutting up a fowl ; 1 
 always begin with the leg.' — 'Yes, madam,' replies the lover. 
 ■ but if the wing be the most convenient manner, I would begin 
 with the wing.' — ' Sir,' interrupts the lady, ' when you have fowls 
 of your own, begin with the wing if you please, but give me 
 leave to take off the leg ; I hope I am not to be taught at thia 
 
i.f 
 
 560 GOLDSMITH'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 time of day.' — ' Madam/ interrupts he, ' we are never too old to 
 be instructed.' — ' Old, sir !' interrupts the other, ' who is old, sir ? 
 when I die of old age, I know of some that will quake for fear ; 
 if the leg does not come off, take the turkey to yourself.' — 
 1 Madam,' replied the man in black, * I do not care a farthing 
 whether the leg or the wing comes off; if you are for the leg first, 
 why you shall have the argument, even though it be as I say.' — 
 1 As for the matter of that,' cries the widow, ■ I do not care a fig 
 whether you are for the leg off or on ; and, friend, for the future, 
 keep your distance.' — ' O,' replied the other, ' that is easily done, 
 it is only removing to the other end of the table ; and so, madam, 
 your most obedient humble servant.' 
 
 Thus was this courtship of an age destroyed in one moment ; 
 for this dialogue effectually broke off the match between this re- 
 spectable couple, that had been just concluded. The smallest 
 accidents disappoint the most important treaties : however, 
 though it in some measure interrupted the general satisfaction, 
 it noways lessened the happiness of the youthful couple ; and by 
 the young lady's looks, I could perceive, she was not entirely dis' 
 pleased with this interruption. 
 
 In a few hours the whole transaction seemed entirely forgotten, 
 and we have all since enjoyed those satisfactions which result 
 from a consciousness of making each other happy. My son and 
 his fair partner are fixed here for life ; the man in black has 
 given them up a small estate in the country, which, added to 
 what I was able to bestow, will be capable of supplying all the 
 real, but not the fictitious demands of happiness. As for myself, 
 the world being but one city to me, I do not much care in which 
 of the streets I happen to reside ; I shall therefore spend the 
 remainder of my life in examining the manners of different coun- 
 tries, and have prevailed upon the man in black to be my com 
 panion. * They must often change,' says Confucius, ■ who would 
 be constant in happiness or wisdom.' Adieu. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 (X