POEMS, 
 
 PLAYS AND ESSAYS, 
 
 BY 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M. B 
 
 WITH 
 
 A CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON HIS POETRY, 
 
 BY 
 
 BY JOHN AIKIN, M, D. 
 
 AND 
 
 AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. ESQ. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, 
 
 110 WASHINGTON STREET. 
 
 1854. 
 
(\ 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 
 
 Phillips, Sampson, & Co. 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 Page. 
 
 Dr. Aikin's Memoirs of the Author ..... 7 
 
 Remarks on the Poetry of Dr. Goldsmith, by Dr. Aikin 38 
 
 Verses on the death of Dr. Goldsmith 55 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society 66 
 
 The Deserted Village , 84 
 
 The Hermit, a Ballad 101 
 
 The Haunch of Venison, to Lord Clare 110 
 
 Retaliation 115 
 
 Postscript 122 
 
 The Double Transformation, a Tale 123 
 
 The Gift: to Iris, in Bow-street, Covent-garden 127 
 
 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 128 . 
 
 The Logicians Refuted: Imitation of Dean Swift 129 
 
 A new Simile : in the Manner of Swift 131 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Description of an Author's Bed-Chamber 133 
 
 A Prologue by the Poet Laberius, whom Caesar forced 
 
 upon the Stage 134 
 
 An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 135 
 
 On a beautiful Youth struck blind by Lightning 136 
 
 The Clown's Eeply 137 
 
 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 137 
 
 Epitaph on Edward Purdon 137 
 
 Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 138 
 
 Stanzas on Woman 138 
 
 Sonnet 139 
 
 Songs 139 
 
 Song, intended to have been sung in the Comedy of 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer 140 
 
 Prologue to Zobeide, a Tragedy 140 
 
 Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters 142 
 
 Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and Miss Catley 144 
 
 Epilogue intended for Mrs. Bulkley 147 
 
 Epilogue, spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes 149 
 
 Threnodia Augustalis 151 
 
 The Captivity : an Oratorio 162 
 
 Lines attributed to Dr. Goldsmith 176 
 
 PLAYS. 
 
 The Good-Natured Man, a Comedy 177 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mistakes of a Night ... . 269 
 
CONTENTS. V 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Introduction 367 
 
 Love and Friendship, or the Story of Alcander and Septi- 
 
 mius, taken from a Byzantine Historian 371 
 
 On Happiness of Temper 375 
 
 Description of various Clubs 380 
 
 On the Policy of concealing our Wants, or Poverty 390 
 
 On Generosity and Justice 397 
 
 On the Education of Youth 401 
 
 On the Versatility of popular Eavor 414 
 
 Specimen of a Magazine in Miniature 418 
 
 Rules for Behavior 421 
 
 Rules for Raising the Devil 422 
 
 Beau Tibbs ; a Character 423 
 
 Beau Tibbs — continued 426 
 
 On the Irresolution of Youth 431 
 
 On Mad Dogs 435 
 
 On the increased Love of Life with Age 440 
 
 Ladies' Passion for levelling Distinction of Dress 443 
 
 Asem, an Eastern Tale ; or, the Wisdom of Providence in 
 
 the moral Government of the World 449 
 
 On the English Clergy, and Popular Pi'eachers 458 
 
 On the Advantages to be derived from sending a judicious 
 
 Traveller into Asia 464 
 
 Reverie at the Boar's-head Tavern, in Eastcheap 469 
 
 On Quack Doctors 485 
 
 Adventures of a Strolling Player .. . 489 
 
 Rules to be observed at a Russian Assembly 500 
 
 The Genius of Love, an Eastern Apologue 502 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Distresses of an English disabled Soldier 507 
 
 On the Frailty of Man 514 
 
 On Friendship 516 
 
 Folly of attempting to learn Wisdom in ^Retirement .... 520 
 Letter, by a Common- Council-man at the time of the Coro- 
 nation 524 
 
 A second Letter, describing the Coronation 527 
 
INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, 1 
 
 BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 It is sometimes both pleasing and profitable to recur to 
 those characters in literary history who are emphatically favor- 
 ites, and to glance at the causes of their popularity. Such 
 speculations frequently afford more important results than the 
 mere gratification of. curiosity. They often lead to a clearer 
 perception of the true tests of genius, and indicate the princi- 
 ple and methods by which the common mind may be most 
 successfully addresse.d- The advantage of such retrospective 
 inquiries is still greater at a period like the present, when there 
 is such an obvious tendency to innovate upon some of the best 
 established theories of taste ; when the passion for novelty 
 seeks for such unlicensed indulgence, and invention seems to 
 exhaust itself rather upon forms than ideas. In literature, 
 especially, we appear to be daily losing one of the most valu- 
 able elements — simplicity. The prevalent taste is no longer 
 gratified with the natural. There is a growing appetite for 
 what is startling and peculiar, seldom accompanied by any dis- 
 criminating demand for the true and original ] and yet, expe- 
 rience has fully proved that these last are the only permanent 
 elements of literature ; and no healthy mind, cognizant of its 
 own history, is unaware that the only intellectual aliment 
 
 * From 1 " Thoughts on the Poets," by H. T. T. 
 
Vlll INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 which never palls upon the taste, is that which is least indebt- 
 ed to extraneous accompaniments for its relish. 
 
 It is ever refreshing to revert to first principles. The study 
 of the old masteS3 may sometimes make the modern artist de- 
 spair of his own efforts ; but if he have the genius to discover, 
 and follow out the great principle upon which they wrought, 
 he will not have contemplated their works in vain. He will 
 have learned that devotion to Nature is the grand secret of 
 progress in Art, and that the success of her votaries depends 
 upon the singleness, constancy, and intelligence of their wor- 
 ship. If there is not enthusiasm enough to kindle this flame 
 in its purity, nor energy sufficient to fulfil the sacrifice required 
 at that high altar, let not the young aspirant enter the priest- 
 hood of art. When the immortal painter of the Transfigura- 
 tion was asked to embody his ideal of perfect female loveliness, 
 he replied — there would still be an infinite distance between 
 his work and the existent original. In this profound and vivid 
 perception of the beautiful in nature, we perceive the origin 
 of those lovely creations, which, for more than three hundred 
 years, have delighted mankind. And it is equally true of the 
 pen as the pencil, that what is drawn from life and the heart, 
 alone bears the impress of immortality. Yet the practical 
 faith of our day is diametrically opposed to this truth. The 
 writers of our times are constantly making use of artificial 
 enginery. They have, for the most part, abandoned the in- 
 tegrity of purpose and earnest directness of earlier epochs. 
 There is less faith, as we before said, in the natural ; and when 
 we turn from the midst of the forced and hot-bed products of 
 the modern school, and ramble in the garden of old English 
 literature, a cool and calm refreshment invigorates the spirit, 
 like the first breath of mountain air to the weary wayfarer. 
 
GOLDSMITH. IX 
 
 There are few writers of the period more generally beloved 
 than Dr. Goldsmith. Of his contemporaries, Burke excelled 
 him in splendor of diction, and Johnson in depth of thought. 
 The former continues to enjoy a larger share of admiration, 
 and the latter of respect, but the labors of their less pretending 
 companion have secured him a far richer heritage of love. 
 Of all posthumous tributes to genins, this seems the most truly 
 desirable. It recognizes the man as well as the author. It is 
 called forth by more interesting characteristics than talent. 
 It bespeaks a greater than ordinary association of the individ- 
 ual with his works, and looking beyond the mere embodiment 
 of his intellect, it gives assurance of an attractiveness in his 
 character which has made itself felt even through the artificial 
 medium of writing. The authors are comparatively few, who 
 have awakened this feeling of personal interest and affection. 
 It is common, indeed, for any writer of genius to inspire emo- 
 tions of gratitude in the breasts of those susceptible to the 
 charm, but the instances are rare in which this sentiment is 
 vivified and elevated into positive aiFection. And few, I 
 apprehend, among the wits and poets of old England, have 
 more widely awakened it than Oliver Goldsmith. I have said 
 this kind of literary fame was eminently desirable. There is, 
 indeed, something inexpressibly touching in the thought of one 
 of the gifted of our race, attaching to himself countless hearts 
 by the force of a charm woven in by-gone years, when envi- 
 roned by neglect and discouragement. Though a late, it is a 
 beautiful recompense, transcending mere critical approbation, 
 or even the reverence men offer to the monuments of mind. 
 We can conceive of no motive to effort which can be present- 
 ed to a m?'. of true feeling, like the hope of winning the love 
 of his kind by the faithful exhibition of himself. It is a nobler 
 
X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 purpose than that entertained by heartless ambition. The 
 appeal is not merely to the judgment and imagination, it is to 
 the universal heart of mankind. Such fame is emphatically 
 I rich. It gains its possessor warm friends instead of mere 
 admirers. To establish such an inheritance in the breast of 
 humanity, were indeed worthy of sacrifice and toil. It is an 
 offering not only to intellectual but to moral graces, and its 
 possession argues for the sons of fame holier qualities than 
 genius itself. It eloquently indicates that its subject is not 
 only capable of interesting the general mind by the power of 
 his creations, but, of captivating the feelings by the earnest 
 beauty of his nature. Of all oblations, therefore, we deem it 
 the most valuable. It is this sentiment with which the lovers 
 of painting regard the truest interpreters of the art. They 
 wonder at Michael Angelo but love Raphael, and gaze upon 
 the pensively beautiful delineation he has left us of himself, 
 with the regretful tenderness with which we look upon the 
 portrait of a departed friend. The devotees of music, too, 
 dwell with glad astonishment upon the celebrated operas of 
 Rosini and some of the German composers, but the memory 
 of Bellini is absolutely loved. It is well remarked by one of 
 Goldsmith's biographers, that the very fact of his being spoken 
 of always with the epithet " poor " attached to his name, is 
 sufficient evidence of the kind of fame he enjoys. Whence, 
 then, the peculiar attraction of his writings, and wherein con- 
 sists the spell which has so long rendered his works the favor- 
 ites of so many and such a variety of readers ? 
 
 The primary and all pervading charm of Goldsmith is his 
 truth. It is interesting to trace this delightful characteristic, 
 as it exhibits itself not less in his life than in his writings. We 
 see it displayed in the remarkable frankness which distinguish- 
 
GOLDSMITH. XI 
 
 ed his intercourse with others, and in that winning simplicity 
 which so frequently excited the contemptuous laugh of the 
 worldly-wise, but failed not to draw towards him the more val- 
 uable sympathies of less perverted natures. All who have 
 sketched his biography unite in declaring, that he could not 
 dissemble ; and we have a good illustration of his want of 
 tact in concealing a defect, in the story which is related of 
 him at the time of his unsuccessful attempt at medical practice 
 in Edinburgh — when, his only velvet coat being deformed by 
 a huge patch on the right breast, he was accustomed, while in 
 the drawing-room, to cover it in the most awkward manner 
 with his hat. It was his natural truthfulness which led him to 
 so candid and habitual a confession of his faults. Johnson 
 ridiculed him for so freely describing the state of his feelings 
 during the representation of his first play ; and, throughout 
 his life, the perfect honesty of his spirit made him the subject 
 of innumerable practical jokes. Credulity is perhaps a weak- 
 ness almost inseparable from eminently truthful characters. 
 Yet, if such is the case, it does not in the least diminish our 
 faith in the superiority and value of such characters. Waiving 
 all moral considerations, we believe it can be demonstrated 
 that truth is one of the most essential elements of real great- 
 ness, and surest means of eminent success. Management, 
 chicanery and cunning, may advance men in the career of 
 the world ; it may forward the views of the politician, and 
 clear the way of the diplomatist. But when humanity is to be 
 addressed in the universal language of genius ; when, through 
 the medium of literature and art, man essays to reach the 
 heart of his kind, the more sincere the appeal, the surer its 
 effect ; the more direct the call, and deeper the response. In 
 a word, the more largely truth enters into a work, the more 
 
XU INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 certain the fame of its author. But a few months since, I saw 
 the Parisian populace crowding around the church where the 
 remains of Talleyrand lay in state, but the fever of curiosity 
 alone gleamed from their eyes, undimmed by tears. "When 
 Goldsmith died, Reynolds, then in the full tide of success, 
 threw his pencil aside in sorrow, and Burke turned from the 
 fast-brightening vision of renown, to weep. 
 
 Truth is an endearing quality. None are so beloved as the 
 ingenuous. We feel in approaching them that the look of 
 welcome is unaffected — that the friendly grasp is from the 
 heart, and we regret their departure as an actual loss. And 
 not less winningly shines this high and sacred principle through 
 the labors of genius. It immortalizes history — it is the true 
 origin of eloquence, and constitutes the living charm of poetry. 
 When Goldsmith penned the lines — 
 
 " To me more dear, congenial to my heart r 
 One native charm than all the gloss of art," 
 
 he furnished the key to his peculiar genius, and recorded the 
 secret which has embalmed his memory. It was the clearness 
 of his own soul which reflected so truly the imagery of life. 
 He did but transcribe the unadorned convictions that glowed 
 in his mind, and faithfully traced the pictures which nature 
 threw upon the mirror of his fancy. Hence the unrivalled 
 excellence of his descriptions. Rural life has never found a 
 sweeter eulogist. To countless memories have his village land- 
 scapes risen pleasantly, when the " murmur " rose at eventide. 
 Where do we not meet with a kind-hearted philosopher de- 
 lighting in some speculative hobby, equally dear as the good 
 Vicar's theory of Monogamy ? The vigils of many an ardent 
 student have been beguiled by his portraiture of a country 
 
GOLDSMITH. xul 
 
 clergyman — brightening the dim vista of futurity as his own 
 ideal of destiny ; and who has not, at times, caught the very 
 solace of retirement from his sweet apostrophe ? 
 
 The genius of Goldsmith was chiefly fertilized by observa- 
 tion. He was not one of those who regard books as the only, 
 or even the principal sources of knowledge. He recognized 
 and delighted to study the unwritten lore so richly spread over 
 the volume of nature, and shadowed forth so variously from 
 the scenes of every-day life and the teachings of individual ex- 
 perience. There is a class of minds, second to none in native 
 acuteness and reflective power, so constituted as to nourish 
 almost exclusively by observation. Too impatient of restraint 
 to endure the long vigils of the scholar, they are yet keenly 
 alive to every idea and truth which is evolved from life. With- 
 out a tithe of that spirit of application that binds the German 
 student for years to his familiar tomes, they suffer not a single 
 impression which events or character leave upon their mem- 
 ories to pass unappreciated. Unlearned, in a great measure, 
 in the history of the past, the present is not allowed to pass 
 without eliciting their intelligent comment. Unskilled in the 
 technicalities of learning, they contrive to appropriate, with 
 surprising facility, the wisdom born of the passing moment. 
 No striking trait of character — no remarkable effect in nature 
 ■ — none of the phenomena of social existence, escape them. 
 Like Hogarth, they are constantly enriching themselves with 
 sketches from life ; and as he drew street-wonders upon his 
 thumb-nail, they note and remember, and afterwards elaborate 
 and digest whatever of interest experience affords. Goldsmith 
 was a true specimen of this class. He vindicated, indeed, his 
 claim to the title of scholar, by research and study ; but the 
 field most congenial to his taste, was the broad universe of na- 
 
XIV INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 ture and man. It was his love of observation which gave zest 
 to the roving life he began so early to indulge. His boyhood 
 was passed in a constant succession of friendly visits. He was 
 ever migrating from the house of one kinsman or friend to that 
 of another ; and on these oscasions, as well as when at home, 
 he was silently but faithfully observing. The result is easily 
 traced in his writings. Few authors, indeed, are so highly in- 
 debted to personal observation for their materials. It is well 
 known that the original of the Vicar of Wakefield was his own 
 father. Therein has he embodied in a charming manner his 
 early recollections of his parent, and the picture is rendered 
 still more complete in his papers on the " Man in Black." The 
 inimitable description, too, of the " Village Schoolmaster," is 
 drawn from the poet's early teacher ; and the veteran who 
 " shouldered his crutch and told how fields were won," had 
 often shared the hospitality of his father's roof. The leading 
 incident in " She Stoops to Conquer," was his own adventure ; 
 and, there is little question, that, in the quaint tastes of Mr. 
 Burchell, he aimed to exhibit many of his peculiar traits. But 
 it is not alone in the leading characters of his novel, plays and 
 poems, that we discover Goldsmith's observing power. It is 
 equally discernible throughout his essays and desultory papers. 
 Most of his illustrations are borrowed from personal experience, 
 and his opinions are generally founded upon experiment. His 
 talent for fresh and vivid delineation, is ever most prominently 
 displayed when he is describing what he actually witnessed, or 
 drawing from the rich fund of his early impressions or subse- 
 quent adventures. No appeal to humor, curiosity, or imagina- 
 tion, was unheeded; and it is the blended pictures he contrived 
 to combine from these cherished associations, that impart sp 
 lively an interest to his pages. One moment we find him 
 
GOLDSMITH. XV 
 
 noting, with philosophic sympathy, the pastimes of a foreign 
 peasantry ; and another, studying the operations of a spider at 
 his garret window, — now busy in nomenclating the peculiari- 
 ties of the Dutch, and anon, alluding to the exhibition of 
 Cherokee Indians. The natural effect of this thirst for ex- 
 perimental knowledge, was to beget a love for foreign travel. 
 Accordingly, we find that Goldsmith, after exhausting the nar- 
 row circle which his limited means could compass at home, 
 projected a continental tour, and long cherished the hope of visit- 
 ing the East. Indeed, we could scarcely have a stronger proof 
 of his enthusiasm, than the Jong journey he undertook and ac- 
 tually accomplished on foot. The remembrance of his romantic 
 wanderings over Holland, France, Germany, and Italy, imparts 
 a singular interest to his writings. It was, indeed, worthy of 
 a true poet that, enamored of nature and delighting in the ob- 
 servation of his species, he should thus manfully go forth, with 
 no companion but his flute, and wander over these fair lands 
 hallowed by past associations and existent beauty. A rich and 
 happy era, despite its moments of discomfort, to such a spirit, 
 was that year of solitary pilgrimage. Happy and proud must 
 have been the imaginative pedestrian, as he reposed his weary 
 frame in the peasant's cottage " beside the murmuring Loire ;" 
 and happier still when he stood amid the green valleys of 
 Switzerland, and looked around upon her snow-capt hills, hailed 
 the old towers of Verona, or entered the gate of Florence — 
 the long-anticipated goals to which his weary footsteps had so 
 patiently tended. If anything could enhance the pleasure of 
 musing amid these scenes of poetic interest, it must have been 
 the consciousness of having reached them by so gradual and 
 self-denying a progress. There is, in truth, no more charac- 
 teristic portion of Goldsmith's biography, than that which 
 
XVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 records this remarkable tour ; and there are few more striking 
 instances of the available worth of talent. Unlike the bards 
 of old, he won not his way to shelter and hospitality by appeal- 
 ing to national feeling ; for the lands through which he roamed 
 were not his own, and the lay of the last minstrel had long 
 since died away in oblivion. But he gained the ready kind- 
 ness of the peasantry by playing the flute, as they danced in 
 the intervals of toil ; and won the favor of the learned by suc- 
 cessful disputation at the convents and universities — a method 
 of rewarding talent which was extensively practised in Europe 
 at that period. Thus, solely befriended by his wits, the roving 
 poet rambled over the continent, and, notwithstanding the vi- 
 cissitudes incident to so precarious a mode of seeing the world, 
 to a mind like his, there was ample compensation in the supe- 
 rior opportunities for observation thus afforded. He mingled 
 frankly with the people, and saw things as they were. The 
 scenery which environed him flitted not before his senses, like 
 the shifting scenes of a panorama, but became familiar to his 
 eye under the changing aspects of time and season. Manners 
 and customs he quietly studied, with the advantage of sufficient 
 opportunity to institute just comparisons and draw fair infer- 
 ences. In short, Goldsmith was no tyro in the philosophy of 
 travel ; and, although the course he pursued was dictated by 
 necessity, its superior results are abundantly evidenced through- 
 out his works. We have, indeed, no formal narrative of his 
 journeyings ; but what is better, there is scarcely a page thrown 
 off, to supply the pressing wants of the moment, which is not 
 enriched by some pleasing reminiscence or sensible thought, 
 garnered from the recollection and scenes of that long pilgrim- 
 age. Nor did he fail to embody the prominent impressions of 
 so interesting an epoch of his checkered life, in a more en- 
 
GOLDSMITH. XV11 
 
 during and beautiful form. The poem of " The Traveller," 
 originally sketched in Switzerland, was subsequently revised 
 and extended. It was .the foundation of Goldsmith's poetical 
 fame. The subject evinces the taste of the author. The un- 
 pretending vein of enthusiasm which runs through it, is only 
 equalled by the force and simplicity of the style. The rapid 
 sketches of the several countries it presents, are vigorous and 
 pleasing ; and the reflections interspersed, abound with that 
 truly humane spirit, and that deep sympathy with the good, 
 the beautiful, and the true, which distinguishes the poet. This 
 production may be regarded as the author's first deliberate at- 
 tempt in the career of genius. It went through nine editions 
 during his life, and its success contributed, in a great measure, 
 to encourage and Sustain him in future and less genial efforts. 
 The faults which are said to have deformed the character 
 of Goldsmith, belong essentially to the class of foibles rather 
 than absolute and positive errors. Recent biographers agree 
 in the opinion, that his alleged devotion to play has either 
 been grossly exaggerated, or was but a temporary mania ; and 
 we should infer from his own allusion to the subject, that he had, 
 with the flexibility of disposition that belonged to him, yielded 
 only so far to its seductions as to learn from experience the 
 supreme folly of the practice. It is at all events certain, that 
 his means were too restricted, and his time, while in London, 
 too much occupied, to allow of his enacting the part of a reg- 
 ular and professed gamester ; and during the latter and most 
 busy years of his life, we have the testimony of the members 
 of the celebrated club to which he was attached, to the tem- 
 perance and industry of his habits. Another, and in the eyes 
 of the world, perhaps, greater weakness recorded of him, was 
 a mawkish vanity, sometimes accompanied by jealousy of 
 b* 
 
X\m INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 more si-coessful competitors for the honors of literature. Some 
 anecdotes, illustrative of this unamiable trait, are preserved, 
 which would amuse us, were they associated with less noble 
 endowments or a more uninteresting character. As it is, how- 
 ever, not a few of them challenge credulity, from their utter 
 want of harmony with certain dispositions which he is uni- 
 versally allowed to have possessed. But it is one of the 
 greatest and most common errors in judging of character, to 
 take an isolated and partial, instead of a broad and compre- 
 hensive view of the various qualities which go to form the 
 man, and the peculiar circumstances that have influenced 
 their development. Upon a candid retrospect of Goldsmith's 
 life, it appears to us that the display of vanity, which in the 
 view of many are so demeaning, may be easily and satis- 
 factorily explained. Few men possess talent of any kind un- 
 consciously. It seems designed by the Creator, that the very 
 sense of capacity should urge genius to fulfil its mission, and 
 support its early and lonely efforts by the earnest conviction 
 of ultimate success. To beings thus endowed, the neglect 
 and contumely of the world — the want of sympathy — the 
 feeling of misappreciation, is often a keen sorrow felt pre- 
 cisely in proportion to the susceptibility of the individual, and 
 expressed according as he is ingenuous and frank. 
 
 In the case of Goldsmith, his long and solitary struggle 
 with poverty — his years of obscure toil — his ill-success in 
 every scheme for support, coupled as they were with an in- 
 tuitive and deep consciousness of mental power and poetic 
 gifts, were calculated to render him painfully alive to the su- 
 perior consideration bestowed upon less deserving but more 
 presumptuous men, and the unmerited and unjust disregard 
 to his own claims. Weak it undoubtedly was, for him to give 
 
GOLDSMITH. XIX 
 
 vent so childishly to such feelings, but this sprung from the 
 spontaneous honesty of his nature. He felt as thousands have 
 felt under similar circumstances, but, unlike the most of men, 
 " he knew not the art of concealment." Indeed, this free- 
 spoken and candid disposition was inimical to his success in 
 more than one respect. He was ever a careless talker, unable 
 to play the great man, and instinctively preferring the spon- 
 taneous to the formal, and "thinking aloud" to studied and 
 circumspect speech. The " exquisite sensibility to contempt," 
 too, which he confesses belonged to him, frequently induced 
 an appearance of conceit, when no undue share existed. The 
 truth is, the legitimate pride of talent, for want of free and 
 natural scope, often exhibited itself in Goldsmith greatly to 
 his disadvantage. The fault was rather in his destiny than 
 himself. He ran away from college with the design of em- 
 barking for America, because he was reproved by an unfeel- 
 ing tutor before a convivial party of his friends ; and descended 
 to a personal rencontre with a printer, who impudently de- 
 livered Dodsley's refusal that he should undertake an im- 
 proved edition of Pope. He concealed his name when ne- 
 cessity obliged Mm to apply for the office of Usher; and 
 received visits and letters at a fashionable coffee-house, rather 
 than expose the poorness of his lodgings. He joined the 
 crowd to hear his own ballads sung when a student; and 
 openly expressed his wonder at the stupidity of people, in 
 preferring the tricks of a mountebank to the society of a 
 man like himself. While we smile at, we cannot wholly de- 
 ride such foibles, and are constrained to say of Goldsmith as 
 he said of the Village Pastor — 
 
 " And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side." 
 
XX INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 It is not easy to say, whether the improvidence of our poet 
 arose more from that recklessness of the future, characteristic 
 of the Irish temperament, or the singular confidence in des- 
 tiny which is so common a trait in men of ideal tendencies. 
 It would naturally be supposed, that the stern lesson of severe 
 experience would have eventually corrected this want of fore- 
 sight. It was but the thoughtlessness of youth which lured 
 him to forget amid the convivialities of a party, the vessel on 
 board which he had taken passage and embarked his effects, 
 on his first experiment in travelling ; but later in life, we find 
 him wandering out on the first evening of his arrival in Edin- 
 burgh, without noting the street or number of his lodgings ; 
 inviting a party of strangers in a public garden to take tea 
 with him, without a sixpence in his pocket ; and obstinately 
 persisting, during his last illness, in taking a favorite medi- 
 cine, notwithstanding it aggravated his disease. A life of 
 greater vicissitude it would be difficult to find in the annals 
 of literature. Butler and Otway were, indeed, victims of in- 
 digence, and often perhaps, found themselves, like our bard, 
 " in a garret writing for bread, and expecting every moment 
 to be dunned for a milk-score," but the biography of Gold- 
 smith displays a greater variety of shifts resorted to for sub- 
 sistence. He was successively an itinerant musician, a half- 
 starved usher, a chemist's apprentice, private tutor, law-student, 
 practising physician, eager disputant, hack-writer, and even, 
 for a week or two, one of a company of strolling players. In 
 the History of George Primrose, he is supposed to have de- 
 scribed much of his personal experience prior to the period 
 when he became a professed litterateur. We cannot but 
 respect the independent spirit he maintained through all these 
 
GOLDSMITH. XXI 
 
 struggles with adverse fortune. Notwithstanding his poverty, 
 the attempt to chain his talents to the service of a political 
 faction by mercenary motives was indignantly spurned, and 
 when his good genius proved triumphant, he preferred to in- 
 - scribe its first acknowledged offspring to his brother, than, 
 according to the servile habits of the day, dedicate it to any 
 aristocratic patron, " that thrift might follow fawning." With 
 all his incapacity for assuming dignity, Goldsmith never seems 
 to have forgotten the self-respect becoming one of nature's 
 nobility. 
 
 The high degree of excellence attained by Goldsmith in 
 such various and distinct species of literary effort, is worthy 
 of remark. As an essayist he has contributed some of the 
 most pure and graceful specimens of English prose discover- 
 able in the whole range of literature. His best comedy con- 
 tinues to maintain much of its original popularity, notwith- 
 standing the revolutions which public taste has undergone 
 since it was first produced ; and " The Hermit " is still an 
 acknowledged model in ballad-writing. If from his more 
 finished works, we turn to those which were thrown off under 
 the pressing exigencies of his life, it is astonishing what a 
 contrast of subjects employed his pen. During his college 
 days, he was constantly writing ballads on popular events, 
 which he disposed of at five shillings each, and subsequently, 
 after his literary career had fairly commenced, we find him 
 sedulously occupied in preparing prefaces, historical compila- 
 tions, translations, and reviews for the booksellers ; one day 
 throwing off a pamphlet on the Cock-lane Ghost, and the 
 next inditing Biographical Sketches of Beau Nash ; at one 
 moment, busy upon a festive song, and at another deep in 
 composing the words of an Oratorio. It is curious, with the 
 
XX11 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 intense sentiment and finished pictures of fashionable life 
 with which the fictions of our day abound, fresh in the mem- 
 ory, to open the Vicar of Wakefield. We seem to be read- 
 ing the memoirs of an earlier era, instead of a different sphere 
 of life. There are no wild and improbable incidents, no 
 startling views, and with the exception of BurchelFs incogni- 
 to, no attempt to excite interest through the attraction of 
 mystery. And yet, few novels have enjoyed such extensive 
 and permanent favor. It is yet the standard work for intro- 
 ducing students on the continent to a knowledge of our 
 language, and although popular taste at present demands quite 
 a different style of entertainment, yet Goldsmith's novel is 
 often reverted to with delight, from the vivid contrast it pre- 
 sents to the reigning school ; while the attractive picture it 
 affords of rural life and humble virtue, will ever render it 
 intrinsically dear and valuable. 
 
 But the " Deserted Village " is, of all Goldsmith's produc- 
 tions, unquestionably the favorite. It carries back the mind 
 to the early seasons of life, and re-asserts the power of un- 
 sophisticated tastes. Hence, while other poems grow stale, 
 this preserves its charm. Dear to the heart and sacred to 
 the imagination, are those sweet delineations of unperverted 
 existence. There is true pathos in that tender lament over 
 the superseded sports and ruined haunts of rustic enjoyment, 
 which never fails to find a response in every feeling breast. 
 It is an elaborate and touching epitaph, written in the ceme- 
 tery of the world, over what is dear to all humanity. There 
 is a truth in the eloquent defence of agricultural pursuits and 
 natural pastimes, that steals like a well-remembered strain 
 over the heart immersed in the toil and crowds of cities. 
 There is an unborn beauty in the similes of the bird and her 
 
GOLDSMITH. XX111 
 
 " unfledged offspring," the hare that " pants to the place from 
 whence at first he flew," and the " tall cliff that lifts its awful 
 form," which, despite their familiarity, retain their power to 
 delight. And no clear and susceptible mind can ever lose 
 its interest in the unforced, unexaggerated and heart-stirring 
 numbers, which animate with pleasure the pulses of youth, 
 gratify the mature taste of manhood, and fall with soothing 
 sweetness upon the ear of age. 
 
 We are not surprised at the exclamation of a young lady 
 who had been accustomed to say, that our poet was the home- 
 liest of men, after reading the " Deserted Village " — "I shall 
 never more think Dr. Goldsmith ugly ! " This poem passed 
 through five editions in as many months, and from its domes- 
 tic character became immediately popular throughout England. 
 Its melodious versification is doubtless, in a measure, to be 
 ascribed to its author's musical taste, and the fascinating ease 
 of its flow is the result of long study and careful revision. 
 Nothing is more deceitful than the apparent facility observa- 
 ble in poetry. No poet exhibits more of this characteristic 
 than Ariosto, and yet his manuscripts are filled with erasures 
 and repetitions. Few things appear more negligently grace- 
 ful than the well-arranged drapery of a statue, yet how many 
 experiments must the artist try before the desired effect is 
 produced. So thoroughly did the author revise the " Desert- 
 ed Village," that not a single original line remained. The 
 clearness and warmth of his style is, to my mind, as indica- 
 tive of Goldsmith's truth, as the candor of his character or 
 the sincerity of his sentiments. It has been said of Pitt's 
 elocution, that it had the effect of impressing one with the 
 idea that the man was greater than the orator. A similar 
 
XXIV INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 influence it seems to me is produced by the harmonious ver- 
 sification and elegant diction of Goldsmith. 
 
 It is not, indeed, by an analysis, however critical, of the 
 intellectual distinctions of any author, that we can arrive at 
 a complete view of his genius. It is to the feelings that we 
 must look for that earnestness which gives vigor to mental 
 efforts, and imparts to them their peculiar tone and coloring. 
 And it will generally be found that what is really and per- 
 manently attractive in the works of genius, independent of 
 mere diction, is to be traced rather to the heart than the head. 
 We may admire the original conception, the lofty imagery or 
 winning style of a popular author, but what touches us most 
 deeply is the sentiment of which these are the vehicles. The 
 fertile invention of Petrarch, in displaying under such a 
 variety of disguises the same favorite subject, is not so 
 moving as the unalterable devotion which inspires his fancy 
 and quickens his muse. The popularity of Mrs. Hemans is 
 more owing to the delicate and deep enthusiasm than to the 
 elegance of her poetry, and Charles Lamb is not less attrac- 
 tive for his kindly affections than for his quaint humor. Not 
 a little of the peculiar charm of Goldsmith, is attributable to 
 the excellence of his heart. Mere talent would scarcely have 
 sufficed to interpret and display so enchantingly the humble 
 characters and scenes to which his most brilliant efforts were 
 devoted. It was his sincere and ready sympathy with man, 
 his sensibility to suffering in every form, his strong social sen- 
 timent and his amiable interest in all around, which brighten- 
 ed to his mind's eye, what to the less susceptible is unheeded 
 and obscure. Naturally endowed with free and keen sensi- 
 bilities, his own experience of privation prevented them from 
 
GOLDSMITH. XXV 
 
 indurating through age or prosperity. He cherished through- 
 out his life an earnest faith in the better feelings of our 
 nature. He realized the universal beauty and power of Love ; 
 and neither the solitary pursuits of literature, the elation of 
 success, nor the blandishments of pleasure or society, ever 
 banished from his bosom the generous and kindly sentiments 
 which adorned his character. He was not the mere creature 
 of attainment, the reserved scholar or abstracted dreamer. 
 Pride of intellect usurped not Ids heart. Pedantry congeal- 
 ed not the fountains of feeling. He rejoiced in the exercise 
 of all those tender and noble sentiments which are so much 
 more honorable to man than the highest triumphs of mind. 
 And it is these which make us love the man not less than 
 admire the author. Goldsmith's early sympathy with the 
 sufferings of the peasantry, is eloquently expressed in both 
 his poems and frequently in his prose writings. How expres- 
 sive that lament for the destruction of the ' Ale-House ' — 
 
 that it would 
 
 ' No more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.' 
 
 There is more true benevolence in the feeling which 
 prompted such a thought, than in all the cold and calculating 
 philosophy with which so many expect to elevate the lower 
 classes in these days of ultra-reform. When shall we learn 
 that we must sympathize with those we would improve ? At 
 college, we are told, one bitter night Goldsmith encountered 
 a poor woman and her infants shivering at the gate, and 
 having no money to give them, bringing out all his bed-clothes, > 
 and to keep himself from freezing, cut open his bed and slept 
 within it When hard at work earning a scanty pittance in 
 his garret, he spent every spare penny in cakes for the chil- 
 c 
 
XXVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 dren of his poorer neighbors, and when he could do nothing 
 else, taught them dancing by way of cheering their poverty. 
 Notwithstanding his avowed antipathy to Baretti, he visited and 
 relieved him in prison ; and when returning home with the 
 100Z. received from his bookseller for the ' Deserted Village, 
 upon being told by an acquaintance he fell in with, that it 
 was a great price for so little a thing, replied, ' Perhaps it is 
 more than he can afford,' and returning, offered to refund a 
 part. To his poor countrymen he was a constant benefactor, 
 and while he had a shilling was ready to share it with them, 
 so that they familiarly styled him ' our doctor.' In Leyden, 
 when on the point of commencing his tour, he stripped him- 
 self of all his funds to send a collection of flower-roots to an 
 uncle who was devoted to botany ; and on the first occasion 
 that patronage was offered him, declined aid for himself, to 
 bespeak a vacant living for his brother. In truth, his life 
 abounds in anecdotes of a like nature. We read one day of 
 his pawning his watch for Pilkington, another of his bringing 
 home a poor foreigner from Temple gardens to be his amanu- 
 ensis, and again of his leaving the card-table to relieve a 
 poor woman, whose tones as she chanted some ditty in pass- 
 ing, came to him above the hum of gaiety and indicated to his 
 ear distress. Though the frequent and undeserved subject 
 of literary abuse, he was never known to write severely 
 against any one. 
 
 His talents were sacredly devoted to the cause of virtue 
 and humanity. No malignant satire ever came from his pen. 
 He loved to dwell upon the beautiful vindications in Nature 
 of the paternity of God, and expatiate upon the noblest and 
 most universal attributes of man. ' If I were to love you by 
 rule,' he writes to his brother, ' I dare say I never could do it 
 
GOLDSMITH. XXV11 
 
 sincerely/ There was in his nature, an instinctive aversion 
 to the frigid ceremonial and meaningless professions which so 
 coldly imitate the language of feeling. Goldsmith saw enough 
 of the world, to disrobe his mind of that scepticism born of 
 custom which ' makes dotards of us all.' He did not wander 
 among foreign nations, sit at the cottage fire-side, nor mix in 
 the thoroughfare and gay saloon, in vain. Travel liberalized 
 his views and demolished the barriers of local prejudice. He 
 looked around upon his kind with the charitable judgment 
 and interest born of an observing mind and a kindly heart — 
 with an infinite love, an infinite pity.' He delighted in the de- 
 lineation of humble life, because he knew it to be the most 
 unperverted. Simple pleasures warmed his fancy because 
 he had learned 1;heir preeminent truth. Childhood with its 
 innocent playfulness, intellectual character with its tutored 
 wisdom, and the uncultivated but ' bold peasantry,' interested 
 him alike. He could enjoy an hour's friendly chat with his 
 fellow-lodger — the watchmaker in Green Arbor Court — not 
 less than a literary discussion with Dr. Johnson. ' I must own,' 
 he writes, ' I should prefer the title of the ancient philoso- 
 pher, namely, a Citizen of the World — to that of an English- 
 man, a Frenchman, an European, or that of any appellation 
 whatever.' And this title he has nobly earned, by the wide 
 scope of his sympathies and the beautiful pictures of life and 
 nature universally recognized and universally loved, which 
 have spread his name over the world. Pilgrims to the sup- 
 posed scene of the Deserted Village have long since carried 
 away every vestige of the hawthorn at Lissoy, but the laurels 
 of Goldsmith will never be garnered by the hand of time, or 
 blighted by the frost of neglect, as long as there are minds to 
 appreciate, or hearts to reverence the household lore of 
 English literature. 
 
MEMOIRS 
 
 OP 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 
 
 BY DR. AIKIN. 
 
 It cannot be said of this ornament of British literature, 
 as has been observed of most authors, that the memoirs of his 
 life comprise little more than a history of his writings. Gold- 
 smith's life was full of adventure ; and a due consideration 
 of his conduct, from the outset to his death, will furnish many 
 useful lessons to those who live after him. 
 
 Our Author, the third son of Mr. Charles Goldsmith, was 
 born at Elphin, in the county of Roscommon, Ireland, on the 
 29th of November, 1728. His father, who had been educated 
 at Dublin College, was a clergyman of the established church, 
 and had married Anne, daughter of the Rev. Oliver Jones, 
 master of the diocesan school of Elphin. Her mother's 
 brother, the Rev. Mr. Green, then rector of Kilkenny West, 
 lent the young couple the house in which our author was 
 born ; and at his death Mr. Green was succeeded in his bene- 
 fice by his clerical protegee. 
 
 Mr. Charles Goldsmith had five sons and two daughters. 
 
 Henry, the eldest son (to whom the poem of ' The Travel- 
 ler' is dedicated), distinguished himself greatly both at school 
 
8 AIKINS MEMOIRS OF 
 
 and at college ; but his marriage at nineteen years of age 
 appears to have been a bar to his preferment in the church ; 
 and we believe that he never ascended above a curacy. 
 
 The liberal education which the father bestowed upon 
 Henry had deducted so much from a narrow income that, 
 when Oliver was born, after an interval of seven years from 
 the birth of the former child, no prospect in life appeared for 
 him, but a mechanical or mercantile occupation. 
 
 The rudiments of instruction he acquired from a school- 
 master in the village, who had served in Queen Anne's wars 
 as a quarter-master in that detachment of the army which 
 was sent to Spain. Being of a communicative turn, and find- 
 ing a ready hearer in young Oliver, this man used frequent- 
 ly to entertain him with what he called his adventures ; nor 
 is it without probability supposed, that these laid the founda- 
 tion of that wandering disposition which became afterwards so 
 conspicuous in his pupil. 
 
 At a very early age Oliver began to exhibit indications of 
 genius ; for, when only seven or eight years old, he would 
 often amuse his father and mother with poetical attempts, 
 which attracted much notice from them and their friends ; 
 but his infant mind does not appear to have been much elat- 
 ed by their approbation ; for after his verses had been admir- 
 ed, they were, without regret, committed by him to the 
 flames. 
 
 He was now taken from the tuition of the quondam soldier, 
 to be put under that of the Rev. Mr. Griffin, schoolmaster of 
 Elphin ; and was at the same time received into the house of 
 his father's brother, John Goldsmith, Esq., of Ballyoughter, 
 near that town. 
 
 Our author's eldest sister, Catharine, (afterwards married 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 9 
 
 to Daniel Hodson, Esq., of Lishoy, near Ballymahon,) relates 7 
 that one evening, when Oliver was about nine years of age, 
 a company of young people of both sexes being assembled at 
 his uncle's, the boy was required to dance a hornpipe, a youth 
 undertaking to play to him on the fiddle. Being but lately 
 out of the small-pox, which had much disfigured his counte- 
 nance, and his bodily proportions being short and thick, the 
 young musician thought to show his wit by comparing our he- 
 ro to iEsop dancing ; and having harped a little too long, as 
 the caperer thought, on this bright idea, the latter suddenly 
 stopped, and said, 
 
 Our herald hath proclaim' d this saying, 
 ' See jiEsop dancing,' — and his Monkey playing. 
 
 This instance of early wit, we are told, decided his fortune ; 
 for, from that time, it was determined to send him to the uni- 
 versity ; and some of his relations, who were in the church, 
 offered to contribute towards the expense, particularly the 
 Eev. Thomas Contarine, rector of Kilmore, near Carrick-up- 
 on-Shannon, who had married an aunt of Oliver's. The Eev. 
 Mr. Green also, whom we have before mentioned, liberally 
 assisted in this friendly design. 
 
 To further the purpose intended, he was now removed to 
 Athlone, where he continued about two years under the Eev. 
 Mr. Campbell ; who being then obliged by ill-health to resign 
 the charge, Oliver was sent to the school of the Eev. Patrick 
 Hughes, at Edgeworthstown, in the county of Longford.* 
 
 * We are told, that in his last journey to this school, he had an ad- 
 venture, which is thought to have suggested the plot of his comedy 
 of ' She stoops to conquer.' — Some friend had given him a guinea; 
 and in his way to Edgeworthstown, which was about twenty miles 
 
10 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 Under this gentleman lie was prepared for the university ; 
 and on the 11th of June, 1744, was admitted a Sizer of Trin- 
 ity college, Dublin,* under the tuition of the Rev. Mr. Wilder, 
 one of the Fellows, who was a man of harsh temper and vio- 
 lent passions ; and Oliver being of a thoughtless and gay turn, 
 it cannot be surprising that they should soon be dissatisfied 
 with each other. 
 
 Oliver, it seems, had one day imprudently invited a party 
 of both sexes to a supper and ball in his rooms ; which com- 
 ing to the ears of his tutor, the latter entered the place in the 
 midst of their jollity, abused the whole company, and inflicted 
 manual correction on Goldsmith in their presence. 
 
 This mortification had such an effect on the mind of Oliver, 
 that he resolved to seek his fortune in some place where he 
 should be unknown : accordingly he sold his books and clothes, 
 and quitted the university ; but loitered about the streets, 
 
 from his father's house, he had amused himself the whole day with 
 viewing the gentlemen's seats on the road; and at nightfall found 
 himself in the small town of Ardagh. Here he inquired for the best 
 house in the place, meaning the best inn ; but his informant, taking 
 the question in its literal sense, shewed him to the house of a private 
 gentleman ; where, calling for somebody to take his horse to the sta- 
 ble, our hero alighted, and was shown into the parlor, being suppos- 
 ed to have come on a visit to the master, whom he found sitting by 
 the fire. This gentleman soon discovered Oliver's mistake; but be- 
 ing a man of humor, and learning from him the name of his father, 
 (whom he knew), he favored the deception. Oliver ordered a -good 
 supper, and invited his landlord and landlady, with their daughters, 
 to partake of it ; he treated them with a bottle or two of wine, and, 
 at going to bed, ordered a hot cake to be prepared for his breakfast : 
 nor was it till he was about to depart, and called for his bill, that he 
 discovered his mistake. 
 
 =& The celebrated Edmund Burke was at the same time a collegian 
 there. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 11 
 
 considering of a destination, till his money was exhausted. 
 With a solitary shilling in his pocket he at last left Dublin ; 
 by abstinence he made this sum last him three days, and then 
 was obliged to part, by degrees, with the clothes off his back : 
 in short, to such an extremity was he reduced, as to find a 
 handful of gray-peas, given him by a girl at a wake, the most 
 comfortable repast that he had ever made. 
 
 After numberless adventures in this vagrant state, he found 
 his way home, and was replaced under his morose and mer- 
 ciless tutor ; by whom he was again exposed to so many mor- 
 tifications, as induced an habitual despondence of mind, and 
 a total carelessness about his studies ; the consequence of 
 which was, that he neither obtained a scholarship, nor became 
 a candidate for the premiums. On the 25th of May, 1747, 
 he received a public admonition, for having assisted other col- 
 legians in a riot occasioned by a scholar having been arrested, 
 quod seditioni favisset, et tumultuantibus opem tulisset : in this 
 case, however, he appears to have fared better than some of 
 his companions, who were expelled the university. On the 
 15th of June following he was elected one of the exhibition- 
 ers on the foundation of Erasmus Smyth ; but was not admit- 
 ted to the degree of Bachelor of Arts till February, 1749, 
 which was two years after the usual period. 
 
 Oliver's father being now dead, his uncle Contarine under- 
 took to supply his place, and wished him to prepare for holy 
 orders. This proposal not meeting with the young man's in- 
 clination, Mr. Contarine next resolved on sending him to Lon- 
 don, that he might study law in the temple. Whilst at Dub- 
 lin, however, on his way to England, he fell in with a sharp- 
 er, who cheated him at play of 50Z., which had been provid- 
 ed for his carriage, etc. He returned, and received his un- 
 
12 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 cle's forgiveness : it was now finally settled that he should 
 make physic his profession ; and he departed for Edinburgh, 
 where he settled about the latter end of the year 1752. Here 
 he attended the lectures of Dr. Monroe and the other medical 
 professors ; but his studies were by no means regular ; and 
 an indulgence in dissipated company, with a ready hand to 
 administer to the necessities of whoever asked him, kept him 
 always poor. 
 
 Having, however, gone through the usual courses of phys- 
 ic and anatomy in the Scottish university, Goldsmith was 
 about to remove to Leyden to complete his studies ; and his 
 departure was hastened by a debt to Mr. Barclay, a tailor in 
 Edinburgh, which he had imprudently made his own by be- 
 coming security for a fellow student who, either from want of 
 principle or of means, had failed to pay it : for this debt he 
 was arrested ; but was released by the kindness of Dr. Sleigh 
 and Mr. Laughlin Maclaine, whose friendship he had acquir- 
 ed at the college. 
 
 He now embarked for Bourdeaux, on board a Scotch ves- 
 sel called the St. Andrew's, Capt. John Wall, master. The 
 ship made a tolerable appearance ; and, as another induce- 
 ment to our hero, he was informed that six agreeable passen- 
 gers were to be his company. They had been but two days 
 at sea, however, when a storm drove them into Newcastle-up- 
 on-Tyne^ and the passengers went ashore to refresh after the 
 fatigue of their voyage. ' Seven men and I, (says Goldsmith) 
 were on shore the following evening ; but as we were all very 
 merry, the room door burst open, and there entered a sergeant 
 and twelve grenadiers, with their bayonets screwed, who put 
 us all under the King's arrest. It seems, my company were 
 Scotchmen in the French service, and had been in Scotland 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 13 
 
 to enlist soldiers for Louis XV. I endeavored all I could to 
 prove my innocence ; however, I remained in prison with the 
 rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got off even then. But 
 hear how Providence interposed in my favor : the ship, which 
 had set sail for Bourdeaux before I got from prison, was 
 wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the 
 crew drowned/ — Fortunately, there was a ship now ready at 
 Newcastle, for Holland, on board of which he embarked, and 
 in nine days reached Rotterdam ; whence he travelled by 
 land to Leyden. 
 
 Here he resided about a year, studying anatomy under 
 Albinus, and chemistry under Gambius ; but here, as former- 
 ly, his little property was destroyed by play and dissipation ; 
 and he is actually believed to have set out on his travels with 
 only one clean shirt, and not a guilder in his purse, trusting 
 wholly to Providence for a subsistence. 
 
 It is generally understood, that in the history of his Philo- 
 sophic Vagabond, (Vicar of Wakefield, chap, xx.) he has re- 
 lated many of his own adventures ; and that when on his pe- 
 destrian tour through Flanders and France, as he had some 
 knowledge of music, he turned what had formerly been his 
 amusement into a present means of subsistence. ' I passed, 
 (says he) 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 on my German flute 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 rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me 
 2 
 
14 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 the more extraordinary ; 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 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 I ' At the differ- 
 ent monasteries in his tour, especially those of his own nar 
 tion, his learning generally procured him temporary enter- 
 tainment ; and thus he made his way to Switzerland, in which 
 country he first cultivated his poetical talents with any par- 
 ticular effect ; for here we find he wrote about two hundred 
 lines of his ' Traveller.' 
 
 The story which has commonly been told, of his having 
 acted as travelling tutor to a young miser, is now thought to 
 have been too hastily adopted from the aforesaid History of a 
 Philosophic Vagabond, and never to have been the real situ- 
 ation of the author of that history. From Switzerland, Gold- 
 smith proceeded to Padua, where he stayed six months, and 
 is by some supposed to have taken there his degree of Bache- 
 lor of Physic \ though others are of opinion,, that if ever he 
 really took any medical degree abroad, it was at Louvairi.* 
 
 After visiting all the northern part of Italy,, he travelled, 
 still on foot, through France ; and, embarking at Calais, land- 
 ed at Dover in the summer of 1756, unknown, as he suppos- 
 ed, to a single individual, and with not a guinea in his pock- 
 et. 
 
 His first endeavors were, to procure employment as an ush- 
 er in some school ; but the want of a recommendation as to 
 character and ability rendered his efforts for some time fruit- 
 
 * In 1769, it is certain, he was admitted M. B. at Oxford, which 
 university he visited in February, in company with Dr. Johnson. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 15 
 
 less ; and how he subsisted is not easy to guess. At length, 
 however, it appears he procured an usher's place ; but in 
 what part the school was situated, or how long he continued 
 in it, we do not learn ; though we may form some idea of 
 the uncongeniality of the place to his mind, from the follow- 
 ing passage in the Philosophic Vagabond : ' I have been an 
 usher at a boarding-school ; and may I die but I would rath- 
 er be an under-tumkey in Newgate. I was up early and 
 late ; I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face 
 by my mistress, worried by the boys within, and never per- 
 mitted to stir out to meet civility abroad..' 
 
 When in a fit of disgust he had quitted this academy, his 
 pecuniary necessities soon became pressing ; to relieve which 
 he applied to several apothecaries and chemists for employ- 
 ment as a journeyman ; but here his threadbare appearance, 
 awkward manners, and the want of a recommendation, ope- 
 rated sorely to his prejudice ;* till at last a chemist near Fish-' 
 street-hill, probably moved by compassion, gave him employ- 
 ment in his laboratory, where he continued till he learned 
 that his old friend Dr. Sleigh, of Edinburgh, was in town : on 
 him (who had, as we have seen, formerly relieved' him from 
 embarrassment,) Goldsmith waited, was kindly received, and 
 invited to share his purse during his continuance in London. 
 
 This timely assistance enabled our author to commence 
 medical practice at Bankside, in Southwark, whence he after- 
 
 * In a letter, dated Dec. 1757, he writes thus:—' At London, you 
 may easily imagine what difficulties I had to encounter; without 
 friends, recommendations, money or impudence; and that in a coun- 
 try where being born an Irishman was sufficient to keep me unem- 
 ployed. Many in such circumstances would have had recourse to 
 the friar's cord or the suicide's halter. But with all my follies I had 
 principle to resist the one, and resolution to combat the other. 
 
16 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 ward removed to the neighborhood of the Temple ; his suc- 
 cess as a physician is not known, but his income was very 
 small ; for, as he used to say, he got very few fees, though 
 he had abundance of patients. Some addition, however, he 
 now began to derive from the efforts of Ms pen ; and it ap- 
 pears that he was for awhile with the celebrated Samuel Rich- 
 ardson as corrector of the press- 
 About this time he renewed his acquaintance with one of 
 the young physicians whom he had known at Edinburgh. 
 This was a son of the Rev. Dr. John Milner, a dissenting 
 minister, who kept a classical school of eminence at Peckham, 
 in Surrey. Mr. Milner, observing Goldsmiths uncertain 
 mode of living, invited him to take the charge of his father's 
 school, the Doctor being then confined by illness : to this he 
 consented ; and Dr. Milner, in return, promised to exert his 
 interest with the India Directors to procure for him some med- 
 ical establishment in the Company's service. This promise 
 he faithfully performed, and Goldsmith was actually appoint- 
 ed physician to one of the factories in India in 1758. It ap- 
 pears, however, that our author never availed himself of this 
 post,* but continued in Dr. Milner's academy ; and in this 
 very year sold to Mr. Edward Dilly, for twenty guineas, l The 
 Memoirs of a Protestant condemned to the Galleys of France 
 for his Religion. Written by Himself. Translated from the 
 Original, just published at the Hague, by James WiUington.' 
 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 Towards the latter end of 1758, Goldsmith happened to 
 
 * Though, it is certain, that, in contemplation of going to India, he 
 circulated Proposals to print by Subscription ' An essay on the Pres- 
 ent State of Taste and Literature in Europe,' as a means of defray- 
 ing the expenses of his fitting out for the voyage. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 17 
 
 dine at Dr. Milner's table with Mr. Ralph Griffiths, the pro- 
 prietor of The Monthly Review, who invited him to write ar- 
 ticles of criticism for that respectable publication, on the terms 
 of a liberal salary, besides board and. lodging. By a written 
 agreement this engagement was to last for a year ; but at the 
 end of seven or eight months it was dissolved by mutual con- 
 sent, and Goldsmith took a miserable apartment in Green- Ar- 
 bor-court, Little Old Bailey.* In this wretched hovel our 
 a\ithor completed his ' Inquiry into the Present State of Po- 
 lite Literature in Europe,' which was published in 1759, by 
 Dodsley, and was well received. In October of the same 
 year he began i The Bee,' a weekly publication, which termi- 
 nated at the eighth number. About this time, also, he con- 
 tributed some articles to The Critical Review, one of which 
 (we believe a review of 'Ovid's Epistles translated into Eng- 
 lish verse, by a Mr. Barrett, Master of the Grammar School 
 at Ashford, in Kent,) introduced him to the acquaintance of 
 Dr. Smollett, who was then editor of The British Magazine ; 
 and for that work Goldsmith wrote most of those ' Essays,' 
 which were afterwards collected and published in a separate 
 volume. By Dr. Smollett too he was recommended to some 
 respectable booksellers, particularly to Mr. John Newbery, 
 who well deserved the eulogium bestowed by Warburton on 
 the trade in general, as one of ' the best judges and most lib- 
 eral rewarders of literary merit.' By Mr. ISTewbery, Gold- . 
 smith was engaged at a salary of 100/. a-year, to write for 
 The Public Ledger a series of periodical papers. These he 
 called ' Chinese Letters ; ' and they were afterwards collect- 
 ed in two volumes, under the title of ' The Citizen of the 
 
 * An engraving of the house, illustrated by a description, was giv- 
 en in ' The European Magazine,' vol. xliii. pp. 7, 8. 
 
 2* 
 
18 aikin's memoirs op 
 
 World/ It was soon after this that he commenced his ac- 
 quaintance with Dr. Johnson. 
 
 The important engagement with Newbery for a hundred 
 pounds a year, encouraged Goldsmith to descend Break-neck- 
 steps,* and to hire a decent apartment ; in Wine-Office-court, 
 Meet-street. Here he dropped the humble Mister, and dub- 
 bed himself Doctor Goldsmith. Here also he put the finish- 
 ing hand to his excellent novel, called ' The Vicar of Wake- 
 field,' but was, when he had clone, extremely embarrassed in 
 his circumstances, dunned by his landlady for arrears of rent, 
 and not daring to stir abroad for fear of arrest : in fact, she 
 herself at length had him arrested ; he then summoned reso- 
 lution to send a message to Dr. Johnson ; stating that he was 
 in great distress, and begging that he would come to him as 
 soon as possible. Johnson sent him a guinea, and promised to 
 follow almost immediately. When he arrived, he found Gold- 
 smith in a violent passion with the woman of the house, but 
 consoling himself as well as he could with a bottle of Madeira, 
 which he had already purchased with part of the guinea. 
 Johnson, corking the bottle, desired Goldsmith would be calm, 
 and consider in what way he could extricate himself. The 
 latter then produced his novel as ready for the press. The 
 Doctor looked into it, saw its merit, and went away with it to 
 Mr. Newbery, who gave him 60Z. for it ; with this sum he re- 
 turned to Goldsmith, who, with many invectives, paid his 
 landlady her rent. Newbery, however, seems not to have 
 been very sanguine in his hopes of this novel ; for he kept 
 the MS. by him near three years unprinted : his ready pur- 
 chase of it, probably, was in the way of a benefaction to its 
 
 * A steep flight of stairs (commonly so termed) leading from the 
 door of his lodging-house in Green- Arbor-court to Fleet-market. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 19 
 
 distressed author, rather than under any idea of profit by the 
 publication. 
 
 Early in the year 1763, Goldsmith removed to lodgings at 
 Canonbury-house, Islington, where he compiled several works 
 for Mr. Newbery ; among which were, ' The Art of Poetry,' 
 2 vols. 12mo. ; a ' Life of Nash ; ' and a ' History of England, 
 in a Series of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son.' This 
 latter book was for a long time attributed to George Lord 
 Lyttleton. 
 
 In the following year he took chambers on the upper story 
 of the Library stair-case in the Inner Temple, and began to 
 live in a genteel style. Still, however, he was little known, 
 except among the booksellers, till the year 1765, when he 
 produced his poem called ' The Traveller ; or, A Prospect 
 of Society/ which had obtained high commendation from Dr. 
 Johnson, who declared ' that there had not been so fine a po- 
 em since the time of Pope ; ' yet such was Goldsmith's diffi- 
 dence, that, though he had completed it some years before, he 
 had not courage enough to publish, till urged to it by John- 
 son's suggestions. . This poem heightened his literary charac- 
 ter with the booksellers, and introduced him to several per- 
 sons of superior rank and talents, as Lord Nugent (afterwards 
 earl of Clare), Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Nugent, 
 Mr. Bennet Langton, Mr Topham Beauclerc, etc., and he 
 was elected one of the first members of ' The Literary Club,' 
 which had been just instituted by Johnson, Burke, and Sir 
 Joshua, and met at the Turk's-head, Gerard-street, Soho, ev- 
 ery Friday evening. 
 
 His pathetic ballad of ' The Hermit,' which was also pub- 
 lished in 1765, recommended him to the Countess (afterwards 
 Duchess) of Northumberland, who was a generous patroness 
 
20 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 of merit. In the following year his ' Vicar of Wakefield ' was 
 printed, and universally read and admired. 
 
 His reputation being now fairly established as a novelist, a 
 poet, and a critic, Goldsmith turned his thoughts to the dra- 
 ma, and set about his comedy called ' The Good-natured Man.' 
 This he first offered to Garrick, who, after a long fluctuation 
 between doubt and encouragement, at length declined bring- 
 ing it forward at Drury-lane theatre ; it was therefore taken 
 to Covent-garden, accepted by Mr. Colman, and presented 
 for the first time on the 29th of January, 1768. It was act- 
 ed nine times ; and by the profits of the author's three third- 
 nights, with the sale of the copyright, a clear 500Z. was pro- 
 duced. 
 
 With this, and some money which he had reserved out of 
 the produce of a ' Roman History,' in 2 vols. 8vo., and other 
 works, he was enabled to descend from his attic story in the 
 Inner Temple, and to purchase for 400Z., and furnish elegant- 
 ly, a spacious set of chambers on the first floor, at No. 2, Brick- 
 court, Middle Temple. 
 
 On the establishment of the Royal Academy, in 1769, Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds recommended Goldsmith to his Majesty for 
 the Honorary Professorship of History, which was graciously 
 conferred on him. In the following year he produced that 
 highly-finished poem called ' The Deserted Village.' Previ- 
 ous to its publication, we are told, the bookseller (Mr. Grif- 
 fin, of Catharine street, Strand) had given him a note of a 
 hundred guineas for the copy. This circumstance Goldsmith 
 mentioned soon afterwards to a friend, who observed that it 
 was a large sum for so small a performance. ' In truth,' re- 
 plied Goldsmith, ' I think so too ; it is near five sliillings a 
 couplet, which is much more than the honest man can afford, 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 21 
 
 and, indeed, more than any modern poetry is worth. I have 
 not been easy since I received it ; I will, therefore, go back 
 and return him his note ; ' which he actually did ; but the 
 sale was so rapid, that the bookseller soon paid him the hun- 
 dred guineas with proper acknowledgments for the generosi- 
 ty of his conduct. 
 
 Soon after the appearance of the Deserted Village, our 
 author paid a tribute to the memory of Dr. Parnell, in a Life 
 prefixed to a new edition of his ' Poems on several Occasions.' 
 In the year 1771 he produced his ' History of England, from 
 the earliest Times to the Death of George II.,' in 4 vols. 8vo. ; 
 for which Mr. Thomas Davies, the bookseller, paid him 500Z. 
 
 The Earl of Lisburne, one day at a dinner of the Royal 
 Academicians, lamented to Goldsmith that he should neglect 
 the muses to compile histories, and write novels, instead of 
 penning poetry with which he was sure to charm his readers. 
 * My lord,' replied cur author, ' in courting the muses I should 
 starve ; but by my other labors I eat, drink, wear good clothes, 
 and enjoy the luxuries of life.' 
 
 Goldsmith had, besides his regular works, much of the oth- 
 er business of an author by profession ; such as penning Pref- 
 aces and Introductions to the books of other writers ; some of 
 these have been published among his prose works ; but, no 
 doubt, many remain at this day unknown. 
 
 His second dramatic effort, being a comedy called ' She 
 Stoops to Conquer ; or, The Mistakes of a Night,' was first 
 presented at Covent-garden theatre, March 15, 1773, and re- 
 ceived with an applause fully adequate to the author's san- 
 guine hopes, and contrary to the expectations of Mr. Colman, 
 who had not consented to receive the piece but at the earnest 
 and reiterated instances of many friends. What was called 
 
22 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 sentimental comedy had at that time got an unaccountable hold * 
 of the public taste ; Kelly was subserving this un-British pro- 
 pensity by his ' False Delicacy,' etc., and Goldsmith's piece 
 (which was designed by him to bring back the town to a rel- 
 ish of humor) being certainly in the opposite extreme, and 
 hardly anything else than a farce of five acts instead of two, 
 Colman, and his actors from him, had predestined the play to 
 condemnation : when, therefore, towards the conclusion of the 
 first performance, the author expressed some apprehension 
 lest one of the jokes put into the mouth of Tony Lumpkin 
 should not be relished by the audience, the manager, who had 
 been in fear through the whole piece, replied, ' D — n it, Doc- 
 tor, don't be terrified at a squib ; why, we have been sitting 
 these two hours on a barrel of gunpowder.' Goldsmith's 
 pride was so hurt at this remark, that the friendship which 
 had till then subsisted between him and Colman, was thence- 
 forth annihilated. 
 
 The piece had a great run, and its author cleared by the 
 third-nights, and the sale of the copy, upwards of 8001. Dr. 
 Johnson said of it, ' That he knew of no comedy for many 
 years that had so much exhilarated an audience, that had an- 
 swered so much the great end of comedy — the making an 
 audience merry.' It certainly added much to the author's 
 reputation, and is still, with his ' Good-natured Man,' on the 
 list of acting plays ; but it brought on him the envy and ma- 
 lignity of some of his contemporaries ; and in the London 
 Packet of Wednesday, March 24, 1773, printed for T. Evans, 
 in Paternoster-row, appeared the following scurrilous epistle, 
 evidently designed to injure his third-night (being the ninth 
 representation) : — 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 23 
 
 ' TO DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 4 Vous vuus noyez en vanite. 
 ' Sir. — The happy knack which you have learnt of puffing 
 your own compositions, provokes me to come forth. You 
 have not been the editor of newspapers and magazines, not to 
 discover the trick of literary humbug. But the gauze is so 
 thin, that the very foolish part of the world see through it, 
 and discover the Doctor's monkey face and cloven foot. Your 
 poetic vanity is as unpardonable as your personal. "Would 
 man believe it, and will woman bear it, to be told that for 
 hours the great Goldsmith will stand surveying his grotesque 
 Oranhotan's figure in a pier-glass ? Was but the lovely H — k 
 as much enamored, you would not sigh, my gentle swain, in 
 vain. But your vanity is preposterous. How will this same 
 bard of Bedlam ring the changes in praise of Goldy ! But what 
 has he to be either proud or vain of? The " Traveller " 
 is a flimsy poem, built upon false principles ; principles diamet- 
 rically opposite to liberty. What is " The Good-natured 
 Man," but a poor, water-gruel, dramatic dose ? What is " The 
 Deserted Village," but a, pretty poem of easy numbers, with- 
 out fancy, dignity, genius, or fire ? And pray what may be 
 the last speaking pantomime,* so praised by the Doctor him- 
 self, but an incoherent piece of stuff, the figure of a woman 
 with a fish's tail, without plot, incident, or intrigue ? We are 
 made to laugh at stale, dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleas- 
 antry for wit, and grimace for humor : wherein every scene 
 is unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules, the laws of na- 
 ture, and of the drama ; viz. Two gentlemen come to a man 
 of fortune's house, eat, drink, sleep, etc., and take it for an 
 
 * Meaning ' She Stoops to Conquer.' 
 
24 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 inn. The one is intended as a lover to the daughter ; he 
 talks with her for some hours, and when he sees her again in 
 a different dress, he treats her as a bar-girl, and swears she 
 squinted. He abuses the master of the house, and threatens 
 to kick him out of his own doors. The 'Squire, whom we 
 are told is to be a fool, proves to be the most sensible being 
 of the piece ; and he makes out a whole act by bidding his 
 mother lie close behind a bush, persuading her that his father, 
 her own husband, is a highwayman, and that he is come to 
 cut their throats ; and to give his cousin an opportunity to go 
 off, he drives his mother over hedges, ditches, and through 
 ponds. There is not, sweet, sucking Johnson, a natural stroke 
 in the whole play, but the young fellow's giving the stolen 
 jewels to the mother, supposing her to be the landlady. That 
 Mr. Colman did no justice to this piece, I honestly allow ; 
 that he told all his friends it would be damned, I positively 
 aver ; and from such ungenerous insinuations, without a dra- 
 matic merit, it rose to public notice ; and it is now the ton to 
 go to see it, though I never saw a person that either liked it 
 or approved it, any more than the absurd plot of the Home's 
 tragedy of Alonzo. Mr. Goldsmith, correct your arrogance, 
 reduce your vanity, and endeavor to believe, as a man, you 
 are of the plainest sort ; and as an author, but a mortal piece 
 of mediocrity.' 
 
 4 Brisez le miroir injidele, 
 Qui vous cache la verite. 
 
 ' Tom Tickle.' 
 
 By one of those ' d d good-natured friends,' who are 
 
 described by Sir Fretful Plagiary, the newspaper containing 
 the foregoing offensive letter was eagerly brought to Goldsmith, 
 who otherwise, perhaps, had never seen or heard of it. Our 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 25 
 
 hero went to the shop brimfull of ire, and finding Evans behind 
 his counter, thus addressed him : ' You have published a thing 
 in your paper (my name is Goldsmith) reflecting upon a 
 young lady. As for myself, I do not mind it.' — Evans at 
 this moment stooped down, intending probably to look for a 
 paper, that he might see what the enraged author meant ; 
 when Goldsmith, observing his back to present a fair mark 
 for his cane, laid it on lustily. The bibliopolist, however, soon 
 defended himself, and a scuffle ensued, in which our author 
 got his full share of blows. Dr. Kenrick, who was sitting in 
 Evans's counting-house, (and who was strongly suspected to 
 have been the writer of the letter), now came forward, part- 
 ed the combatants, and sent Goldsmith home in a coach, 
 grievously bruised. 
 
 This attack ujDon a man, in his own house, furnished mat- 
 ter of discussion for some days to the newspapers ; and an 
 action at law was threatened to be brought for the assault ; 
 but by the interposition of friends the affair was compromis- 
 ed ; and on Wednesday, the 31st of March, Goldsmith insert- 
 ed the following Address in the Daily Advertiser : — 
 
 ' TO THE PUBLIC. 
 
 { Lest it should be supposed that I have been willing to 
 correct in others an abuse of which I have been guilty my- 
 self, I beg leave to declare that in all my life I never wrote, 
 or dictated, a single paragraph, letter, or essay, in a newspa- 
 per, except a few moral essays, under the character of a Chi- 
 nese, about ten years ago, in the Ledger ; and a letter, to 
 which I signed my name, in the St. James's Chronicle. If the 
 liberty of the press, therefore, has been abused, I have had 
 no hand in it. 
 
 3 
 
26 AIKINS MEMOIRS OF 
 
 ' I have always considered the press as the protector of our 
 freedom, as a watchful guardian, capable of uniting the weak 
 against the encroachments of power. What concerns the 
 public most properly admits of a public discussion. But, of 
 late, the press has turned from defending public interest, to 
 making inroads upon private life ; from combating the strong, 
 to overwhelming the feeble. No condition is now too obscure 
 for its abuse, and the protector is become the tyrant of the 
 people. In this manner the freedom of the press is begin- 
 ning to sow the seeds of its own dissolution ; the great must 
 oppose it from principle, and the weak from fear ; till at last 
 every rank of mankind shall be found to give up its benefits, 
 content with security from its insults. 
 
 1 How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which all are 
 indiscriminately abused, and by which vice consequently es- 
 capes in the general censure, I am unable to tell ; all I could 
 wish is, that, as the law gives us no protection against the in- 
 jury, so it should give calumniators no shelter after having 
 provoked correction. The insults which Ave receive before 
 the public, by being more open, are the more distressing. By 
 treating them with silent contempt we do not pay a sufficient 
 deference to the opinion of the world. By recurring to le- 
 gal redress, we too often expose the weakness of the law, 
 which only serves to increase our mortification by failing to 
 relieve us. In short, every man should singly consider him- 
 self as a guardian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his 
 influence can extend, should endeavor to prevent its licen- 
 tiousness becoming at last the grave of its freedom. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith/ 
 
 Mr. Boswell having intimated to Dr. Johnson his suspicions 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 27 
 
 that he was the real writer of this Address, the latter said, 
 ' Sir, Dr. Goldsmith would no more have asked me to have 
 written such a thing as that for him, than he would have ask- 
 ed me to feed him with a spoon, or to do anything else that 
 denoted his imbecility. I as much believe that he wrote it, 
 as if I had seen him do it. Sir, had he shewn it to any one 
 friend, he would not have been allowed to .publish it. He 
 has . indeed done it very well ; but it is a foolish thing well 
 done. I suppose he has been so much elated with the success 
 of his new comedy, that he has thought everything that con- 
 cerns him must be of importance to the public' 
 
 About a month after this, to oblige Mr. Quick, the comme- 
 dian, who had very successfully exerted himself in the charac- 
 ter of Tony Lumpkin, Goldsmith, we believe, reduced Sed- 
 ley's ' Grumbler ' to a farce ; and it was performed for Mr. 
 Quick's benefit on the 8th of May, but was never printed : 
 indeed, some persons doubt whether Goldsmith did more than 
 revise an alteration which had been made by some other per- 
 son. 
 
 Our author now, oddly enough, took it into his head to re- 
 ject the title of Doctor (with which he had been self-invest- 
 ed), and to assume the plain address of Mr. Goldsmith; but 
 whatever his motive to this might be, he could not effect it 
 with the public, who to the day of his death called him Doc- 
 tor ; and the same title is usually annexed to his name even 
 now, though the degree of Bachelor of Physic was the highest 
 ever actually conferred upon him. 
 
 After having compiled a History of Rome, and two Histo- 
 ries of England, he undertook, and completed in 1773, l A 
 History of the Earth and Animated Nature,' in 8 vols. 8vo., 
 which was printed in 1774, and he received for it 850/. 
 
28 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 The emoluments which he had derived from Ms writings 
 for some few years past were, indeed, very considerable ; but 
 were rendered useless in effect, by an incautious liberality, 
 which prevented his distinguishing proper from improper ob- 
 jects of his bounty ; and also by an unconquerable itch for 
 gaming, a pursuit in which his impatience of temper, and his 
 want of skill, wholly disqualified him for succeeding. 
 
 His last production, ' Retaliation,' was written for his own 
 amusement and that of his friends who were the subjects of 
 it. That he did not live to finish it, is to be lamented ; for 
 it is supposed that he would have introduced more characters. 
 What he has left, however, is nearly perfect in its kind ; with 
 wonderful art he has traced all the leading features of his 
 several portraits, and given with truth the characteristic pe- 
 culiarities of each ; no man is lampooned, no man is flatter- 
 ed. The occasion of the poem was a circumstance of festivi- 
 ty. A literary party with which he occasionally dined at the 
 St. James's coffe-house, one day proposed to write epitaphs on 
 him. In these, his person, dialect, etc., were good-humoredly 
 ridiculed : and as Goldsmith could not disguise his feelings 
 on the occasion, he was called upon for a Retaliation, which 
 he produced at the next meeting of the party ; but this, with 
 his ' Haunch of Venison,' and some other short poems, were 
 not printed till after his death. 
 
 He had at this time ready for the press, ' The Grecian His- 
 tory, from the earliest State to the Death of Alexander the 
 Great,' which was afterwards printed in 2 vols. 8vo. He had 
 also formed a design of compiling a ' Universal Dictionary of 
 Arts and Sciences,' a prospectus of which he printed and sent 
 to his friends, many of whom had promised to furnish him with 
 articles on different subjects. The booksellers, however, 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 29 
 
 though they had a high opinion of his abilities, were startled 
 at the bulk, importance, and expense of so great an under- 
 taking, the execution of which was to depend upon a man 
 with whose indolence of temper, and method of procrastina- 
 tion, they had long been acquainted : the coldness with winch 
 they met his proposals was lamented by Goldsmith to the hour 
 of his death ; which seems to have been accelerated by a ne- 
 glect of his health, occasioned by continual vexation of mind, 
 on account of his frequently involved circumstances, although 
 the last year's produce of his labor is generally believed to 
 have amounted to 1800Z. 
 
 In the spring of 1774 he was attacked in a very severe 
 manner by the stranguary, a disease of which he had often ex- 
 perienced slight symptoms. It now induced a nervous fever, 
 which required medical assistance ; and on the 25th of March 
 he sent for his friend Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Hawes, to whom 
 he related the symptoms of his malady, expressing at the same 
 time a disgust with life, and a despondency which did not well 
 become a man of his understanding. He told Mr. Hawes that 
 he had taken two ounces of ipecacuanha wine as an emetic, 
 and that it was his intention to take Dr. James's fever pow- 
 ders, which he desired he would send him. Mr. Hawes rep- 
 resented to his patient the impropriety of taking the medi- 
 cine at that time ; but no argument could induce him to re- 
 linquish his intention. Finding this, and justly apprehen- 
 sive of the fatal consequences of his putting this rash resolve 
 in execution, he requested permission to send for Dr. Fordyce, 
 of whose medical abilities he knew that Goldsmith had the 
 highest opinion. Dr. Fordyce came, and corroborated the 
 apothecary's assertion, adding every argument that he could 
 think of to dissuade him from using the powders in the pres- 
 3* 
 
30 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 ent case ; but, deaf to all the remonstrances of his physician 
 and his friend, he obstinately persisted in his resolution. 
 
 The next day Mr. Hawes again visited his patient, and in- 
 quiring of him how he did, Goldsmith sighed deeply, and in 
 a dejected tone said, ' I wish I had taken your friendly ad- 
 vice last night.' Dr. Fordyce came, and, finding the alarm- 
 ing symptoms increase, desired Mr. Hawes to propose send- 
 ing for Dr. Turton : to this Goldsmith readily consented. The 
 two physicians met, and held consultations twice a day till 
 Monday, April 4th, when their patient died. 
 
 Warmth of affection induced Sir Joshua Reynolds and 
 other friends of Goldsmith to lay a plan for a sumptuous pub- 
 lic funeral : according to which he was to have been interred 
 in Westminster Abbey, and his pall to have been supported 
 by Lord Shelburne (afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne), Lord 
 Louth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Edmund Burke, the Hon. 
 Topham Beauclerc, and Mr. Garrick ; but on a slight inspec- 
 tion of his affairs, it was found that, so far from having left 
 property to justify so expensive a proceeding, he was about 
 2000?. in debt The original intention, therefore, was aban- 
 doned ; and he was privately interred in the Temple burial- 
 ground at five o'clock on Saturday evening, April 9 th, at- 
 tended by the Rev. Joseph Palmer (nephew of Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, and afterwards Dean of Cashel in Ireland), Mr. 
 Hugh Kelly, Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Hawes, Messrs. John and 
 Robert Day, and Mr. Etherington. 
 
 A subscription, however, was speedily raised among Gold- 
 smith's friends, but chiefly by the Literary Club ; and a mar- 
 ble monumental stone, executed by Nollekens, consisting of a 
 large medallion, exhibiting a good resemblance of our author, 
 in profile, embellished with appropriate ornaments, was plac- 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 31 
 
 ed in Westminster Abbey, between those of Gay the poet, 
 and the Duke of Argyle, in Poet's Corner ; having under- 
 neath, on a tablet of white marble, the following inscription, 
 from the pen of his friend, Dr. Johnson : — 
 
 Olivarii Goldsmith, 
 
 Poetie, Physici, Historici, 
 
 Qui nullum fere scribendi genus 
 
 Non tetigit 5 
 
 Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit : 
 
 Sive risus essent movendi 
 
 Sive lacrymse, 
 
 Affectuum potens et lenis dominator : 
 
 Ingenio sublimis, vividus, versatilis, 
 
 Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus ; 
 
 [ Hoc monumento memoriam coluit 
 
 Sodalium amor, 
 
 Amicorum fides, 
 
 Lectorum veneratio. 
 
 Natus in Hibernia, Forneise Longfordiensis, 
 
 In loco cui nomen Pallas, 
 
 Nov. XXIX, MDCCXXXI.* 
 
 Eblanse Uteris institutus, 
 
 Obiit Londini, 
 
 Apr. iv. MDCCLxxrv. 
 
 Of which the following is a translation : — 
 
 By the love of his associates, 
 
 The fidelity of his friends, 
 
 And the veneration of his readers, 
 
 This monument is raised 
 
 * Johnson had been misinformed in these particulars : it has been 
 since ascertained that he was born at Elphin, in the county of Eos- 
 common, Nov. 29, 1728. 
 
32 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 To the memory of 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 A poet, a natural philosopher, and an historian, 
 
 Who left no species of writing untouched by his pen ; 
 
 Nor touched any that he did not embellish : 
 
 Whether smiles or tears were to be excited, 
 
 He was a powerful yet gentle master 
 
 Over the affections ; 
 
 Of a genius at once sublime, lively, and 
 
 equal to every subject ; 
 
 In expression at once lofty, elegant, and graceful. 
 
 He was born in the kingdom of Ireland, 
 
 At a place called Pallas, in the parish of Forney, 
 
 And county of Longford, 
 
 29th Nov. 1731* 
 
 Educated at Dublin, 
 
 And died in London, 
 
 4th April, 1774. 
 
 Beside this Latin epitaph, Dr. Johnson honored the memo- 
 ry of Goldsmith with the following short one in Greek : — 
 
 Tdv Tcicpov eicopaag rov 0?uj3apioio y Kovirjv 
 
 *A<j>pOGl (MTJ CEfJLVTjV, EsiVE, TtO&EGOl TTUTEC ' 
 
 Olat /ue/u7]?ie <pvai£, /j-ETpuv £«p£0. Epya TiaXaiovv 
 
 K/MLETE TTOC7JT7]V. IGTOpLKOV, (pVGMOV. 
 
 Mr. Boswell, who was very intimately acquainted with 
 Goldsmith, thus speaks of his person and character : — 
 
 ' The person of Goldsmith was short ; his countenance coarse 
 and vulgar ; his deportment that of a scholar, awkwardly af- 
 fecting the complete gentleman. No man had the art of dis- 
 playing, with more advantage, whatever literary acquisitions 
 he made. His mind resembled a fertile but thin soil ; there 
 was a quick but not a strong vegetation of whatever chanced 
 
 * See the Note on the preceding page. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 33 
 
 to be thrown upon it. No deep root could be struck. The 
 oak of the forest did not grow there ; but the elegant shrub- 
 bery, and the fragrant parterre, appeared in gay succession. 
 It has been generally circulated, and believed, that he was a 
 mere fool in conversation. In allusion to this, Mr. Horatio 
 Walpole, who admired his writings, said, he was " an inspired 
 idiot ; " and Garrick describes him as one, — 
 
 " for shortness called Noll, 
 
 Who wrote like an angel, and talkd like poor Poll." 
 
 But in reality these descriptions are greatly exaggerated. . He 
 had no doubt a more than common share of that hurry of 
 ideas which we often find in his countrymen, and which 
 sometimes introduces a laughable confusion in expressing them. 
 He was very much what the French call un Hourdi : and 
 from vanity, and an eager desire of being conspicuous wherev- 
 er he was, he frequently talked carelessly, without any knowl- 
 edge of the subject, or even without thought. Those who 
 were any ways distinguished, excited envy in him to so ridic- 
 ulous an excess, that the instances of it are hardly credible. 
 He, I am told, had no settled system of any sort, so that his 
 conduct must not be too strictly criticised ; but his affections 
 were social and generous ; and when he had money, he be- 
 stowed it liberally. His desires of imaginary consequence 
 frequently predominated over his attention to truth. 
 
 1 His prose has been admitted as the model of perfection, 
 and the standard of the English language. Dr. Johnson says, 
 " Goldsmith was a man of such variety of powers, and such 
 felicity of performance, that he seemed to excel in whatever 
 he attempted ; a man who had the art of being minute with- 
 out tediousness, and generally without confusion ; whose Ian- 
 
34 aikln's memoirs op 
 
 guage was capacious without exuberance ; exact without re- 
 straint ; and easy without weakness." 
 
 ' His merit as a poet is universally acknowledged. His 
 writings partake rather of the elegance and harmony of Pope, 
 than the grandeur and sublimity of Milton ; and it is to be 
 lamented that his poetical productions are not more numer- 
 ous ; for though his ideas flowed rapidly, he arranged them 
 with great caution, and occupied much time in polishing his 
 periods, and harmonizing his numbers. 
 
 * His most favorite poems are, " The Traveller," " Desert- 
 ed Village," " Hermit," and " Retaliation." These produc- 
 tions may be justly ranked with the most admired works in 
 English poetry. 
 
 ' " The Traveller " delights us with a display of charming 
 imagery, refined ideas, and happy expressions. The charac- 
 teristics of the different nations are strongly marked, and the 
 predilection of each inhabitant in favor of his own ingeniously 
 described. 
 
 * " The Deserted Village " is generally admired ; the char- 
 acters are drawn from the life. The descriptions are lively 
 and picturesque ; and the whole appears so easy and natural, 
 as to bear the semblance of, historical truth more than poeti- 
 cal fiction. The description of the parish priest, (probably in- 
 tended for a character of his brother Henry) would have 
 done honor to any poet of any age. In this description, the 
 simile of the bird teaching her young to fly, and of the moun- 
 tain that rises above the storm, are not easily to be paralleled. 
 The rest of the poem consists of the character of the village 
 schoolmaster, and a description of the village alehouse ; both 
 drawn with admirable propriety and force ; a descant on the 
 mischiefs of luxury and wealth ; the variety of artificial please 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 35 
 
 ures ; the miseries of those who, for want of employment at 
 home, are driven to settle new colonies abroad ; and concludes 
 with a beautiful apostrophe to poetry. 
 
 '" The Hermit" holds equal estimation with the rest of his 
 poetical productions. 
 
 ' His last poem, of " Retaliation," is replete with humor, 
 free from spleen, and forcibly exhibits the prominent features 
 of the several characters to which it alludes. Dr. Johnson 
 sums up his literary character in the following concise man- 
 ner : " Take him [Goldsmith] as a poet, his ' Traveller ' is a 
 very fine performance ; and so is his ' Deserted Village,' were 
 it not sometimes too much the echo of his ' Traveller.' Wheth- 
 er we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as an histori- 
 an, he stands in the first class." ' 
 
 We have before observed, that his poem of ' Retaliation ' 
 was provoked by several jocular epitaphs written upon him 
 by the different members of a dinner club to which he be- 
 longed. Of these we subjoin a part of that which was pro- 
 duced by Garrick : — 
 
 ' Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow, 
 Go, fetch me some clay — I will make an odd fellow- 
 Right and wrong shall he jumbled ; much gold, and some dross ; 
 Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross ; 
 Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions ; 
 A great lover of truth, yet a mind turned to fictions. 
 Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in th«e baking, 
 Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking 5 
 With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste, 
 Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste ; 
 That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail, 
 Set fire to his head, and set fire to his tail 5 
 For the joy of each sex on the world I'll bestow it, 
 This scholar, rake, christian, dupe, gamester, and poet. 
 
36 aikin's memoirs of 
 
 Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, 
 And among other mortals be Goldsmith his name. 
 When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, 
 You, Hermes, shall fetch him, to make us sport here.' 
 
 To these we shall add another sketch of our author (by 
 way of Epitaph), written by a friend as soon as he heard of 
 his death : — 
 
 c Here rests from the cares of the world and his pen, 
 A poet whose like we shall scarce meet again ; 
 Who, though form'd in an age when corruptions ran high. 
 And folly alone seem'd with folly to vie j 
 When Genius with traffic too commonly train'd, 
 Recounted her merits by what she had gain'd, 
 Yet spurn'd at those walks of debasement and pelf, 
 And in poverty's spite dared to think for himself. 
 Thus freed from those fetters the muses oft bind, 
 He wrote from the heart to the hearts of mankind - 7 
 And such was the prevalent force of h is song, 
 Sex, ages, and parties, he drew in a throng. 
 
 ' The lovers — T t was theirs to esteem and commend, 
 For his Hermit had proved him their tutor and friend. 
 The statesman, his politic passions on fire, 
 Acknowledged repose from the charms of his lyre. 
 The moralist too had a feel for his rhymes, 
 For his Essays were curbs on the rage of the times- 
 Nay, the critic, all schooFd in grammatical sense, 
 Who looked in the glow of description for tense y 
 Reform'd as he read, fell a dupe to his art, 
 And confess'd by his eyes what he felt at his heart, 
 
 ' Yet, bless'd with original powers like these, 
 His principal forte was on paper to please ; 
 Like a fleet-footed hunter, though first in the chase, 
 On the road of plain sense he oft slackened his pace j 
 Whilst Dulness and Cunning, by whipping and goring, 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 37 
 
 Their hard-footed hackneys paraded before him. 
 
 Compounded likewise of such primitive parts, 
 
 That his manners alone would have gain'd him our hearts. 
 
 So simple in truth, so ingenuously kind, 
 
 So ready to feel for the wants of mankind ; 
 
 Yet praise but an author of popular quill, 
 
 This lux of philanthropy quickly stood still ; 
 
 Transform'd from himself, he grew meanly severe, 
 
 A.nd rail'd at those talents he ought not to fear. 
 
 1 Such then were his foibles ; but though they were such 
 As shadow'd the picture a little too much, 
 The style was all graceful, expressive, and grand, 
 And the whole the result of a masterly hand. 
 
 ' Then hear me, blest spirit ! now seated above, 
 Where all is beatitude, concord, and love, 
 If e'er thy regards were bestow'd on mankind, 
 Thy muse as a leoacy leave us behind. 
 I ask it by proxy for letters and fame, 
 As the pride of our heart and the old English name. 
 I demand it as such for virtue and truth, 
 As the solace of age and the guide of our youth. 
 Consider what poets surround us — how dull ! 
 
 From Minstrelsy B e to Rosamond H — 11 ! 
 
 Consider what K — ys enervate the stage ; 
 
 Consider what K cks may poison the age 5 
 
 O ! protect us from such, nor let it be said, 
 
 That in Goldsmith the last British poet lies dead ! ' 
 
ON THE 
 
 POETRY OF DR. GOLDSMITH, 
 
 BY DR. AIKIN. 
 
 Among those false opinions which, having once obtained 
 currency, have been adopted without examination, may be 
 reckoned the prevalent notion, that, notwithstanding the im- 
 provement of this country in many species of literary compo- 
 sition, its poetical character has been on the decline ever since 
 the supposed Augustan age of the beginning of this [the 18th] 
 century. No one poet, it is true, has fully succeeded to the 
 laurel of Dry den or Pope ; but if without prejudice we com- 
 pare the minor poets of the present age {minor, I mean y with 
 respect to the quantity, not the quality, of their productions) ? 
 with those of any former period, we shall, I am convinced., 
 find them greatly superior not only in taste and correctness., 
 but in every other point of poetical excellence. The works 
 of many late and present writers might be confidently appeal- 
 ed to in proof of this assertion ; but it will suffice to instance 
 the author who is the subject of the present Essay ; and I 
 cannot for a moment hesitate to place the name of Goldsmith 
 as a poet, above that of Addison, Parnell r Tickell, Congreve, 
 Lansdown, or any of those who fill the greater part of the 
 
ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S POETRY. 39 
 
 voluminous collection of the English Poets. Of these, the main 
 body has obtained a prescriptive right to the honor of classi- 
 cal writers ; while their works, ranged on the shelves as neces- 
 sary appendages to a modern library, are rarely taken down, 
 and contribute very little to the stock of literary amusement. 
 Whereas the pieces of Goldsmith are our familiar compan- 
 ions ; and supply passages for recollection, when our minds 
 are either composed to moral reflection, or warmed by 
 strong emotions and elevated conceptions. There is, I 
 acknowledge, much of habit and accident in the attach- 
 ments we form to particular writers ; yet I have little 
 doubt, that if the lovers of English poetry were confined 
 to a small selection of authors, Goldsmith would find 
 a place in the favorite list of a great majority. And it is, 
 I think, with much justice that a great modern critic has ever 
 regarded this concurrence of public favor, as one of the least 
 equivocal tests of uncommon merit Some kinds of excellence, 
 it is true, will more readily be recognized than others ; and 
 this will not always be in proportion to the degree of mental 
 power employed in the respective productions : but he who 
 obtains general and lasting applause in any work of art, 
 must have happily executed a design judiciously formed. 
 This remark is of fundamental consequence in estimating the 
 poetry of Goldsmith ; because it will enable us to hold the 
 balance steady, when it might be disposed to. incline to the 
 superior claims of a style of loftier pretension, and more 
 brilliant reputation. 
 
 Compared with many poets of deserved eminence, Gold- 
 smith will appear characterized by his simplicity. In his lan- 
 guage will be found few of those figures which are supposed 
 of themselves to constitute poetry ; — no violent transpositions ; 
 
40 ON THE POETRY 
 
 no uncommon meanings and constructions ; no epithets drawn 
 from abstract and remote ideas ; no coinage of new words by 
 the ready mode of turning nouns into verbs ; no bold prosopo- 
 poeia, or audacious metaphor : — it scarcely contains an ex- 
 pression which might not be used in eloquent and descriptive 
 prose. It is replete with imagery ; but that imagery is drawn 
 from obvious sources, and rather enforces the simple idea, than 
 dazzles by new and unexpected ones. It rejects not common 
 words and phrases ; and, like the language of Dryden and 
 Otway, is thereby rendered the more forcible and pathetic. 
 It is eminently nervous and concise ; and hence affords nu- 
 merous passages which dwell on the memory. With respect 
 to his matter, it is taken from human life, and the objects of 
 nature. It does not body forth things unknown, and create 
 new beings. Its humbler purpose is to represent manners and 
 characters as they really exist; to impress strongly on the 
 heart moral and political sentiments ; and to fill the imagina- 
 tion with a variety of pleasing or affecting objects selected 
 from the stores of nature. If this be not the highest depart- 
 ment of poetry, it has the advantage of being the most uni- 
 versally agreeable. To receive delight from the sublime fic- 
 tions of Milton, the allegories of Spenser, the learning of Gray, 
 and the fancy of Collins, the mind must have been prepared 
 by a course of particular study ; and perhaps, at a certain 
 period of life, when the judgment exercises a severer scrutiny 
 over the sallies of the imagination, the relish for artificial 
 beauties will always abate, if not entirely desert us. But at 
 every age, and with every degree of culture, correct and well- 
 chosen representations of nature must please. We admire them 
 when young ; we recur to them when old ; and they charm 
 us till nothing longer can charm. Farther, in forming a scale 
 
OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 41 
 
 of excellence for artists, we are not only to consider who 
 works upon the noblest design, but who fills his design best. 
 It is, in reality, but a poor excuse for a slovenly performer to 
 say ' magnis tamen excidit ausis ; ' and the addition of one 
 master-piece of any kind to the stock of art, is a greater ben- 
 efit, than that of a thousand abortive and mis-shapen wonders. 
 
 If Goldsmith then be referred to the class of descriptive 
 poets, including the description of moral as well as of physical 
 nature, it will next be important to inquire by what means 
 he has attained the rank of a master in his class. Let us then 
 observe how he has selected, combined, and contrasted his 
 objects, with what truth and strength of coloring he has ex- 
 pressed them, and to what end and purpose. 
 
 As poetry and eloquence do not describe by an exact enu- 
 meration of every circumstance, it is necessary to select cer- 
 tain particulars which may excite a sufficiently distinct image 
 of the thing to be represented. In this selection, the great art 
 is to give characteristic marks, whereby the object may at once 
 be recognized, without being obscured in a mass of common 
 properties, which belong equally to many others. Hence the 
 great superiority of 'particular images to general ones in de- 
 scription : the former identify, while the latter disguise. Thus, 
 all the hackneyed representations of the country in the works 
 of ordinary versifiers, in which groves, and rills, and flowery 
 meads are introduced just as the rhyme and measure require, 
 present nothing to the fancy but an indistinct daub of color- 
 ing, in which all the diversity of nature is lost and confounded. 
 To catch the discriminating features, and present them bold 
 and prominent, by few, but decisive strokes, is the talent of a 
 master ; and it will not be easy to produce a superior to 
 Goldsmith in this respect. The mind is never in doubt as 
 4* 
 
42 ON THE POETRY 
 
 to the meaning of his figures, nor does it languish over the 
 survey of trivial and unappropriated circumstances. All is 
 alive — all is filled — yet all is clear. 
 
 The proper combination of objects refers to the impression 
 they are calculated to make on the mind ; and requires that 
 they should harmonize, and reciprocally enforce and sustain 
 each other's effect. They should unite in giving one leading 
 tone to the imagination ; and without a sameness of form, they 
 should blend in an uniformity of hue. This, too, has very suc- 
 cessfully been attended to by Goldsmith, who has not only 
 sketched his single figures with truth and spirit, but has com- 
 bined them into the most harmonious and impressive groups. 
 Nor has any descriptive poet better understood the great force 
 of contrast, in setting off his scenes, and preventing any ap- 
 proach to wearisomeness by repetition of kindred objects. 
 And, with great skill, he has contrived that both parts of his 
 contrast should conspire in producing one intended moral ef- 
 fect. Of all these excellences, examples will be pointed out 
 as we take a cursory view of the particular pieces. 
 
 In addition to the circumstances already noted, the force 
 and clearness of representation depend also on the diction. 
 It has already been observed, that Goldsmith's language is 
 remarkable for its general simplicity, and the direct and proper 
 use of words. It has ornaments, but these are not far-fetched. 
 The epithets employed are usually qualities strictly belonging 
 to the subject, and the true coloring of the simple figure. 
 They are frequently contrived to express a necessary circum- 
 stance in the description, and thus avoid the usual imputation 
 of being expletive. Of this kind are ' the rattling terrors of 
 the vengeful snake ; ' indurated heart ;' ' shed intolerable day f 
 1 matted woods ;' ' ventrous ploughshare ;' ' equinoctial fervors/ 
 
OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 43 
 
 The examples are not few of that indisputable mark of true 
 poetic language, where a single word conveys an image ; as in 
 these instances : ' resignation gently slopes the way ;' ' scoops 
 out an empire ;' ' the vessel, idly waiting, flaps with every 
 gale ;' ' to winnow fragrance ;' ' murmurs fluctuate in the gale.' 
 All metaphor, indeed, does this in some degree ; but where the 
 accessory idea is either indistinct or incongruous, as frequently 
 happens when it is introduced as an artifice to force language 
 up to poetry, the effect is only a gaudy obscurity. 
 
 The end and purpose to which description is directed is 
 what distinguishes a well-planned piece from a loose effusion ; 
 for though a vivid representation of striking objects will ever 
 afford some pleasure, yet if aim and design be wanting, to 
 give it a basis, and stamp it with the dignity of meaning, it 
 will in a long performance prove flat and tiresome. But this 
 is a want which cannot be charged on Goldsmith ; for both 
 the Traveller and the Deserted Village have a great moral in 
 view, to which the whole of the description is made to tend. 
 I do not now inquire into the legitimacy of the conclusions 
 he has drawn from his premises ; it is enough to justify his 
 plans, that such a purpose is included in them. 
 
 The versification of Goldsmith is formed on the general 
 model that has been adopted since the refinement of English 
 poetry, and especially since the time of Pope. To manage 
 rhyme couplets so as to produce a pleasing effect on the ear, 
 has since that period been so common an attainment, that it 
 merits no particular admiration. Goldsmith may, I think, 
 be said to have come up to the usual standard of proficiency 
 in this respect, without having much surpassed it. A musical 
 ear, and a familiarity with the best examples, have enabled 
 him, without much apparent study, almost always to avoid 
 
44 ON THE POETRY 
 
 defect, and very often to produce excellence. It is no censure 
 of this poet to say that his versification presses less on the at- 
 tention than his matter. In fact he has none of those pecu- 
 liarities of versifying, whether improvements or not, that some 
 who aim at distinction in this point have adopted. He gen- 
 erally suspends or closes the sense at the end of the line or of 
 the couplet ; and therefore does not often give examples of 
 that greater compass and variety of melody which is obtained 
 by longer clauses, or by breaking the coincidences of the ca- 
 dence of sound and meaning. He also studiously rejects trip- 
 lets and alexandrines. But allowing for the want of these 
 sources of variety, he has sufficiently avoided monotony ; and 
 in the usual flow of his measure, he has gratified the ear with 
 as much change, as judiciously shifting the line-pause can pro- 
 duce. 
 
 Having made these general observations on the nature of 
 Goldsmith's poetry, I proceed to a survey of his principal 
 pieces. 
 
 The Traveller, or Prospect of Society, was first sketched out 
 by the author during a tour in Europe, great part of which 
 he performed on foot, and in circumstances which afforded 
 him the fullest means of becoming acquainted with the toost 
 numerous class in society, peculiarly termed the people. The 
 date of the first edition is 1765. It begins in the gloomy 
 mood natural to genius in distress, when wandering alone, 
 
 '■ Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.' , 
 
 After an affectionate and regretful glance to the peaceful 
 seat of fraternal kindness, and some expressions of self-pity, 
 the Poet sits down amid Alpine solitudes to sj3end a pensive 
 hour in meditating on the state of mankind. He finds that 
 
OF DR. G-OLD SMITH. 45 
 
 the natives of every land regard their own with preference ; 
 whence he is led to this proposition, — that if we impartially 
 compare the advantages belonging to different countries, we 
 shall conclude that an equal portion of good is dealt to all" the 
 human race. He farther supposes, that every nation, having 
 in view one peculiar species of happiness, models life to that 
 alone ; whence this favorite kind, pushed to an extreme, be- 
 comes a source of peculiar evils. To exemplify this by in- 
 stances, is the business of the subsequent descriptive part of 
 the piece. 
 
 Italy is the first country that comes under review. Its gen- 
 eral landscape is painted by a few characteristic strokes, and 
 the felicity of its climate is displayed in appropriate imagery. 
 The revival of arts and commerce in Italy, and their subse- 
 quent decline, are next touched upon ; and hence is derived 
 the present disposition of the people — easily pleased with 
 splendid trifles, the wrecks of their former grandeur ; and 
 sunk into an enfeebled moral and intellectual character, re- 
 ducing them to the level of children. 
 
 From these he turns with a sort of disdain, to view a no- 
 bler race, hardened by a rigorous climate, and by the neces- 
 sity of unabating toil. These are the Swiss, who find, in the 
 equality of their condition, and their ignorance of other modes 
 of life, a source of content which remedies the natural evils 
 of their lot. There cannot be a more delightful picture than 
 the poet has drawn of the Swiss peasant, going forth to his 
 morning's labor, and returning at night to the bosom of do- 
 mestic happiness. It sufficiently accounts for that patriot pas- 
 sion for which they have ever been so celebrated, and which 
 is here described in lines that reach the heart, and is illustrat- 
 ed by a beautiful simile. But this state of life has also its 
 
46 ON THE POETRY 
 
 disadvantages. The sources of enjoyment being few, a vacant 
 listlessness is apt to creep upon the breast ; and if nature 
 urges to throw this off by occasional bursts of pleasure, no 
 stimulus can reach the purpose but gross sensual debauch. 
 Their morals, too, like their enjoyments, are of a coarse tex- 
 ture. Some sterner virtues hold high dominion in their 
 breast, but all the gentler and more refined qualities of the 
 heart, which soften and sweeten life, are exiled to milder cli- 
 mates. 
 
 To the more genial climate of France the traveller next 
 repairs, and in a very pleasing rural picture he introduces 
 himself in the capacity of musician to a village party of danc- 
 ers beside the murmuring Loire. The leading feature of this 
 nation he represents as being the love of praise ; which pas- 
 sion, while it inspires sentiments of honor, and a desire of 
 pleasing, also affords a free course to folly, and nourishes van- 
 ity and ostentation. The soul, accustomed to depend for its 
 happiness on foreign applause, shifts its principles with the 
 change of fashion, and is a stranger to the value of self-ap- 
 probation. 
 
 The strong contrast to this national character is sought in 
 Holland ; a most graphical description of the scenery present- 
 ed by that singular country introduces the moral portrait of 
 the people. From the necessity of unceasing labor, induced 
 by their peculiar circumstances, a habit of industry has been 
 formed, of which the natural consequence is a love of gain. 
 The possession of exuberant wealth has given rise to the arts 
 and conveniences of life ; but at the same time has introduc- 
 ed a crafty, cold, and mercenary temper, which sets every- 
 thing, even liberty itself, at a price. How different, exclaims 
 
OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 47 
 
 tlie poet, from their Belgian ancestors ! how different from the 
 present race of Britain ! 
 
 To Britain, then, he turns, and begins with a slight sketch 
 of the country, in which, he says, the mildest charms of crea- 
 tion are combined. 
 
 ' Extremes are only in the master's mind.' 
 
 He then draws a very striking picture of a stern, thoughtful ? 
 independent freeman, a creature of reason, unfashionlH by the 
 common forms of life, and loose from all its ties ; — and this he 
 gives as the representative of the English character. A so- 
 ciety formed by such unyielding, self-dependent beings, will 
 naturally be a scene of violent political contests, and ever in 
 a ferment with party. And a still worse fate awaits it ; for 
 the ties of nature, duty, and love, failing, the fictitious bonds 
 of wealth and law must be employed to hold together such a 
 reluctant association ; whence the time may come, that valor, 
 learning, and patriotism, may all lie levelled in one sink of 
 avarice. These are the ills of freedom ; but the Poet, who 
 would only repress to secure, goes on to deliver his ideas of 
 the cause of such mischiefs, which he seems to place in the 
 usurpations of aristocratical upon regal authority ; and with 
 great energy he expresses his indignation at the oppressions 
 the poor suffer from their petty tyrants. This leads him to a 
 kind of anticipation of the subject of his ' Deserted Village,' 
 where, laying aside the politician, and resuming the poet, he 
 describes, by a few highly pathetic touches, the depopulated 
 fields, the ruined village, and the poor, forlorn inhabitants, 
 driven from their beloved home, and exposed to all the per- 
 ils of the transatlantic wilderness. It is by no means my in- 
 tention to enter into a discussion of Goldsmith's political 
 
48 ON THE POETRY 
 
 opinions, which bear evident marks of confused notions and a 
 heated imagination. I shall confine myself to a remark upon 
 the English national character, which will apply to him in 
 common with various other writers, native and foreign. 
 
 This country has long been in the possession of more unre- 
 strained freedom of thinking and acting than any other perhaps 
 that ever existed ; a consequence of which has been, that all 
 those peculiarities of character, which in other nations remain 
 concealed in the general mass, have here stood forth prominent 
 and conspicuous ; and these being from their nature calculated 
 to draw attention, have by superficial observers been mistaken 
 for the general character of the people. This has been par- 
 ticularly the case with political distinction. From the publici- 
 ty of all proceedings in the legislative part of our constitution 
 and the independence with which many act, all party differ- 
 ences are strongly marked, and public men take their side 
 with openness and confidence. Public topics, too, are dis- 
 cussed by all ranks ; and whatever seeds there are in any 
 part of the society of spirit and activity, have full opportunity 
 of germinating. But to imagine that these busy and high- 
 spirited characters compose a majority of the community, or 
 perhaps a much greater proportion than in other countries, is 
 a delusion. This nation, as a body, is, like all others, char- 
 acterized by circumstances of its situation ; and a rich com- 
 mercial people, long trained to society, inhabiting a climate 
 where many things are necessary to the comfort of life, and 
 under a government abounding with splendid distinctions, 
 cannot possibly be a knot of philosophers and patriots. 
 
 To return from this digression. Though it is probable that 
 few of Goldsmith's readers will be convinced, even from 
 the instances he has himself produced, that the happiness of 
 
OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 49 
 
 mankind is everywhere equal ; yet all will feel the force of 
 the truly philosophical sentiment which concludes the piece — 
 that man's chief bliss is ever seated in his mind ; and that but 
 a small part of real felicity consists in what human govern- 
 ments can either bestow or withhold. 
 
 The Deserted Village, first printed in 1769, is the compan- 
 ion-piece of the Traveller, formed, like it, upon a plan which 
 unites description with sentiment, and employs both in incul- 
 cating a political moral. It is a view of the prosperous and 
 ruined state of a country village, with reflections on the caus- 
 ' es of both. Such it may be defined in prose ; but the dispo- 
 sition, management, and coloring of the piece, are all calculat- 
 ed for poetical effect. It begins with a delightful picture Of 
 Auburn when inhabited by a happy people. The view of the 
 village itself, and the rural occupations and pastimes of its sim- 
 ple natives, is in the best style of painting, by a selection of 
 characteristic circumstances. Is is immediately contrasted by 
 a similar bold sketch of its ruined and desolated condition. 
 Then succeeds an imaginary state of England, in a kind of 
 golden age of equality ; with its contrast likewise. The apos- 
 trophe that follows, the personal complaint of the poet, and the 
 portrait of a sage in retirement, are sweetly sentimental touch- 
 es, that break the continuity of description. 
 
 He returns to Auburn, and having premised another mas- 
 terly sketch of its two states, in which the images are chiefly 
 drawn from sounds, he proceeds to what may be called the 
 interior history of the village. In his first figure he has tried 
 his strength with Dryden. The parish priest of that great 
 poet, improved from Chaucer, is a portrait full of beauty, but 
 drawn in a loose, unequal manner, with the flowing vein of 
 digressive thought and imagery that stamps his style. The 
 
50 ON THE POETRY 
 
 subject of the draught, too, is considerably different from that 
 of Goldsmith, having more of the ascetic and mortified cast, 
 in conformity to the saintly model of the Roman Catholic 
 priesthood. The pastor of Auburn is more human, but is 
 not on that account a less venerable and interesting figure ; 
 though I know not whether all will be pleased with his famil- 
 iarity with vicious characters, which goes beyond the purpose 
 of mere reformation. The description of him in his profes- 
 sional character is truly admirable ; and the similes of the 
 bird instructing his young to fly, and the tall cliff rising above 
 the storm, have been universally applauded. The first, I be- 
 lieve, is original ; — the second is not so, though it has pro- 
 bably never been so well drawn and applied. The subse- 
 quent sketches of the village schoolmaster and alehouse, are 
 close imitations of nature in low life, like the pictures of 
 Teniers and Hogarth. Yet even these humorous scenes slide 
 imperceptibly into sentiment and pathos ; and the comparison 
 of the simple pleasures of the poor, with the splendid festivities 
 of the opulent, rises to the highest style of moral poetry. 
 Who has not felt the force of that reflection, 
 
 ' The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy % ' 
 
 The writer then falls into a strain of reasoning against lux- 
 ury and superfluous wealth, in which the sober inquirer will 
 find much serious truth, though mixed with poetical exagger- 
 ation. The description of the contrasted scenes of magnifi- 
 cence and misery in a great metropolis, closed by the pathetic 
 figure of the forlorn, ruined female, is not to be surpassed. 
 
 Were not the subjects of Goldsmith's description so 
 skilfully varied, the uniformity of manner, consisting in an 
 enumeration of single circumstances, generally depicted in 
 
OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 51 
 
 single lines, might tire ; but, where is the reader who can avoid 
 being hurried along by the swift current of imagery, when to 
 such a passage as the last succeeds a landscape fraught with 
 all the sublime terrors of the torrid zone ; — and then, an ex- 
 quisitely tender history-piece of the departure of the villagers : 
 concluded with a group ( slightly touched indeed ) of alle- 
 gorical personages ? A noble address to the Genius of Poetry, 
 in which is compressed the moral of the whole, gives a dig- 
 nified finishing to the work. 
 
 If we compare these two principal poems of Goldsmith, 
 we may say, that the ' Traveller ' is formed upon a more regu- 
 lar plan, has a higher purpose in view, more abounds in 
 thought, and in the expression of moral and philosophical 
 ideas ; the ' Deserted Village ' has more imagery, more variety, 
 more pathos, more of the peculiar character of poetry. In 
 the first, the moral and natural descriptions are more general 
 and elevated ; in the second, they are more particular and 
 interesting. Both are truly original productions ; but the 
 * Deserted Village ' has less peculiarity, and indeed has given 
 rise to imitations which may stand in some parallel with it ; 
 while the ' Traveller ' remains an unique. 
 
 With regard to Goldsmith's other poems, a few remarks 
 will suffice. The ' Hermit, ' printed in the same year with 
 the ' Traveller, ' has been a very popular piece, as might be 
 expected of a tender tale prettily told. It is called a ' Ballad,' 
 but I think with no correct application of that term, which 
 properly means a story related in language either natur- 
 ally or affectedly rude and simple. It has been a sort of a 
 fashion to admire these productions ; yet in the really ancient 
 ballads, for one stroke of beauty, there are pages of insipidity 
 and vulgarity ; and the imitations have been pleasing in pro- 
 
52 ON DR. GOLDSMITHS POETRY. 
 
 portion as they approached more finished compositions. In 
 Goldsmith's ' Hermit,' the language is always polished, and 
 often ornamented. The best things in it are some neat turns 
 of moral and pathetic sentiment, given with a simple concise- 
 ness that fits them for being retained in the memory. As to 
 the story, it has little fancy or contrivance to recommend it. 
 
 We have already seen that Goldsmith possessed humor ; 
 and, exclusively of his comedies, pieces professedly humorous 
 form a part of his poetical remains. His imitations of Swift 
 are happy, but they are imitations. His tale of the ' Double 
 Transformation' may vie with those of Prior. His own nat- 
 ural vein of easy humor flows freely in his ' Haunch of 
 Venison ' and ' Retaliation ; ' the first, an admirable specimen 
 of a very ludicrous story made out of a common incident by 
 the help of conversation and character ; the other, an orig- 
 inal thought, in which his talent at drawing portraits, with a 
 mixture of the serious and the comic, is most happily dis- 
 played. 
 
POEMS, 
 
 5* 
 
VERSES 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 EXTKACT FROM A POEM 
 
 WKITTEN BY COURTNEY MELMOTH, ESQ., 
 
 ON THE DEATH OP EMINENT ENGLISH POETS. 
 
 THE TEAES OF GENIUS. 
 
 The village bell tolls out the note of death, 
 And through the echoing air the length'ning sound, 
 With dreadful pause, reverberating deep, 
 Spreads the sad tidings o'er fair Auburn's vale. 
 There, to enjoy the scenes her bard had praised 
 In all the sweet simplicity of song, 
 Genius, in pilgrim garb, sequester'd sat, 
 And herded jocund with the harmless swains ; 
 But when she heard the fate-foreboding knell, 
 With startled step, precipitate and swift, 
 And look pathetic, full of dire presage, 
 The church-way walk beside the neigb'ring green, 
 Sorrowing she sought ; and there, in black array, 
 Borne on the shoulders of the swains he loved, 
 She saw the boast of Auburn moved along. 
 
56 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 Touch'd at the view, her pensive breast she struck, 
 
 And to the cypress, which incumbent hangs, 
 
 With leaning slope and branch irregular, 
 
 O'er the moss'd pillars of the sacred fane, 
 
 The brier-bound graves shadowing with funeral gloom, 
 
 Forlorn she hied ; and there the crowding wo 
 
 (Swell'd by the parent) press'd on bleeding thought, 
 
 Big ran the drops from her maternal eye, 
 
 Fast broke the bosom-sorrow from her heart, 
 
 And pale Distress sat sickly on her cheek, 
 
 As thus her plaintive Elegy began : — 
 
 ' And must my children all expire ? 
 
 Shall none be left to strike the lyre ? 
 
 Courts Death alone a learned prize ? 
 
 Falls his shafts only on the wise ? 
 
 Can no fit marks on earth be found, 
 
 From useless thousands swarming round ? 
 
 What crowding ciphers cram the land. 
 
 What hosts of victims, at command ! 
 
 Yet shall the ingenious drop alone ? 
 
 Shall Science grace the tyrant's throne ? 
 
 Thou murd'rer of the tuneful train, 
 
 I charge thee with my children slain ! 
 Scarce has the sun thrice urged his annual tour, 
 Since half my race have felt thy barbarous power ; 
 
 Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art, 
 
 And struck a muse with every dart ; 
 Bard after bard obey'd thy slaughtering call, 
 Till scarce a poet lives to sing a brother's fall. 
 
 Then let a widow'd mother pay 
 
 The tribute of a parting lay ; 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. , 57 
 
 Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain, 
 And speak aloud her feelings and her pain ! 
 
 ' And first, farewell to thee, my son,' she cried, 
 1 Thou pride of Auburn's dale — sweet bard, farewell ! 
 Long for thy sake the peasant's tear shall flow, # 
 And many a virgin bosom heave with woe ; 
 For thee shall sorrow sadden all the scene, 
 And every pastime perish on the green ; 
 The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale, 
 The woodman's ballad shall no more regale, 
 No more shall Mirth each rustic sport inspire, 
 But every frolic, every feat, shall tire. 
 No more the evening gambol shall delight, 
 Nor moonshine-revels crown the vacant night ; 
 But groups of villagers (each joy forgot) 
 Shall form a sad assembly round the cot. 
 Sweet bard, farewell ! — and farewell, Auburn's bliss, 
 The bashful lover, and the yielded kiss : 
 The evening warble Philomela made, 
 The echoing forest, and the whispering shade, 
 The winding brook, the bleat of brute content, 
 And the blithe voice that " whistled as it went : " 
 These shall no longer charm the ploughman's care, 
 But sighs shall fill the pauses of despair. 
 
 1 Goldsmith, adieu; the " book-learn'd priest" for 
 thee 
 Shall now in vain possess his festive glee, 
 The oft-heard jest in vain- he shall reveal, 
 For now, alas ! the jest he cannot feel. 
 But ruddy damsels o'er thy tomb shall bend, 
 And conscious weep for their and virtue's friend ; 
 
58 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 The milkmaid shall reject the shepherd's song, 
 
 And cease to carol as she toils along : 
 
 All Auburn shall bewail the fatal day, 
 
 When from her fields their pride was snatch'd away. 
 
 And e\*en the matron of the cressy lake, 
 
 In piteous plight, her palsied head shall shake, 
 
 While all adown the furrows of her face 
 
 Slow shall the lingering tears each other trace. 
 
 < And, oh, my child ! severer woes remain 
 To all the houseless and unshelter'd train ! 
 Thy fate shall sadden many an humble guest, 
 And heap fresh anguish on the beggar's breast ; 
 For dear wert thou to all the sons of pain, 
 To all that wander, sorrow or complain : 
 Dear to the learned, to the simple dear, 
 For daily blessing mark'd thy virtuous year ; 
 The rich received a moral from thy head, 
 And from thy heart the stranger found a bed : 
 Distress came always smiling from thy door ; 
 For God had made thee agent to the poor, 
 Had form'd thy feelings on the noblest plan, 
 To grace at once the poet and the man/ 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A MONODY. 
 
 Dark as the night, which now in dunnest robe 
 Ascends her zenith o'er the silent globe, 
 Sad Melancholy wakes, a while to tread, 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 59 
 
 With solemn step, the mansions of the dead : 
 
 Led by her hand, o'er this yet recent shrine 
 
 I sorrowing bend ; and here essay to twine 
 
 The tributary wreath of laureat bloom, 
 
 With artless hands, to deck a poet's tomb, — 
 
 The tomb where Goldsmith sleeps. Fond hopes, adieu ! 
 
 No more your airy dreams shall mock my view ; 
 
 Here will I learn ambition to control, 
 
 And each aspiring passion of the soul : 
 
 E'en now, methinks, his well-known voice I hear, 
 
 When late he meditated flight from care, 
 
 When, as imagination fondly hied 
 
 To scenes of sweet retirement, thus he cried : — 
 
 ' Ye splendid fabrics, palaces, and towers, 
 Where dissipation leads the giddy hours, 
 Where pomp, disease, and knavery reside, 
 And folly bends the knee to wealthy pride ; 
 Where luxury's purveyors learn to rise, 
 And worth, to want a prey, unfriended dies ; 
 Where warbling eunuchs glitter in brocade, 
 And hapless poets toil for scanty bread : 
 Farewell ! to other scenes I turn my eyes, 
 Embosom'd in the vale where Auburn lies — 
 Deserted Auburn, those now ruin'd glades, 
 Forlorn, yet ever dear and honor'd shades, 
 There, though the hamlet boasts no smiling train, 
 Nor sportful pastime circling on the plain, 
 No needy villains prowl around for prey, 
 No slanderers, no sycophants betray ; 
 No gaudy foplings scornfully deride 
 The swain, whose humble pipe is all his pride, — 
 
60 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 There will I fly to seek that soft repose, 
 Which solitude contemplative bestows. 
 Yet, oh, fond hope ! perchance there still remains 
 One lingering friend behind, to bless the plains ; 
 Some hermit of the dale, enshrined in ease, 
 Long lost companion of my youthful days ; 
 With whose sweet converse in his social bower, 
 I oft may chide away some vacant hour ; 
 To whose pure sympathy I may impart 
 Each latent grief that labors at my heart, 
 Whate'er I felt, and what I saw, relate, 
 The shoals of luxury, the wrecks of state, — 
 Those busy scenes, where science wakes in vain, 
 In which I shared, ah ! ne'er to share again. 
 But whence that pang ? does nature now rebel ? 
 Why falters out my tongue the word farewell ? 
 Te friends ! who long have witness'd to my toil, 
 And seen me ploughing in a thankless soil, 
 Whose partial tenderness hush'd every pain, 
 Whose approbation made my bosom vain, — 
 ' Tis you to whom my soul divided hies 
 With fond regret, and half unwilling flies ; 
 Sighs forth her parting wishes to the wind, 
 And lingering leaves her better half behind. 
 Can I forget the intercourse I shared, 
 What friendship cherish'd, and what zeal endear'd ? 
 Alas ! remembrance still must turn to you, 
 And, to my latest hour, protract the long adieu. 
 Amid the woodlands, wheresoe'er I rove, 
 The plain, or secret covert of the grove, 
 Imagination shall supply her store 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. bl 
 
 Of painful bliss, and what she can restore ; 
 
 Shall strew each lonely path with flow'rets gay, 
 
 And wide as is her boundless empire stray ; 
 
 On eagle pinions traverse earth and skies, 
 
 And bid the lost and distant objects rise. 
 
 Here, where encircled o'er the sloping land 
 
 Woods rise on woods, shall Aristotle stand ; 
 
 Lyceum round the godlike man rejoice, 
 
 And bow with reverence to wisdom's voice. 
 
 There, spreading oaks shall arch the vaulted dome, 
 
 The champion, there, of liberty and Rome, 
 
 In Attic eloquence shall thunder laws, 
 
 And uncorrupted senates shout applause. 
 
 Not more ecstatic visions rapt the soul 
 
 Of Nuraa, when to midnight grots he stole, 
 
 And learnt his lore, from virtue's mouth refined, 
 
 To fetter vice, and harmonize mankind. 
 
 Now stretch'd at ease beside some fav'rite stream 
 
 Of beauty and enchantment will I dream ; 
 
 Elysium, seats of arts, and laurels won, 
 
 The Graces three, and Japhet's * fabled son ; 
 
 Whilst Angelo shall wave the mystic rod, 
 
 And see a new creation wait his nod ; 
 
 Prescribe his bounds to Time's remorseless power, 
 
 And to my arms my absent friends restore ; 
 
 Place me amidst the group, each well known face, 
 
 The sons of science, lords of human race ; 
 
 And as oblivion sinks at his command, 
 
 Nature shall rise more finish'd from his hand. 
 
 * Prometheus. 
 6 
 
62 % COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 Thus some magician, fraught with potent skill, 
 Transforms and moulds each varied mass at will ; 
 Calls animated forms of wondrous birth, 
 Cadmean offspring, from the teeming earth, 
 Unceres the ponderous tombs, the realms of night, 
 And calls their cold inhabitants to light ; 
 Or, as he traverses a dreary scene, 
 Bids every sweet of nature there convene, 
 Huge mountains skirted round with wavy woods, 
 The shrub-deck'd lawns, and silver-sprinkled floods, 
 Whilst flow'rets spring around the smiling land, 
 And follow on the traces of his wand. 
 
 ' Such prospects, lovely Auburn ! then, be thine, 
 And what thou canst of bliss impart be mine ; 
 Amid thy humble shades, in tranquil ease, 
 Grant me to pass the remnant of my days. 
 Unfetter'd from the toil of wretched gain, 
 My raptured muse shall pour her noblest strain, 
 Within her native bowers the notes prolong, 
 And, grateful, meditate her latest song. 
 Thus, as adown the slope of life I bend, 
 And move, resign'd, to meet my latter end, 
 Each worldly wish, each worldly care repress'd, 
 A self-approving heart alone possess'd, 
 Content, to bounteous Heaven I '11 leave the rest.' 
 
 Thus spoke the Bard : but not one friendly power 
 With nod assentive crown'd the parting hour ; 
 No eastern meteor glared beneath the sky, 
 No dextral omen : Nature heaved a sigh 
 Prophetic of the dire, impending blow, 
 The presage of her loss, and Britain's woe. 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 63 
 
 Already portion'd, unrelenting fate 
 
 Had made a pause upon the nuraber'd date ; 
 
 Behind stood Death, too horrible for sight, 
 
 In darkness clad, expectant, pruned for flight ; 
 
 Pleased at the word, the shapeless monster sped, 
 
 On eager message to the humble shed, 
 
 Where, wrapt by soft poetic visions round, 
 
 Sweet slumbering, Fancy's darling son he found. 
 
 At his approach the silken pinion'd train, 
 
 Affrighted, mount aloft, and quit the brain, 
 
 Which late they fann'd. Now other scenes than dales 
 
 Of woody pride, succeed, or flowery vales : 
 
 As when a sudden tempest veils the sky, 
 
 Before serene, and streaming lightnings fly, 
 
 The prospect shifts, and pitchy volumes roll 
 
 Along the drear expanse, from pole to pole ; 
 
 Terrific horrors all the void invest, 
 
 Whilst the arch spectre issues forth confest. 
 
 The Bard beholds him beckon to the tomb 
 
 Of yawning night, eternity's dread womb ; 
 
 In vain attempts to fly, th' impassive air 
 
 Retards his steps, and yields him to despair ; 
 
 He feels a gripe that thrills through every vein, 
 
 And panting struggles in the fatal chain. 
 
 Here paused the fell destroyer, to survey 
 
 The pride, the boast of man, his destined prey ; 
 
 Prepared to strike, he pois'd aloft the dart, 
 
 And plunged the steel in Virtue's bleeding heart ; 
 
 Abhorrent, back the springs of life rebound, 
 
 And leave on Nature's face a ghastly wound, 
 
 A wound enroll'd among Britannia's woes, 
 
64 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 That ages yet to follow cannot close. 
 
 O Goldsmith ! how shall Sorrow now essay 
 To murmur out her slow, incondite lay ? 
 In what sad accents mourn the luckless hour, 
 That yielded thee to unrelenting power ; 
 Thee, the proud boast of all the tuneful train 
 That sweep the lyre, or swell the polish'd strain ? 
 Much-honored Bard ! if my untutor'd verse 
 Could pay a tribute worthy of thy hearse, 
 With fearless hands I'd build the fane of praise, 
 And boldly strew the never-fading bays. 
 But, ah ! with thee my guardian genius fled, 
 And pillow'd in thy tomb his silent head : 
 Pain'd Memory alone behind remains, 
 And pensive stalks the solitary plains, 
 Rich in her sorrows ; honors without art 
 She pays in tears redundant from the heart. 
 And say, what boots it o'er thy hallow'd dust 
 To heap the graven pile, or laurell'd bust ; 
 Since by thy hands already raised on high, 
 We see a fabric tow'ring to the sky ; 
 Where, hand in hand with Time, the sacred lore 
 Shall travel on, till Nature is no more ? 
 
 LINES BY W. WOTTY. 
 
 Adieu, sweet Bard ! to each fine feeling true, 
 Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few, — ■ 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 65 
 
 Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds, and these 
 With harmless mirth the social soul to please. 
 Another's woe thy heart could always melt ; 
 None gave more free, for none more deeply felt. 
 Sweet Bard, adieu ! thy own harmonious lays 
 Have sculptured out thy monument of praise : 
 Yes, these survive to Time's remotest day ; 
 While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay. 
 Reader, if number'd in the Muse's train, 
 Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain ; 
 But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan, 
 Depart in peace, and imitate the man. 
 
THE TRAVELLER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 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 dedica- 
 tion ; 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 on- 
 ly inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many 
 parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed 
 to a man who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early 
 to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds 
 a-year. 
 
 I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your hum- 
 ble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where 
 the harvest is great, and the laborers are but few ; while you 
 have left the field of ambition, where the laborers are many 
 and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds 
 of ambition — what from the refinement of the times, from 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 67 
 
 different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party 
 — that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. 
 
 Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished na- 
 tions ; 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 fa- 
 vor once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, seize 
 upon the elder's birthright. 
 
 Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it 
 is still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the 
 learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard 
 of late in favor 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, — 
 I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and des- 
 troys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this 
 disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to in- 
 crease the distemper. 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 cal- 
 umny, makes ever after the most agreeable feast upon mur- 
 dered 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, 
 
68 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I 
 solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing 
 the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the 
 rage of all. I have endeavored to shew that there may be 
 equal happiness in states that are differently governed from 
 our own ; that every state has a particular principle of happi- 
 ness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mis- 
 chievous excess. There are few can judge better than your- 
 self how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, 
 dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
 Or by the lazy Sheld, 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 ! 
 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 ! 
 
70 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 But me, not destined such delights to share, 
 My prime of life in wandering spent, and care ; 
 ImpelFd, 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. 
 E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And, placed on high above the storm's career, 
 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 splendor crown-Id 5 
 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, 
 
THE TRAVELLER,. 71 
 
 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 ; 
 r Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
 To see the sum 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 ; 
 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 labor's earnest call ; 
 With food as well the peasant is supplied 
 On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
 
72 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 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, honor, liberty, content. 
 Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
 That either seems destructive of the rest. 
 Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails, 
 And honor sinks, where commerce long prevails. 
 Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone, 
 Conforms and models life to that alone. 
 Each to the favorite happiness attends, 
 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
 Till carried to excess in each domain, 
 This Favorite 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, 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 73 
 
 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, 
 And sensual bliss is all this 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 e'en 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 fall'n 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 ; 
 7 
 
74 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n 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 beguil'd ; 
 
 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 dooms where Caesars once bore sway, 
 
 Defaced by time, and 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 : 
 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, 
 
 I 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 75 
 
 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 vent'rous 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 labor sped, 
 
 He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
 
 Smiles by a cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 
 His children's looks that brighten to 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 ills 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 that 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. 
 
76 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 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, 
 Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 
 Hence 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, 
 Nor quench'd by want, nor fann'd 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 their 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's 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, 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 77 
 
 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 flatt'ring 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 noontide 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 honor forms the social temper here : 
 Honor, 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 : 
 
78 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 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, 
 Embosom'd 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, 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 79 
 
 With all those ills superflous treasure brings, 
 
 Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts 
 
 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 dishonorable 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's 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'cl, fresh from nature's hand, 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
 True to imagined right above control, — 
 
80 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 "While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
 And learns to venerate himself as aao*-" 
 
 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ! 
 Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
 But, fostered 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, 
 Represt ambition struggles round her shore ; 
 Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
 Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 
 
 Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, 
 As duty, love, and honor 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, unhonor'd die. 
 
 But 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, 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 81 
 
 Far from niy 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 contempt, or favor'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, 
 vThat 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 disproportion'd grow, 
 Its double weight must ruin all below. 
 
 Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires, 
 Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
 Except when fast approaching clanger warms : 
 But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
 Contracting regal 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, 
 When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
 
82 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 And thus, polluting honor 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 decay '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 ways, 
 "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, 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 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 Damien's bed of steel, 
 To men remote from power but rarely known, 
 Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 
 
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 following 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 deplores is no where to be seen, and the dis- 
 orders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own im- 
 agination. 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 ; 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 85 
 
 and that all my views and inquiries have led rne 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 indif- 
 ferent 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, 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 professed 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 un- 
 done. 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, 
 
 Oliver Goldtmith. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.* 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 
 Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring 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, 
 
 How 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 topt the neighboring hill, 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
 
 How often have I blest the coming day, 
 
 * The locality of this poem is supposed to be Lissoy, near 
 Ballymahan, where the poet's brother Henry had his living. As 
 usual in such cases, the place afterwards became the fashionable 
 resort of poetical pilgrims, and paid the customary penalty of fur- 
 nishing relics for the curious. The hawthorn bush has been con- 
 verted into snuff-boxes, and now adorns the cabinets of poetical 
 virtuosi. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 87 
 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 
 And all the village train, from labor 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 slights 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 looks of love, 
 
 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 ; 
 
 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 the grassy 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 : 
 
88 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Sunk are thy bovvers in shapless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Ea-iVfar 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 destroyed, 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 Labor 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 hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
 Those healthful 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 power. 
 Here as I take my solitary rounds, 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 89 
 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined 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 turns the 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 shew my book-learn'd skill, 
 Around ray 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 she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
 Here to return and die at home at last. ^> 
 
 O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
 Retreat from cares, that never must be mine ! 
 Plow blest is he who crowns in shades like these, 
 A youth of labor 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 ; 
 No 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 ; 
 
90 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 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 past 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, — 
 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, I 
 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 fagot 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 DESERTED VILLAGE. 91 
 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 /A man he was to all the country dear, 
 
 V And passing rich with forty pounds a-year : 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd 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 learn'd 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 o'er his 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 fautls 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 
 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. 
 
92 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 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 ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children follow'd, with endearing Avile, 
 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 its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling 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 countefeited glee, 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 93 
 
 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, 
 'T was 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 ; 
 While words of learned length and thund'ring 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. 
 But 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 graybeard 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 parlor splendors of that festive place : 
 The white-wash'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 draws by day ; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
 
94 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 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 splendors ! 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 pond'rous strength, and learn 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 prest, 
 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 ; 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 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 DESERTED VILLAGE. 95 
 
 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, 
 'T is 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 her 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 leaves 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 neighboring 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 splendor feebly waits its 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 : 
 
96 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd ; 
 In nature's simplest charms at first array'd : 
 But verging to decline, its splendors 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. 
 
 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, 
 Tiiose fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped, 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-creatures' wo. 
 Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
 There the pale artist plies his 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 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 97 
 
 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 wo. 
 Far different there from all that charm'd before, 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 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 Altama ( or Altamaha ) is a river in the province of 
 Georgia, United States. 
 
98 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
 And savage men, more murd'rous still than they ; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 Far 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, 
 Hung 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' wo ; m 
 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 blest 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. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 99 
 
 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 vigor not their own : 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo ; 
 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, 
 
100 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 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 fervors glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
 Redress the rigors of th' 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 possest, 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
THE HERMIT; 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 The following letter, addressed to the printer of the St. James's 
 Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767. 
 
 Sir, — As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper 
 controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as con- 
 cise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I 
 recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book 
 was a good one, and I think so still. I said I was told by the 
 bookseller that it was then first published ; but in that, it seems, 
 I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough 
 to set me right. 
 
 Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a 
 ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious 
 Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance be- 
 tween the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad 
 is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago ; 
 and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) 
 told me with his usual good humor, the next time I saw him, 
 that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shak- 
 speare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cen- 
 
 * Friar of Orders Gray. Reliques of Ancient Poetry, vol. i, book 
 2, No. 17. ^ 
 
102 THE HERMIT. 
 
 to, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty an- 
 ecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing ; and, were it not 
 for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the 
 public should never have known that he owes me the hint 
 of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his frendship and learning 
 for communications of a much more important nature. — I 
 am, Sir, yours, etc. Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 ' Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 And guide my lonely way, 
 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 * For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
 
 With fainting steps and slow, 
 Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
 Seem length'ning 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. 
 
 6 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. 
 
104 THE HERMIT. 
 
 6 No flocks that range the valley free, 
 
 To slaughter I condemn ; 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 
 I learn to pity them : 
 
 < 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 neighb'ring 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 his little fire, 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest : 
 
THE HERMIT. 105 
 
 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 on the hearth, 
 
 The crackling fagot 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 oppress'd : 
 And, ? Whence unhappy youth/ he cried, 
 
 1 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 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 ? 
 
106 THE HERMIT. 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 6 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 colors o'er the morning skies, 
 As bright, as transient too. * 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confessed, 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 And, ' Ah ! forgive a stranger rude — 
 A wretch forlorn,' she cried : 
 
 * Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
 Where heaven and you reside. 
 
 c 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. 
 
THE HERMIT. 107 
 
 * 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. 
 
 ' In humble, simplest habit clad, ^ 
 
 No wealth nor power had he ; 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 
 But these were all to me. /y 
 
 i 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, wo to me, 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 * This stanza was preserved by Eichard Archdale, Esq., a mem- 
 ber of the Irish Parliament, to whom it was given by Goldsmith, 
 and was first inserted after the author's death. 
 
108 THE HERMIT. 
 
 1 For still I tried each fickle art, 
 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 
 I triumph'd in his pain ; 
 
 1 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. 
 
 i 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 cried, 
 
 And clasp'd her to his breast ; 
 The wondering fair one turn'd to chide - 
 ' Twas Edwin's self that press'd ! 
 
 1 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. 
 
THE HERMIT. 109 
 
 1 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.' 
 
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON * 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 
 
 Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 
 Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter. 
 The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
 The fat was 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 shewn 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 damnable 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, 
 
 * The description of the dinner party in this poem is imitated 
 from Boileau's fourth Satire. Boileau himself took the hint from 
 Horace, Lib. i'i. Sat. 8, which has also been imitated by Regnier, 
 Sat. 10. 
 
THE HATJNCH OP VENISON. Ill 
 
 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 Munroe'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, Higgins — oh, let him alone 
 For making a blunder, or picking a bone : 
 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 thus I debated, in reverie centred, 
 An acquaintance — a friend, as he call'd himself — 
 
 enter'd ; 
 An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
 And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me, — 
 ' What have you got here ? — Why, this is good eating ! 
 Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting ? ' 
 1 Why, whose should it be ? ' cried I, with a flounce, 
 i 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.' 
 
 * Lord Clare's nephew. 
 
112 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 1 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 ; 
 ]STo 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 follow'd 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 venison 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-lumbered 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, 
 
 * See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry 
 Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. 1769. 
 
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 113 
 
 The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale : * 
 But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
 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 seen ; 
 At the bottom, was tripe in a swinging tureen ; 
 At the sides, there was spinage, 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 d ' d Scottish 
 
 rogue, 
 With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his 
 
 brogue ; 
 And, ' Madam,' quoth he, ' may this bit be my poison, 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : 
 Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
 But I've ate of your tripe till I'm ready to burst/ 
 1 The tripe ! ' 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 ; 
 
 * An eminent London brewer, M. P. for the borough of South - 
 wark, at whose table Dr. Johnson was a frequent guest. 
 
 10* 
 
114 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all/ 
 
 * 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.' — i A pasty ! ' repeated the Jew, 
 
 ' I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' 
 
 ' What the deil 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 echo'd about. 
 
 While thus we resolved, and the 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 labor misplaced, 
 To send such good verses to one of your taste : 
 You've 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, 
 You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 
 
RETALIATION. 
 
 Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the 
 St. James's Coffeehouse. One day, it was proposed to write 
 epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished 
 subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, 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 Dean f shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
 Our Burke % shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; 
 Our Will § shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavor, 
 And Dick || with his pepper shall heighten the savor ; 
 
 * The master of the St. James's Coffeehouse, where the Doctor 
 and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally 
 dined. 
 
 t Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland, afterwards Bish- 
 op of Kill aloe. 
 
 % The Bight Hon. Edmund Burke. 
 
 § Mr. William Burke, formerly secretary to General Conway, 
 and member for Bedwin. 
 
 || Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada. 
 
116 RETALIATION. 
 
 Our Cumberland's * sweetbread its place shall obtain, 
 And Douglas t is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
 Our Garrick's j a salad, for in him we see 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
 That Ridge § is anchovy, and Reynolds || is lamb ; 
 That Hickey's % 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 ? 
 Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, 
 Till all my companions sink under the 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 mixed 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 cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
 
 =*Mr. Kichard Cumberland, author of The West Indian, The 
 Jeio, and other dramatic works. 
 
 t Doctor Douglas, Canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop 
 of Salisbury, was himself a natvie of Scotland, and obtained con- 
 siderable reputation by his detection of the forgeries of his coun- 
 trymen, Lauder and Bower. 
 
 J David Garrick, Esq. 
 
 § Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish 
 bar. 
 
 || Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 
 If An eminent attorney. 
 
RETALIATION. 117 
 
 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 : f 
 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 place, 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 honor, 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. 
 
 * Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord 
 Sydney. 
 
 t Mr. Burke's speeches in Parliament, though distinguished by 
 all the force of reasoning and eloquence of their highly-gifted 
 author, were not always listened to with patience by his brother 
 members, who not unfrequently took the opportunity of retiring 
 to dinner when he rose to speak. To this circumstance, which 
 procured for the orator the sobriquet of the Dinner Bell, allusion is 
 here made. 
 
118 RETALIATION. 
 
 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 ! * 
 Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball I 
 Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
 In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
 That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at Old Nick. 
 But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
 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, 
 
 * Mr. Richard Burke having slightly fractured an arm and a 
 leg at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these acci- 
 dents, as a kind of retributive justice, for breaking jests upon 
 other people. 
 
RETALIATION. 119 
 
 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 countryman 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 him who can, 
 
 * The Rev. Dr. Dodd, who was executed for forgery. 
 
 f Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the 
 title of ' The School of Shakspeare.' He was a well-known writer, 
 of prodigious versatility, and some talent. Dr. Johnson observed 
 of him, ' He is one of the many who have made themselves public, 
 without making themselves known.' 
 
 J James Macpherson, Esq., who from the mere force of his style, 
 wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 
 
 § William Lauder, who, by interpolating certain passages from 
 the Adamus Exul of Grotius, with translations from Paradise 
 Lost, endeavored to fix on Milton a charge of plagiarism from 
 the modern Latin poets. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this 
 imposture, and extorted from the author a confession and apology. 
 
 || Archibald Bower, a Scottish Jesuit, and author of a History 
 of the Popes from St. Peter to Lambertini. Dr. Douglas convict- 
 ed Bower of gross imposture, and totally destroyed the credit of 
 his history. 
 
120 RETALIATION. 
 
 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 colors he spread, 
 
 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-E,oscius'd, and you were be-praised ! 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
 To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 
 
 * Mr. Hugh Kelley, originally a staymaker, afterwards a news- 
 paper editor and dramatist, and latterly a barrister. 
 
 t Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 
 
RETALIATION. 121 
 
 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 Kelleys 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. 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
 When they judged without skill, he was still hard of 
 
 hearing : 
 When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregios, and 
 
 stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. 
 
 * Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity 
 of using an ear-trumpet in company. 
 * 11 ' 
 
122 RETALIATION. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher 
 received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord * 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 : f 
 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 flattery, a stranger to fear ; 
 Who scatter'd around wit and humor at will ; 
 Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill : 
 A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
 A scholar, yet surejy no pedant was he. 
 
 What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind 
 Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! 
 Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
 Yet content if ' the table he set in a roar : ' 
 Whose talents to fill any station were fit, 
 Yet happy if Woodfall % confess'd 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, 
 
 ^Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 
 
 f Mr. Whitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Gold- 
 smith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without 
 being infected with the itch of punning. 
 
 % Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 
 
RETALIATION. 1 23 
 
 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 humor, I had almost said wit ; 
 This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 
 * Thou best-humor'd man with the worst-humor'd Muse.' 
 
 THE 
 DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 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 cracked 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 ? 
 
 Oh, had the archer ne'er come down 
 To ravage in a country town ! 
 Or Flavia been content to stop 
 
 * Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with hu- 
 morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. 
 
124 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop ! 
 
 Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 
 
 Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 
 
 Oh ! — but let exclamation cease. 
 
 Her presence banished all his peace ; 
 
 So with decorum all things carried, 
 
 Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was — married. 
 
 Need we expose to vulgar sight 
 The raptures of the bridal night ? 
 Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, 
 Or draw the curtains closed around ? 
 Let it suffice that each had charms : 
 He clasped a goddess in his arms ; 
 And though she felt his usage rough, 
 Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 
 
 The honey-moon like lightning flew, 
 The second brought its transports too ; 
 A third, a fourth, were not amiss, 
 The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss : 
 But, when a twelvemonth passed 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. 
 
 Skill'd in no other arts was she, 
 But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
 And, just as humor rose or fell, 
 By turns a slattern or a belle. 
 'Tis true she dressed with modern grace, 
 Half naked, at a ball or race ; 
 
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 125 
 
 But when at home, at board or bed, 
 
 Five greasy nightcaps 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 levee ; 
 
 The squire and captain to<5k their stations, 
 
 And twenty other near relations : 
 
 Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 
 
 A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 
 
 While' all their hours w T ere 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 shews, 
 Or thins her lips, or points her nose : 
 Whenever rage or envy rise, 
 How wide her mouth, how w r ild her eyes ! 
 He knows not how, but so it is, 
 Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; 
 And, though her fops are wondrous civil, 
 He thinks her ugly as the devil. 
 
 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 
 11* 
 
126 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 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 
 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 e'en 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. 
 
THE GIFT. 127 
 
 THE GIFT * 
 
 TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 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 Devil ! 
 
 * Imitated from Grecourt, a witty French poet. 
 
128 AN ELEGY ON TilE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAI) DOG. 
 
 Good people all, of e\ery sort, 
 
 Give ear unto my song, 
 And if you Jlnd 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 hound, 
 
 And curs of 1ow t degree. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends ; 
 
 But when a pique^ began, 
 The dog, to gain his private ends, 
 
 Went mad, and bit the man. 
 
 Around from all the neighboring streets 
 
 The wond'ring neighbors ran, 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 120 
 
 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 recover'd of the bite — 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
 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 preditum ; 
 
 But for rny 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 ; 
 
 *This happy imitation was adopted by his Dublin publisher, as 
 a genuine poem of Swift, and as such it has been reprinted in 
 almost every edition of the Dean's works. Even Sir Walter Scott 
 has inserted it without any remark in his edition of Swift's "Works. 
 
130 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 
 
 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 neighbor prosecute, 
 
 Bring action for assault and battery ? 
 
 Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? 
 
 O'er plains they ramble unconfined, 
 
 No politics disturb their mind ; 
 
 They eat their meals, and take their sport, 
 
 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-masters, 
 
 No pickpockets, or poetasters, 
 
 Are known to honest quadrupeds ; 
 
 No single brute his fellow leads. 
 
 Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 
 
 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, 
 
 * Sir Eobert Walpole. 
 
A NEW SIMILE. 131 
 
 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 masters' manners still contract, 
 And footmen, lords and dukes can act. 
 Thus at the court, both great and small 
 Behave alike, for all ape all. 
 
 A NEW SIMILE. 
 
 IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 
 
 Long had I 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 forgot 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, 
 
132 A NEW SIMILE. 
 
 In book the second, page the tenth ; 
 The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 
 And now proceed we to our simile. 
 
 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 authors term'd caduceus, 
 And highly famed for several uses : 
 To wit, — most wondrously 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. 
 
A NEW SIMILE. 133 
 
 Now, to apply, begin we then : — 
 His wand's a modern author's pen ; 
 The serpents round about it twin'd 
 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, damns himself. 
 
 And here my simile almost tript, 
 Yet grant a word by way of postcript. 
 Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing ; 
 Well ! what of that ? out with it — stealing f 
 In which all modern bards agree, 
 Being each as great a thief as he. 
 But e'en this deity's existence 
 Shall lend my simile assistance : 
 Our modern bards ! why, what a pox, 
 Are they but senseless stones and blocks ? 
 
 . DESCRIPTION 
 
 OF AN 
 
 AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. 
 
 Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
 Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
 Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne, 
 12 
 
134: DESCRIPTION OF A BED-CHAMBER. ' 
 
 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-black 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 nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 
 
 A cap by night — a stocking all the day ! * 
 
 A PROLOGUE, 
 
 WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS. A ROMAN 
 KNIGHT, WHOM CiESAR 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 ? 
 
 * The author has given, with a very slight alteration, a similar 
 description of the alehouse, in the Deserted Village. 
 
135 
 
 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 honor dear : 
 But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
 And all my hoard of honor 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 : 
 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 honor ends. 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, 
 MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 
 
 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. 
 
136 
 
 She strove the neighborhood to please 
 With manners wondrous winning ; 
 
 And never follow'd wicked ways — 
 Unless when she was sinning. 
 
 At church, in silks and satin 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 walk'd 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. 
 
 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. 137 
 
 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 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 — 
 
 As I hope to be saved ! — without thinking on asses.' 
 
 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 pleasure's 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 his works shall rise, 
 
 While converts thank their poet in the skies. 
 
 EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON* 
 
 Here lies Ned Purdon, from misery freed, 
 
 Who long was a bookseller's hack : 
 He led such a damnable life in this world, 
 
 I don't think he'll wish to come back. 
 
 * This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ; but 
 having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Grow- 
 ing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and be- 
 came a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's 
 Henriade. 
 
 12* 
 
138 
 
 STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. 
 
 Amidst the clamor of exulting joys, 
 
 Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, 
 
 Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 
 
 And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. 
 
 O 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 vigor 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 * Goldsmith claimed relationship with this gallant soldier, whose 
 character he greatly admired. 
 
SONGS. 139 
 
 A SONNET.* 
 
 Weeping, murmuring, complaining, 
 
 Lost to every gay delight, 
 Myra, too sincere for feigning, 
 
 Fears th' approaching bridal night. 
 
 Yet why impair thy bright perfection, 
 
 Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 
 Had Myra followed my direction, 
 
 She long had wanted cause of fear. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 
 The wretch condemned with life to part, 
 
 Still, still on hope relies ; 
 And every pang that rends the heart 
 
 Bids expectation rise. 
 
 Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 
 
 Adorns and cheers the way ; 
 And still, as darker grows the night, 
 
 Emits a brighter ray. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 
 O memory ! thou fond deceiver, 
 
 Still importunate and vain, 
 To former joys recurring ever, 
 
 And turning all the past to pain. 
 
 * This sonnet is imitated from a French madrigal of St. Pavier. 
 
140 PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. 
 
 Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing, 
 Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ; 
 
 And he who wants each other blessing, 
 In thee must ever find a foe. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of She Stoops to Con- 
 quer, but omitted, because Mrs. Bulkley, who acted the part of 
 Miss Hardcastle, could 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. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY; 
 
 WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADOCK, ESQ., ACTED AT THE 
 THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, 1772. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK. 
 
 In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore 
 The distant climates and the savage shore; 
 When wise astronomers to India steer, 
 And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; 
 While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 
 
PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. 141 
 
 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 ere he lands he's ordered 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. 
 
 Lord, 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. 
 
 Here ill-condition'd 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 ! 
 Oh, 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 Honor 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. 
 
142 EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTEKS.* 
 
 What ! five long acts — and all to make us wiser ! 
 
 Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. 
 
 Had she consulted me, she should 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 /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, yovf, you. 
 [ To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. 
 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-color'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 : 
 
 =*By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, author of the Female Quixote, 
 ShaJcspeare Illustrated, etc. It was performed one night only at 
 Covent Garden, in 1769. This lady was praised by Dr. Johnson, 
 as the cleverest female writer of her age. 
 
EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS. 143 
 
 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 't is with all : their chief and constant care 
 Is to seem everything — 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 ftowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, 
 Looking, as who should say, Damme ! who 's afraid ? 
 
 [Mimicking. 
 Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am, 
 You '11 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. 
 Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, 
 And seems, to every gazer, all in white, 
 If with a bribe his candor 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 '11 for once spare you. 
 
EPILOGUE, 
 
 SPOKEN BY 
 
 MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who courtesies very low, as beginning to speak. 
 Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and courtesies to 
 the audience. 
 
 Mrs. Buttchy. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What 's 
 
 your business here ? 
 Miss Cathy. The Epilogue. 
 Mrs. B. The Epilogue ? 
 Miss C. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. 
 Mrs. B. Sure, you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue ! 
 
 1 bring it. 
 Miss C. 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. B. "Why, sure, the girl 's beside herself! an Ep- 
 ilogue 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 C. What if we leave it to the house ? 
 
 Mrs. B. The house ? — Agreed. 
 
145 
 
 Miss O. Agreed. 
 
 Mrs. B. And she whose party 's largest shall pro- 
 ceed. 
 And first, I hope you '11 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 G. 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, hu ! 
 Yes, I. must die, ho, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Da Capo. 
 
 Mrs. B. Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; ' 
 Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 
 Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train, 
 Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, 
 Who take a trip to Paris once a-year, 
 13 
 
146 EPILOGUE. 
 
 To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here,— 
 Lend me your hands : O, fatal news to tell, 
 Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. 
 
 Miss C. 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 honnie young lad is my Jockey. 
 
 I'll 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 Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 
 
 Mrs. B. 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 yoa, with you ! 9 
 Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 
 ( My Lord, your Lordship misconceives the case : ? 
 Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, 
 ' I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner : ' 
 Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, 
 Come, end the contest here, and aid my party. 
 
 Air. — jBallinamony. 
 
 Miss G. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, 
 Assist me, I pray, in this woeful attack ; 
 For — sure, I don't wrong you — you seldom are slack, 
 
147 
 
 When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. 
 For you are always polite and attentive, 
 Still to amuse us inventive, 
 And death is your only preventive ; 
 Your hands and voices for me. 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, 
 We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring ? 
 
 Miss O. And that our friendship may remain unbrok- 
 en, 
 What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Agreed. 
 
 Miss C. Agreed. 
 
 Mrs. B. And now with late repentance, 
 Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. 
 Condemn the stubborn fool, who can't submit 
 To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. 
 
 Exeunt, 
 
 AN EPILOGUE 
 
 INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. 
 
 There is a place — so Ariosto sings — 
 
 A treasury for lost and missing things, 
 
 Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, 
 
 And they who lose their senses, there may find them. 
 
 But where 's this place, this 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 ; 
 
148 EPILOGUE. 
 
 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 th' 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, l Damme, Sir ! ' and < Sir, I wear a sword ! ' 
 Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, 
 Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
 Here comes 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 favor 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 LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OP 
 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 honors of my head ; 
 That I found humor 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 wo that weeps. 
 How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy J>rood 
 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. 
 Oh ! for a "Richard's voice to catch the theme, — 
 13* 
 
150 EPILOGUE. 
 
 6 Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! — soft — 
 
 1 '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 JEsop'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 : 
 4 The deuce 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 that 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 thund'ring from behind : 
 He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind ; 
 He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 
 He starts, he pdnts, 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 the stage door. 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS * 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE 
 
 PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. 
 
 SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO-SQT7ABE, 
 
 Thursday, the 20th day of February, 1772. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following may more properly be termed a com- 
 pilation 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 was adapted in a period 
 of time equally short. 
 
 Speakers — Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. 
 
 Singers — Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. 
 
 THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNIOR VENTO. 
 
 * This poem was first printed in Chalmers' edition of the Eng- 
 lish Poets, from a copy given by Goldsmith to his friend. Joseph 
 Cradock, Esq., author of the tragedy of Zobeide. 
 
152 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. . 
 
 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 ours to weep the want below. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 When truth and virtue, etc. 
 
 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 the 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, 
 
 How hast thou left mankind for Heaven ! 
 Even now reproach and faction mourn, 
 And, wondering how their rage was born,. 
 
THRENODIA ATJGTJSTALIS. 153 
 
 Request to be 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 the 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 increased load. 
 Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, 
 Affliction still is virtue's opportunity ! 
 Virtue, on herself relying, 
 
 Every passion hushed 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. 
 
 SONG. BT A MAN — AFEETUOSO. 
 
 Virtue, on herself relying, etc. 
 
 to 
 Only rocks her to repose. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Yet ah ! what terrors frown'd upon her fate, 
 
 Death, with its formidable band, 
 Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, 
 
154 THRENODIA AUGTJSTALIS. 
 
 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 pow'r, 
 And trembled as he frown'd. 
 As helpless friends who view from shore 
 The laboring 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. 
 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 — BASSO, STOCCATO, SPIRITTJOSO. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Fall, round me fall, ye little things, 
 Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings, 
 If virtue fail her counsel sage, 
 Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 155 
 
 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 forever. 
 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, wheresoe'er 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 ! 
 
156 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 SONG. BY A WOMAN — AMOROSO. 
 
 Lovely, lasting Peace, below, 
 Comforter of every woe, 
 Heavenly born, and bred on high, 
 To crown the favorites 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 patient 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. 
 
THRENODIA ATJGUSTALIS. 157 
 
 -CHORUS POMPOSO. 
 
 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 Elysium 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, 
 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, unconscious of decay, 
 The modest matron, clad in home-spun 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. 
 14 
 
158 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 CHORUS. — AFFETUOSO, LARGO. 
 
 Ye shady walks, ye waving greens, 
 
 Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes, 
 
 Let all your echoes now deplore, 
 
 That she who fomi'd your beauties is no more. 
 
 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 ? 
 jNo lord will take me now, my vigor fled, 
 
 Nor can my strength perform what they require : 
 Each grudging master keeps the laborer 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, 
 
 Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne, 
 
 By use and daily meditation worn ; 
 
 That decent dress, this holy guide, 
 
 Augusta's cares had well supplied. 
 
 ' And ah ! ' she cries, all wobegone, 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 159 
 
 ' What now remains for me ? 
 Oh ! where shall weeping want repair 
 
 To ask for charity ? 
 Too late in life for me to ask, 
 
 And shame prevents the deed, 
 And tardy, tardy are the times 
 
 To succor, 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 bless, 
 
 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 distrest, 
 At last th' impetuous sorrow fired his breast : — 
 
 Wild is the whirlwind rolling 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain, 
 
160 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 And wide 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 ; 
 I'll seek that less inhospitable coast, 
 And lay my body where my limbs were lost. 
 
 SONG. — BY A MAN. — BASSO SPIMTUOSO. 
 
 Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, 
 Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field, 
 
 To do thy memory right : 
 For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, 
 Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 
 
 And wish th' avenging fight. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 In innocence and youth complaining, 
 
 Next appear'd a lovely maid ; 
 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, 
 
 1 No more shall my crook or my temples adorn ; 
 I'll not wear a garland — Augusta's away — 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 161 
 
 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, 
 
 I'll 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 WOMAN. — 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 torn*':. 
 
 CHORUS. — ALTRO MODO. 
 
 On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed, 
 We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, 
 
 And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
 And the tears of her country shall water her tomb. 
 
 14* 
 
THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO* 
 
 THE PERSONS. 
 
 First Jewish Prophet. First Chaldean Priest. 
 Second Jewish Prophet. Second Chaldean Priest. 
 Israelitish Woman. Chaldean Woman. 
 
 Chorus of Youths and Virgins. 
 
 Scene — The Banks of the River Euphrates near Babylon. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Ye captive tribes that hourly work and weep 
 Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep, 
 Suspend your woes a while, the task suspend, 
 And turn to God, your father and your friend : 
 Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe, 
 Our God alone is all we boast below. 
 
 Air. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Our God is all we boast below, 
 To him we turn our eyes ; 
 
 * This was first printed from the original, in Dr. Goldsmith's 
 own hand-writing, in the 8vo. edition of his Miscellaneous Works, 
 published in 1820. 
 
the captivity: an oratario. 163 
 
 And every added weight of wo 
 Shall make our homage rise. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 And though no temple richly dress'd, 
 
 Nor sacrifice is here, 
 We'll make his temple in our breast, 
 
 And offer up a tear. 
 
 \The first stanza repeated by the CHORUS. 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 
 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, — 
 
 How sweet those groves ! that plain how wondrous fair ! 
 
 How 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. 
 
 Hence, intruder most distressing ! 
 
 Seek the happy and the free : 
 The wretch who wants each other blessing, 
 
 Ever wants a friend in thee. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Yet why complain ? What though by bonds confined ? 
 
1 64 THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 
 
 Should bonds repress the vigor 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. 
 
 But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near, 
 
 The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear ; 
 
 Triumphant music floats along the vale, 
 
 Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale : 
 
 The growing sound their swift approach declares — 
 
 Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain withHheirs. 
 
the captivity: an oratorio. 165 
 
 Enter Chaldean Priests attended. 
 Air. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 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 supplies, 
 
 Both similar blessings bestow : 
 The sun with his splendor illumines the skies, 
 
 And our monarch enlivens below. 
 
 Air. 
 
 CHALDEAN WOMAN. „ 
 
 Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure, 
 Love presents the 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, 
 Whither shall my choice incline. 
 
166 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 
 
 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. 
 
 But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land, 
 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 ? 
 
 Air. 
 
 Every moment as it flows, 
 Some peculiar pleasure owes : 
 
 Come then, providently wise, 
 Seize the debtor e'er it flies. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 
THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 167 
 
 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 ! 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 Rebellious slaves ! if soft persuasion fail, 
 More formidable terrors shall prevail. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 "Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer — 
 We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. 
 
 \Exeunt Chaldeans. 
 
 CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. 
 
 Can chains or tortures bend the mind 
 
 On God's supporting breast reclined ? 
 
 Stand fast, and let our tyrants see 
 
 That fortitude is victory. [Exeunt 
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 Israelites and Chaldeans, as before. 
 Air. 
 
 ■ FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 O peace of mind, angelic guest, 
 Thou soft companion of the breast, 
 Dispense thy balmy store ! 
 
168 the captivity: an oratorio. 
 
 Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies, 
 Till earth, receding from our eyes, 
 Shall vanish as we soar ! 
 
 FIKST PKIEST. 
 
 No more. Too long has justice been delay'd, 
 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 favors offer'd from his hand, 
 Think, timely think, what terrors are behind ; 
 Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind. 
 
 Fierce is the tempest howling 
 
 Along the furrow'd main, 
 And fierce the whirlwind rolling 
 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain. 
 
 But storms that fly 
 
 To rend the sky, 
 Every ill presaging, 
 
 Less dreadful show 
 
 To worlds below 
 Than angry monarchs raging. 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 
 Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow ! 
 How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow : 
 Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth, 
 
the captivity: an oratorio. 169 
 
 Forgive my sex's fears,. forgive my youth! 
 Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey ; 
 To-morrow's tears may wash the stain awaj. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Fatigued with life, yet loath to part, 
 
 On hope the wretch relies ; 
 And every blow that sinks the heart 
 
 Bids the deluder 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 looks, 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. 
 
 Air. 
 
 CHALDEAN WOMAN. 
 
 See the ruddy morning smiling, 
 Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; 
 Zephyrs through the woodland playing, 
 Streams along the valley straying. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 While these a constant revel keep, 
 15 
 
170 the captivity: an oratorio. 
 
 Shall reason only teach to weep ? 
 Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue 
 Nature, a better guide than you. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 But hold ! 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. 
 
 Air. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 From north, from south, from east, from west, 
 
 Conspiring nations come : 
 Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast ! 
 
 Blasphemers, all be dumb. 
 
 The tempest gathers all around, 
 
 On Babylon it lies ; 
 Down with her ! down, down to the ground 
 
 She sinks, she groans, she dies. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust, 
 
 Before yon setting sun ; 
 Serve her as she hath served the just! 
 
 'Tis fix'd — it shall be done. 
 
the captivity: an oratorio. 171 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 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 : 
 
 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 Or ALL. 
 
 Arise, all potent ruler, rise, 
 
 And vindicate the people's cause, 
 
 Till every tongue in every land 
 Shall offer up unfeigned applause. 
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are pass'd, 
 
 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. 
 
172 the captivity: an oratorio. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Coeval with man 
 Our empire began, 
 And never shall fall 
 Till ruin shakes all. 
 When ruin shakes all, 
 Then shall Babylon fall. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 'Tis thus the proud triumphant rear the head, — 
 A little while and all their power is fled. 
 But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train, 
 That onward slowly bends 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 : 
 Fall'n is our king, and all our fears are o'er, 
 Unhappy Zedekiah is no more. 
 
 Ye wretches, who, by fortune's hate, 
 
 In want and sorrow groan, 
 Come, ponder his severer fate, 
 
 And learn to bless your own. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, 
 
 Awhile the bliss suspend ; 
 Like yours, his life began in pride, 
 
 Like his, your lives shall end. 
 
THE captivity: an oratorio. 173 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn, 
 His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn ; , 
 Those eyeless orbs that shook with ghastly glare, 
 Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair ! 
 And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe, 
 Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low ? 
 How long, how long, Almighty God of all, 
 Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall ? 
 
 Air, 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 
 As panting flies the hunted hind, 
 
 "Where brooks refreshing stray ; 
 And rivers through the valley wind, 
 
 That stop the hunter's way : 
 
 Thus we, O Lord, alike distress'd, 
 
 For streams of mercy long ; 
 Streams which cheer the sore oppress'd, 
 
 And overwhelm the strong. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 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 : 
 And now, behold, the battlements recline — 
 O God of hosts, the victory is thine ! 
 15* 
 
174 the captivity: an oratorio. 
 
 CHORUS OF CAPTIVES. 
 
 Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust ; 
 
 Thy vengeance be begun ; 
 Serve them as they have served the just, 
 
 And let thy will be done. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 All, all is lost ! The Syrian army fails, 
 Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails. 
 The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along — 
 How low the proud, how feeble are the strong ! 
 Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray ; 
 And give repentance but an hour's delay. 
 
 Air. 
 
 FIRST AND SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 O happy, who in happy hour 
 To God their praise bestow, 
 
 And own his all-consuming power 
 Before they feel the blow ! 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 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 lives, your kingdom, are no more I 
 
 O Lucifer, thou son of morn, 
 
 Of Heaven alike, and man the foe, — 
 Heaven, men, and all, 
 
THE captivity: an oratorio. 175 
 
 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. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 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 this way leads his formidable band. 
 Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind, 
 And hail the benefactor of mankind : 
 He comes, pursuant to divine decree, 
 To chain the strong, and set the captive free. 
 
 CHORUS OF YOUTHS. 
 
 Rise to transports past expressing, 
 
 Sweeter by remember'd woes ; 
 Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing, 
 
 Comes to give the world repose. 
 
 CHORUS OF VIRGINS. 
 
 Cyrus comes, the world redressing, 
 
 Love and pleasure in his train ; 
 Comes to heighten every blessing, 
 Comes to soften every pain. 
 
176 The captivity : an oratorio. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS. 
 
 Hail to him with mercy reigning, 
 Skill'd in every peaceful art ; 
 
 Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining, 
 Only binds the willing heart. 
 
 THE LAST CHORUS. 
 
 But chief to thee, our God, defender, friend, 
 Let praise be given to all eternity ; 
 
 O Thou, without beginning, without end, 
 Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee ! 
 
 LINES ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE, OP APRIL 3, 1800. 
 
 E'en have you seen, bathed in the morning dew, 
 The budding rose its infant bloom display ; 
 
 "When first its virgin tints unfold to view, 
 
 It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day : 
 
 So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, 
 
 Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek ; 
 
 I gazed, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, 
 
 Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak. 
 
THE 
 
 GOOD-NATURED MAN: 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 This admirable comedy was represented, for the first time, at 
 Covent Garden, January 29, 1768. It kept possession of the stage 
 for nine nights, but was considered by the author's friends, not to 
 have met with all the success it deserved. Dr. Johnson said it 
 was the best comedy which had appeared since ' The Provoked 
 Husband? and Burke estimated its merits still higher. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was 
 strongly prepossessed in favor 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 au- 
 dience, than nature and humor, 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 anything of composition^ are sensible that in 
 pursuing humor, it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of 
 the mean : I was even tempted to look for it in the master 
 of a sponging-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 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 not banish humor 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 humor and Moliere from the stage, but it 
 has banished all spectators too. 
 
 Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the pub- 
 lic, for the favorable reception which the Good-Natured Man 
 has met with ; and to Mr. Colman in particular, for his kind- 
 ness 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 sufficient passport to his protection. 
 
 DKAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Croaker. 
 
 Lofty. 
 
 Sir William Honeywood, 
 
 Leontine. 
 
 Jarvis. 
 
 Butler. 
 
 Bailiff. 
 
 Dubardieu. 
 
 Postboy. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Miss Richland. 
 Olivia. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. 
 Garnet. 
 Landlady. 
 
 Scene — London. 
 
THE 
 GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON, SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY. 
 
 Press'd by the load of life, the weary mind 
 Surveys the general toil of human kind, 
 With cool submission joins the lab'ring 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 statesman 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 ; 
 
180 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
 Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 
 1 This day, the powder'd curls and golden coat,' 
 Says swelling Crispin, ' begg'd a cobbler's vote/ 
 * This night our wit,' the pert apprentice cries, 
 < Lies at my feet — I hiss him, and he dies.' 
 The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe : 
 The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 
 Yet, judged 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. 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene — an apartment in young honeywood's house. 
 Enter Sir William Honeywood and Jarvis. 
 
 Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for 
 this honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best 
 excuse for every freedom. 
 
 Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very an- 
 gry 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 William. Say rather, that he loves all the world ; 
 that is his fault. 
 
 Jarvis. I am 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. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 181 
 
 Sir William. What signifies this affection to me ? or 
 how can I be proud of a place in a heart, where every 
 sharper and coxcomb find an easy entrance ? 
 
 Jarvis. I grant you that he is 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 William. Not mine, sure. My letters to him 
 during my employment in Italy, taught him only that 
 philosophy which might prevent, not defend, his errors. 
 
 Jarvis. Faith, begging your honor'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 a 
 stable, but an arrant 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 William. 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. 
 
 Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know ; but, to be 
 sure, everybody has it that asks for it. 
 
 Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been 
 now for some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and 
 find them as boundless as his dissipation. 
 
 Jarvis. And yet, faith, 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 mu — 
 mu — munificence ; ay, that was the name he gave it. 
 16 
 
182 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Sir William. 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 fic- 
 titious 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 thor- 
 oughly vexed, every groan of his would be music to me ; 
 yet, faith, I believe it impossible. I have tried to fret 
 him myself every morning these three years ; but instead 
 of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he 
 does to his hair dresser. 
 
 Sir William. We must try him once more, however, 
 and I'll 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 with- 
 out 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 vice 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. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 183 
 
 -Enter Honeywood. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my 
 friends this morning ? 
 
 Jarvis. You have no friends. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, from my acquaintance then ? 
 
 Jarvis. (Pulling out bills.) A few of our usual cards 
 of compliment, that's all. This bill from your tailor ; this 
 from your mercer ; and this from the little broker in Crook- 
 ed-lane. He says he has been at a great deal of trouble 
 to get back the money you borrowed. 
 
 Honeywood. That I don't know ; but I am sure we 
 were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. 
 
 Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 be- 
 lieve they would stop his mouth for a while at least. 
 
 Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths 
 in the mean time ? Must I be cruel, because he happens 
 to be importunate ; and, to relieve his avarice, leave them 
 to insupportable distress ? 
 
 Jarvis. 'Sdeath ! sir, the question now is how to re- 
 lieve yourself — yourself. Haven't I reason to be out 
 of my senses, when I see things going at sixes and 
 sevens ? 
 
 Honeywood. Whatever reason you may have for being 
 out of your senses, I ]iope you'll allow that I'm not quite 
 unreasonable for continuing in mine. 
 
 Jarvis. You are the only man alive in your present 
 situation that could do so. Every thing upon the waste. 
 
184 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 There 's Miss Richland and her fine fortune gone already, 
 and upon the point of being given to your rival. 
 
 Honeywood. 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. 
 
 Honeywood. Then they have the more occasion for 
 being in mine. 
 
 Jarvis. Sob! 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. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 11 hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the 
 family. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 complain of the butler : he says he does most 
 work, and ought to have most wages. 
 
 Honeywood. That *s but just ; though perhaps here 
 comes the butler to complain of the footman. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, it 's the way with them all, from the scul- 
 lion to the privy-councillor. If they have a bad master, 
 they keep quarrelling with him ; if they have a good mas- 
 ter, they keep quarrelling with one another. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 185 
 
 Enter Butler, drunk. 
 
 Butler. Sir, I '11 not stay in the family with Jonathan ; 
 you must part with him, or part with me, that 's the ex — 
 ex — exposition of the matter, sir. 
 
 Honeyivood. 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. 
 
 Honeywood. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way — 
 
 Jarvis. Oh, quite amusing. 
 
 Butler. I find my wine 's a-going, sir ; and liquors 
 do n't go without mouths, sir — I hate a drunkard, sir. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, well, Philip, I '11 hear you upon 
 that another time ; so go to bed now. 
 
 Jarvis. To bed ! let him go to the devil. 
 
 Butler. Begging your honor's pardon, and begging 
 your pardon, master Jarvis, I '11 not go to bed nor to the 
 devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my cel- 
 lar. I forgot, your honor, Mr. Croaker is below. I came 
 on purpose to tell you. 
 
 Honeywood. Why did n't you show him up, block- 
 head. 
 
 Butler. Show him up, sir ? With all my heart, sir. 
 Up or down, all 's one to me. [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 his son, that 's just 
 returned from Paris, and Miss Richland, the young lady 
 he 's guardian to. 
 
 Honeywood. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my 
 16* 
 
186 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 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. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 love- 
 ly woman that ever warmed the human heart with desire, 
 I own : but never let me harbor a thought of making her 
 unhappy, by a connection with one so unworthy her mer- 
 its as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve 
 her, even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure her happi- 
 ness, though it destroys my own. 
 
 Jarvis. "Was ever the like ? I want patience. 
 
 Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain 
 Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could succeed 
 with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wife ? who, though 
 both very fine in their way, are yet a little opposite in 
 their dispositions, you know. 
 
 Jarvis. Opposite enough, Heaven knows ! the very 
 reverse of each other : she all laugh, and no joke ; he 
 always complaining, and never sorrowful — a fretful poor 
 soul, that has a new distress for every hour in the four- 
 and-twenty — 
 
 Honeywood. Hush, hush ! he 's coming up, he 11 hear 
 you. 
 
 Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing bell — 
 "Honeywood. Well, well; go, do. 
 
 Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief — a 
 coffin and cross-bones — a bundle of rue — a sprig of 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 187 
 
 deadly nightshade — a — (Honeywood, stopping his mouth, 
 at last pushes him off.) [Exit Jarvis. 
 
 Honeywood. I must own my old monitor is not entire- 
 ly 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 strong- 
 er effect on my spirits than an undertaker'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 God send we be all better this day 
 three months ! 
 
 Honeywood. 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. 
 
 Honeywood. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or 
 me, I should hope. 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whom 
 they pervert, in a country that has scarce any religion to 
 lose ? I 'm only afraid for our wives and daughters. 
 
 Honeywood. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I 
 assure you. 
 
188 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whether 
 they be perverted or no ? The women in my time were 
 good for something. I have seen a lady drest from top 
 to toe in her own manufactures formerly ; but now-a-days, 
 the devil a thing of their own manufacture 's about them, 
 except their faces. 
 
 Honeywood. But, however these faults may be prac- 
 tised abroad, 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 do n't find this match between Miss Richland and my 
 son much relished, either by one side or t' other. 
 
 Honeyioood. 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. 
 
 Honeywood. But would not that be usurping an au- 
 thority, 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 the 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. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 189 
 
 haggling. A man is tired of getting the better, before 
 his wife is tired of losing the victory. 
 
 Honeywood. It 's a melancholy consideration, indeed, 
 that our chief comforts often produce our greatest anxie- 
 ties, and that an increase of our possessions is but an inlet 
 to new disquietudes. 
 
 Croaker. Ah ! my dear friend, these were the very 
 words of 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. 
 
 Honeywood. Pray what could induce him to commit 
 so rash an action at last ? 
 
 Croaker. I do n'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. 
 
 Honeywood. His fate affects me. 
 
 Croaker. Ah ! he grew sick of this miserable life, 
 where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and 
 undress, get up and lie down ; while reason, that should 
 watch like a nurse by our side, falls as fast asleep as 
 we do. 
 
 Honeywood. To say a truth, if we compare that part 
 of life which is to come, by that which we have past, the 
 * prospect is hideous. 
 
190 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Croaker. Life, at the greatest and best, is but a frow- 
 ard child, that must be humored and coaxed a little till it 
 falls asleep, and then all the care is over. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 satisfac- 
 tion to be miserable with you. My son Leontine shan't 
 lose the benefit of such fine conversation. I '11 just step 
 home for him. I am willing to show him so much serious- 
 ness in one scarce older than himself. And what if I 
 bring my last letter to the Gazetteer, on the increase 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 Palmyra to Constantinople, 
 and so from Constantinople back to London again. [Exit. 
 Honeywood. 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, when 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 themselves. [Exit. * 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 191 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland. 
 
 Miss Richland. You 're always in such spirits. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear Honey- 
 wood, from the auction. There was the old deaf dowa- 
 ger, as usual, bidding like a fury against herself. And 
 then so curious in antiquities ! herself, the most genuine 
 piece of antiquity in the whole collection. 
 
 Honeywood. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness 
 from friendship makes me unfit to share in this good hu- 
 mor : I know you '11 pardon 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. 
 
 Miss Richland. You would seem to insinuate, madam, 
 that I have particular reasons for being disposed to re- 
 fuse it. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, do n't 
 be so ready to wish an explanation. 
 
 Miss Richland. I own I should be sorry Mr. Honey- 
 wood's long friendship and mine should be misunderstood. 
 
 Honeyivood. There 's no answering for others, madam. 
 But I hope you '11 never find me presuming to offer more 
 than the most delicate friendship may readily allow. 
 
 Miss Richland. And I shall be prouder of such a 
 tribute from you, than the most passionate professions 
 from others. 
 
 Honeyivood. My own sentiments, madam : friendship 
 is a disinterested commerce between equals ; love, an 
 abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. 
 ~ Miss Richland. And without a compliment, I know 
 
192 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 none more disinterested, or more capable of friendship, 
 than Mr. Honey wood. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And, indeed, I know nobody that has 
 more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, 
 Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom, praise him in all 
 companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, she 's his pro- 
 fessed admirer. 
 
 Miss Richland. Indeed ! an admirer ! — I did not 
 know, sir, you were such a favorite there. But is she 
 seriously so handsome ? Is she the mighty thing talked 
 of? 
 
 Honeywood. 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. For as her natural face decays, her skill improves 
 in making the artificial one... Well, nothing diverts me 
 more than one of those fine, old, dressy things, who thinks 
 to conceal her age by every where exposing her person 5 
 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 paint- 
 ed ruins of the place. 
 
 Honeywood. Every age has its admirers, ladies. While 
 you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer climates of 
 youth, there ought to be some to carry on a useful com- 
 merce in the frozen latitudes beyond fifty. 
 
 Miss Richland. 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. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 193 
 
 Honeywood. And yet, I '11 engage, has carried that 
 face at last to a very good market. This good-natured % 
 town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to fit every 
 age from fifteen to fourscore. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Well, you 're a dear good-natured crea- 
 ture. But you know you're engaged with us this morn- 
 ing upon a strolling party. I want to show Olivia the 
 town, and the things : I believe I shall have business for 
 you the whole day. 
 
 Honeyivood. I am sorry, madam, I have an appoint- 
 ment 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. 
 
 Honeyivood. Why, if I must, I must. I '11 swear you 
 have put me into such spirits. Well, do you find jest, 
 and I '11 find laugh, I promise you. We '11 wait for the 
 chariot in the next room. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Leontine and Olivia. 
 
 Leontine. There they go, thoughtless and happy. My 
 dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you capable of 
 sharing in their amusements, 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 
 
 Leontine. The world, my love ! what can it say ? At 
 worst it can only say, that, being compelled by a merce- 
 nary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, you formed 
 a resolution of flying with the man of your choice ; that 
 17 
 
194 TIIE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 you confided in his honor, and took refuge in my father's 
 * house, — the only one where yours could remain without 
 censure. 
 
 Olivia. But consider, Leon tine, your disobedience, 
 and my indiscretion ; your being sent to France to bring 
 home a sister, and, instead of a sister, bringing home 
 
 Leontine. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One 
 that I am 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. 
 
 Leontine. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper 
 to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has been 
 with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child, and you 
 find every creature in the family takes you for her. 
 
 Olivia. But may n't she write, may n't her aunt write ? 
 
 Leontine. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my 
 sister's letters are directed to me. 
 
 Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for 
 whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create a 
 suspicion ? 
 
 Leontine. There, there 's my master-stroke. I have 
 resolved not 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 ? 
 
 Leontine. Do n't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia 
 think so meanly of my honor, 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 Miss Richland a heart I am convinced she will 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 195 
 
 refuse ; as I am confident, that, without knowing it, her 
 affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! You '11 excuse my appre- 
 hensions ; but when your merits come to be put in the 
 balance 
 
 Leontine. You view them with too much partiality. 
 However, by making this offer, I show a seeming compli- 
 ance with my father's command ; 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. 
 
 Leontine. Do n't, my life's treasure, do n't let us make 
 imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real 
 ones to encounter. At worst, you know, if Miss Rich- 
 land 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 say- 
 ing such comfortable things ! Ah ! he 's an example in- 
 deed. Where is he ? I left him here. 
 
 Leontine. 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 
 
196 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 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 mim- 
 ics 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. 
 
 Leontine. Since you find so many objections to a wife, 
 sir, how can you be so earnest in recommending one to 
 me ? 
 
 Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that 
 Miss Richland's fortune must not go out of the family ; 
 one may find comfort in the money, whatever one does in 
 the wife. 
 
 Leontine. 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 '11 tell you once for all how it stands. A 
 good part of Miss Richland's large fortune consists in a 
 claim upon government, 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 for- 
 tune ; if she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine 
 girl into the bargain. 
 
 Leontine. But, sir, if you will listen to reason 
 
 Croaker. Come, then, produce your reasons. I tell 
 you, I 'm fixed, determined — so now produce your rea- 
 sons. When I am determined, I always listen to reason, 
 because it can then do no harm. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 197 
 
 Leontine. 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 without any fortune at all. 
 
 Leontine. An only son, sir, might expect more indul- 
 gence. 
 
 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 currycomb maker, lying in state ; I am 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 
 17* 
 
198 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene — Croaker's House. 
 Miss Richland, Garnet. 
 
 Miss Richland. Olivia not his sister! Olivia not 
 Leontine's sister? You 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 Richland. 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 went farther 
 than Paris ; there he saw and fell in love with this young 
 lady — by the by, of a prodigious family. 
 
 Miss Richland. And brought her home to my guardi- 
 an as his daughter ? 
 
 Garnet. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he 
 don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying what 
 a Scotch parson can do. 
 
 Miss Richland. Well, I own they have deceived me. 
 And so demurely 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 do n't much 
 blame her : she was loath to trust one with her secrets, 
 that was so very bad at keeping her own. 
 
 Miss Richland. But, to add to their deceit, the young 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 199 
 
 gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me serious propo- 
 sals. My guardian 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. Honey wood, madam 
 
 Miss Richland. How ! idiot, what do you mean ? In 
 love with Mr. Honey wood ! Is this to provoke me ? 
 
 Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with him : I 
 meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be mar- 
 ried — nothing more. 
 
 Miss Richland. Well, no more of this. As to my 
 guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to re- 
 ceive 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. 
 
 Garnet. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole 
 fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought so in- 
 nocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness ! 
 
 Miss Richland. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence 
 to their cunning, and practise a lesson they have taught 
 me against themselves. 
 
 Garnet. Then you 're likely not long to want employ- 
 ment, for here they come, and in close conference. 
 
 Enter Croaker and Leontine. 
 
 Leontine. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate upon 
 the point of putting to the lady so important a question. 
 
 Croaker. Lord ! 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. 
 
200 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Come, let me see with what spirit you begin : Well, why 
 do n't you ? Eh ! What ? Well then, I must, it seems — 
 Miss Richland, my dear, I believe you guess at our busi- 
 ness ; an affair which my son here comes to open, that 
 nearly concerns your happiness. 
 
 Miss Richland. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be 
 pleased with any thing that comes recommended by you. 
 
 Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer opening ? 
 Why do n't you begin, I say ? [ To Leo?itine. 
 
 Leontine. 'Tis true, madam — my father, madam — 
 has some intentions — -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. 
 
 Leontine. 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 be- 
 fore you one that loves you — one whose whole happi- 
 ness is all in you. 
 
 Miss Richland. I never had any doubts of your re- 
 gard, 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 ! (Aside.) But then, 
 had you seen him, as I have, weeping, speaking soliloquies 
 and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, and sometimes 
 absent—— 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 201 
 
 Miss Richland. I fear, sir, he 's absent now ; or such 
 a declaration would have come most properly from him- 
 self. 
 
 Croaker. Himself! Madam, he would die before he 
 could make such a confession ; and if he had not a chan- 
 nel for his passion through me, it would ere now have 
 drowned his understanding. 
 
 Miss Richland. 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 Richland. And it must be confessed, sir, it speaks 
 very powerfully in his favor. And yet I shall be thought 
 too forward in making such a confession ; shan't I, Mr. 
 Leontine ? 
 
 Leontine. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But, 
 if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust her. I'll 
 try. (Aside.) Do n't imagine from my silence, madam, 
 that I want a due sense of the honor and happiness in- 
 tended 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 Richland. If I could flatter myself you thought 
 as you speak, sir . 
 
 Leontine. 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. . 
 
202 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Leontine. 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 Richland. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon ardor 
 almost compels me — forces me to comply. And yet I'm 
 afraid he '11 despise a conquest gained with too much ease ; 
 won't you, Mr. Leontine ? 
 
 Leontine. Confusion! {Aside.) Oh, by no means, 
 madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talked of 
 force. There is nothing I would avoid so much as com- 
 pulsion in a thing of this kind. No, 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. 
 
 Leontine. 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, blockhead, that girls have always a round-about 
 way of saying yes before company ? So get you both 
 gone together into the next room, and hang him that in- 
 terrupts the tender explanations. Get you gone, I say 5 
 I '11 not hear a word. 
 
 Leontine. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist 
 
 Croaker. Get off, you puppy, or I '11 beg leave to in- 
 sist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp! But I 
 do n't wonder : the boy takes entirely after his mother. 
 
 [Exeunt Miss Richland and Leontine, 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 203 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something, 
 my dear, that I believe will make you smile. 
 
 Croaker. I '11 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 letters should give me pleasure ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Pooh ! it 's from your sister at Lyons, 
 and contains 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 con- 
 tains. 
 
 Croaker (reading). 
 
 6 Dear Nick, — An English gentleman, of large for- 
 tune, has for some time made private, though honorable, 
 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 do n't come every day, your own good sense, 
 his large fortune, and family considerations, will induce 
 you to forgive her. Yours ever, 
 
 Rachael 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 
 
204 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 the old ones for the world. Yet I thought I saw some- 
 thing she wanted to conceal. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Well, if they have concealed their 
 amour, they shan't conceal their wedding ; that shall be 
 public, I'm resolved. 
 
 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 most serious part of the nuptial engage- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What ! would you have me think of 
 their funeral ? 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. Lofty, who has undertaken 
 Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, but for me ? Who 
 was it first made him an acquaintance at Lady Shabba- 
 roon's rout. Who got him to promise us his interest ? 
 Is not he a back-stair favorite — one that can do what he 
 pleases with those that do what they please? Is not 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 him- 
 self. 
 
 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 honors instammant. He be only giv- 
 ing four five instruction, read two tree memorial, call 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 205 
 
 upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid } r ou in one tree 
 minutes. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. You see now, my dear. What an exten- 
 sive department ! Well, friend, let your master know 
 that we are extremely honored by this honor. Was there 
 anything ever in a higher style of breeding ? All mes- 
 sages among the great are now done by express. 
 
 \_JExit French servant. 
 
 Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things with 
 more solemnity, or claims more respect than he. But 
 he 's in the right on't. In our bad world, respect is giv- 
 en 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 endorsement 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 mar- 
 riage without mine or her aunt's consent. 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 teas- 
 ing creature, the Marquis should call, I'm not at home. 
 Damme, I'll be pack-horse to none of them. — My dear 
 madam, I have just snatched a moment — And if the ex- 
 18 
 
206 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 presses to his Grace be ready, let them be sent off; they 
 're of importance. — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honor 
 
 Lofty. And, Dubardieu ! if the person calls about the 
 commission, let him know that it is made out. As for 
 Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold : you 
 understand me. — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honor 
 
 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 ex- 
 press my happiness in having the honor of being permit- 
 ted to profess myself your most obedient, humble servant. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honor are all 
 mine ; and yet, I'm only robbing the public while I de- 
 tain you. 
 
 Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to 
 be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly 
 devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor creatures in 
 affairs ? Thus it is eternally ; solicited for places here, 
 teased for pensions there, and courted everywhere. I 
 know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir, ' Toils of empires pleas- 
 ures 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 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 207 
 
 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 to gad, madam, you make me blush. I'm 
 nothing, nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere obscure 
 gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the pres- 
 ent 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 
 honorable, my resentment has never done the men, as 
 mere men, any manner of harm — that is, as mere men. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what mod- 
 esty ! 
 
 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, l no man has a finer knowl- 
 edge of things ; quite a man of information ; and when 
 he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord, 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 as- 
 surance when you come to solicit for your friends. 
 
 Lofty. Oh, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apropos ! 
 I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a 
 
208 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 certain personage ; we must name no names. When I 
 ask, I'm 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 interest. Busi- 
 ness must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, 
 her business must be done, sir. That's my way, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Bless me ! you said all this to the Sec- 
 retary of State, did you ? 
 
 Lofty. I did not say the Secretary, did I ? Well, curse 
 it, 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. Hon- 
 eywood would have had us. 
 
 Lofty. Honey wood ! he ! he ! He was indeed a fine 
 solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has just hap- 
 pened 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 im- 
 mensely good-natured. But then, I could never find that 
 he had anything in him. 
 
 3Irs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was excessive 
 harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my 
 part, I always concealed my opinion. 
 
 Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was 
 dull — dull as the last new comedy ! a poor, impractica- 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 209 
 
 ble creature ! I tried once or twice to know if he was fit 
 for business ; but he had scarce talents to be groom-por- 
 ter to an orange-barrow. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. How differently does Miss Richland 
 think of Jiim ! 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 instant, in his present doleful situation ? My 
 life for it, that works her cure. Distress is a perfect anti- 
 dote 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 honor, madam, I have a 
 regard for Miss Richland ; and, rather than she should be 
 thrown away I should think it no indignity to marry her 
 myself. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Leontine. 
 
 Leontine. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every rea- 
 son to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did everything 
 in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy surprises me. 
 
 Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there 's nothing so indelicate 
 in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be 
 the most guilty thing alive. 
 
 Leontine. But you mistake, my dear. The same at- 
 tention I used to advance my merit with you, I practised 
 to lessen it with her. What more could I do ? 
 
 Olivia. Let us now rather consider what is 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. 
 18* 
 
210 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Leontine. And you shall find my gratitude equal to 
 your kindest compliance. Though our friends should to- 
 tally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content for 
 the deficiencies of fortune. 
 
 Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme of 
 humble happiness, when it is now in our power ? I may 
 be the favorite of your father, it is true ; but can it ever 
 be thought, that his present kindness to a supposed child, 
 will continue to a known deciever ? 
 
 Leontine. I have many reasons to believe it will. As 
 his attachments 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. Nay, by an expression or 
 two that dropped from him, I am induced to think he knows 
 of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness too 
 great too be expected. 
 
 Leontine. 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. 
 
 Leontine. And that 's the best reason for trying an- 
 other. 
 
 Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. 
 
 Leontine. As we could wish, he comes this way. 
 Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire with- 
 in hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to share 
 your danger, or confirm your victory. [Exit. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 211 
 
 ffiiter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not too 
 easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up the deco- 
 rums 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, Heaven knows, 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 conscience, I could be brought to forgive any thing, 
 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, with- 
 out letting 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 dis- 
 posal of my own children. No, I 'm nobody. I 'm to be 
 a mere article of family lumber ; a piece of cracked china, 
 to be stuck up in a corner. 
 
212 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your au- 
 thority 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 its mouth till there comes a thaw — It goes 
 to my heart to vex her. • [Aside. 
 
 Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and des- 
 paired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask it. But 
 your severity shall never abate my affection, as my pun- 
 ishment 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 expect to be forgiven ? But hope has too long de- 
 ceived me. 
 
 Croaker. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you now, 
 for I forgive you this very moment ; I forgive you all ! 
 and now you are indeed my daughter. 
 
 Olivia. Oh transport ! this kindness overpowers me. 
 
 Croaker. I was always against severity to our chil- 
 dren. We 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 
 many falsehoods, the dissimulation 
 
 Croaker. Tou 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 honor, and the just 
 sense he has of his duty, I can answer for him that 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 213 
 
 Enter Leontine. 
 
 Leontine. Permit him thus to answer for himself. 
 (Kneeling.) Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude for 
 this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even exceeds 
 all your former tenderness : I now can boast the most in- 
 dulgent 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 do n't know 
 what we have to do with your gratitude upon this occa- 
 sion. 
 
 Leontine. How, 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 transports that you have thus occasioned ? 
 
 Croaker. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough without 
 your coming in to make up the party. I do n't know 
 what 's the matter with the boy all this day ; he has got 
 into such a rhodomontade manner all this morning! 
 
 Leontine. 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 favor so slight an obligation ? Is the 
 happiness of marrying Olivia so small a blessing ? 
 
 Croaker. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marry- 
 ing his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses. 
 His own sister ! 
 
 Leontine. My sister ! 
 
 Olivia. Sister ! how have I been mistaken ! [Aside. 
 
 Leontine. Some cursed mistake in all this I find. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
214 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Croaker. What does the booby mean ? or has he 
 
 Leontine. Mean, sir? — why, sir — only when my 
 sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of marry- 
 ing her, sir, — that is, of giving her away, sir, — I have 
 made a point of it. 
 
 Croaker. Oh, is that all ? Give her away. You 
 have made a point of it ? Then you had as good make a 
 point of first giving away yourself, as I 'm going to pre- 
 pare 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. Oh, yes, sir ; very happy. 
 
 Croaker. Do you foresee any thing, child ? You look 
 as if you did. I think if any thing was to be foreseen, I 
 have as sharp a look-out as another ; and yet I foresee 
 nothing. \ExiU 
 
 Leontine and Olivia. 
 
 Olivia. What can it mean ? 
 
 Leontine. He knows something, and jet, for my life, 
 I can 't tell what. 
 
 Olivia. It can 't be the connection "between us, I 'm 
 pretty certain. 
 
 Leontine. Whatever it be, my dearest, I 'm resolved 
 to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our mortification. 
 I '11 haste and prepare for our journey to Scotland, this 
 very evening. My friend Honey wood has promised me 
 his advice and assistance. I '11 go to him and repose our 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 215 
 
 distresses on his friendly bosom ; and I know so much of 
 his honest heart, that if he can 't relieve our uneasiness, 
 he will at least share them. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene — young honeywood's house. 
 Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. 
 
 Bailiff. Lookye, 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. 
 
 Honeywood. Without all question, Mr. I forget 
 
 your name, sir ? 
 
 Bailiff. How can you forget what you never knew ? 
 he ! he I he ! 
 
 Honeywood. May I beg leave to ask your name ? 
 
 Bailiff. Yes, you may. 
 
 Honeywood. Then, pray sir, what is your name ? 
 
 Bailiff. That I did n't promise to tell you. — He ! he ! 
 he ! — A joke breaks no bones, as we say among us that 
 practise the law. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 
 
216 THE GOOD-NATUEED MAN. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Honeywood. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, 
 but that I have a favor to ask, that 's all. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, favors are more easily asked than grant- 
 ed, as we say among us that practise the law. I have 
 taken an oath against granting favors. Would you have 
 me perjure myself? 
 
 Honeywood. But my request will come recommended 
 in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you '11 have no scru- 
 ple (pidling out his purse). The thing is only this : I 
 believe I shall be able to discharge this trifle in two or 
 three days at farthest ; but as I would not have the affair 
 known for the world, I have thoughts of keeping 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 
 any thing by a thing, there 's no reason why all things 
 should not be done in civility. 
 
 Honeywood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
 Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. 
 
 [ Gives him money. 
 
 Bailiff. Oh ! your honor ; I hope your honor 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 gentle- 
 man, that was a gentleman, ill usage. If I saw that a 
 gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money not to 
 see him for ten weeks together. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 217 
 
 Honeywood. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, sir, it 's a perfect treasure. I love to see 
 a gentleman with a tender heart. I do n'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. 
 
 Honeywood. Do n't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The 
 ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of the con- 
 scious 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 '11 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 leave 
 you '11 do it for me. 
 
 Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a most 
 powerful recommendation. 
 
 [Giving money to the follower. 
 
 Bailiff. Sir, you 're a gentleman. I see you know 
 what to do with your money. But, to business ; we are 
 to be with you here as your friends, I suppose. But set 
 in case company comes. Little Flanigan 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. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, that shall be remedied without 
 delay. 
 
 A 19 
 
218 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant Sir, Miss Richland is below. 
 
 Honeywood. How unlucky! Detain her a moment. 
 We must improve 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 honor gave away to the begging 
 gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new. 
 
 Honeywood. The white and gold then. 
 
 Servant. That, your honor, I made bold to sell, be- 
 cause it was good for nothing. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, the first that comes to hand then — 
 the blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan would look 
 best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. 
 
 Bailiff. Eabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well 
 in any thing. Ah, if your honor 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 Flanigan.) Heh ! ecod, I thinks he looks so well ? 
 that I do n't care if I have a suit from the same place for 
 myself. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear 
 Mr. Twitch, I beg you '11 give your friend directions not 
 to speak. As for yourself, I know you will say nothing 
 without being directed. 
 
 Bailiff. Never you fear me ; Pll show the lady I 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 219 
 
 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 Garnet. 
 
 Miss Richland. You '11 be surprised, sir, with this visit. 
 But you know I'm yet to thank you for choosing my 
 little library. 
 
 Honeywood. 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. Flan- 
 igan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. 
 
 Miss Richland. Who can these odd-looking men be ? 
 I fear it is 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. 
 
 Honeywood. You officers are generally favorites 
 among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been upon 
 very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should, 
 in some measure, recompense the toils of the brave. 
 
 Miss Richland. Our officers do indeed deserve every 
 favor. The gentlemen are in the marine service, I pre- 
 sume, sir? 
 
 Honeywood. Why, madam, they do — occasionally 
 serve in the Fleet, madam. A dangerous service ! 
 
 Miss Richland. 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. 
 
 Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have not 
 
220 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 written as our sailors have fought ; but they have done 
 all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do no more. 
 
 Miss Richland. I 'm quite displeased when I see a 
 fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 de^ 
 spise him. 
 
 Follower. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all 
 that belongs to them ! 
 
 Miss Richland. Sir ! 
 
 Honeywood. 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 Richland. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not 
 convince me but that severity in criticism is necessary. 
 It was our first adopting the severity of French taste, 
 that has brought them in turn to taste us. 
 
 Bailiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they de- 
 vour us. Give Mounseers but a taste, and I ? 11 be damn'd 
 but they come in for a bellyfull. 
 
 Miss Richland. Yery 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 ? 
 
 Honeywood. 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 the French severity in the one, as by 
 French rapacity in the other. That 's their meaning. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 221 
 
 Miss Richland. Though I do n't see the force of the 
 parallel, yet I '11 own, that we should sometimes pardon 
 books, as we do our friends, that have now and then agree- 
 able absurdities to recommend them. 
 
 Bailiff. That 's all my eye. The King only can par- 
 don, as the law says : for, set in case 
 
 Honeywood. I 'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see the 
 whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our pre- 
 suming to pardon any work, is arrogating a 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 
 
 Honeywood. 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 nabb'd, you 
 know 
 
 Honeywood. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you 
 could not improve the last observation. For my own 
 part, I think it conclusive. 
 
 Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap 
 
 Honeywood. 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 them- 
 selves ? what is it, but aiming an unnecessati§r blow against 
 a victim already under the hands of justice ? 
 
 Bailiff. Justice ! Oh, by the elevens ! if you talk 
 about justice, I think I am at home there : for, in a course 
 
 of law 
 
 19* 
 
222 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Honeywood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what 
 you 'd be at, perfectly ; 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 Richland. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive 
 only that you answer one gentleman before he has finish- 
 ed, 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 sever- 
 ity, and justice, and pardon, and the like of they. Now, 
 to explain the thing 
 
 Honeywood. Oh ! curse your explanations ! [Aside. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak 
 with you upon earnest business. 
 
 Honeywood. That 's lucky. (Aside.) Dear madam, 
 you '11 excuse me and my good friends here, for a few 
 minutes. There are books, 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. 
 
 Folloiver. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and be- 
 hind. [ Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower. 
 
 Miss Richland. 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 offi- 
 cers — bailiffs, madam. 
 
 ~Miss Richland. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though 
 
THE GOOD-NATUKED MAN. 223 
 
 his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I 
 own there is 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 before now. But lawyers are always 
 more ready to get a man into troubles than out of them. 
 
 Enter Sir William. 
 
 Sir William. For Miss Richland to undertake setting 
 him free, I own, w 7 as quite unexpected. It has totally 
 unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet it gives me 
 pleasure to find, that among a number of worthless friend- 
 ships, he has 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 '11 endeavor to 
 sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person that 
 have had some demands upon the gentleman of this house, 
 I hope you '11 excuse me, if, before I enlarged him, I want- 
 ed to see yourself. 
 
 Miss Richland. The precaution was very unnecessary, 
 sir. I suppose your wants were only such as my agent 
 had power to satisfy. 
 
 Sir William. Partly, madam. But I was also willing 
 you should be fully apprized of the character of the gen- 
 tleman you intended to serve. 
 
 Miss Richland. 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 favorably of a 
 character you have oppressed, would be impeaching your 
 
224 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 own. And sure, his tenderness, his humanity, his univer- 
 sal friendship, may atone for many faults. 
 
 Sir William. That friendship, madam, which is exert- 
 ed 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 benev- 
 olence, are either deceivers or dupes, — men who desire 
 to cover their private ill-nature by a pretended regard for 
 all, or men who, reasoning themselves into false feelings, 
 are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than of useful, 
 virtues. 
 
 Miss Richland. I am surprised, sir, to hear one, who 
 has probably been a gainer ^by the folly of others, so se- 
 vere in his censure of it. 
 
 Sir William. Whatever I have gained by folly, mad- 
 am, you see I am willing to prevent your losing by it. 
 
 Miss Richland. Your cares for me, sir, are unneces- 
 sary ; 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 William. 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 some time been a concealed 
 spectator of his follies, and only punished in hopes to re- 
 claim them, — his uncle ! 
 
 Miss Richland. Sir William Honey wood ! You amaze 
 me. How shall I conceal my confusion ? I fear, sir, 
 you '11 think I have been too forward in my services. I 
 confess I 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 225 
 
 Sir William. Do n't make any apologies, madam. I 
 only find myself unable to repay the obligation. And 
 yet, I have been trying my interest of late to serve you. 
 Having learned, madam, that you had some demands 
 upon Government, I have, though unasked, been your 
 solicitor there. 
 
 Miss Richland. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your 
 intentions. But my guardian has employed another gen- 
 tleman, who assures him of success. 
 
 Sir William. 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 Richland. How have we been deceived ! As 
 sure as can be, here he comes. 
 
 Sir William. 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 hap- 
 pen, especially to a man I have shown every where, and 
 carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance. 
 
 Miss Richland. I find, sir, you have the art of making 
 the misfortunes of others your own. 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man like 
 
226 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 me do ? One man can 't do every thing ; and then, I do 
 so much in this way every day. Let me see — some- 
 thing considerable might be done for him by subscription ; 
 it could not fail if I carried the list. I '11 undertake to 
 set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the 
 Lower House, at my own peril. 
 
 Sir William. And, after all, it 's 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 William. His uncle ! then that gentleman, I sup- 
 pose, 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 
 any thing, 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 Richland. I have heard of Sir William Honey- 
 wood ; 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 Richland. Pray, sir, what was it ? 
 
 Lofty. Why, madam — but let it go no farther — it 
 was I procured him his place. 
 
 Sir William. Did you, sir ? 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 227 
 
 Lofty. Either you or I, sir ? 
 
 Miss Richland. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind in- 
 deed. 
 
 Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some amus- 
 ing qualities ; no man was fitter to be a toast-master to a 
 club, or had a better head. 
 
 Miss Richland. 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 grate- 
 ful ; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults. 
 
 Sir William. He might have reason, perhaps^ His 
 place is pretty considerable, I 'm told. 
 
 Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of busi- 
 ness. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater. 
 
 Sir William. 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 Richland. Oh, perfectly ! you courtiers can do 
 any thing, I see. / 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere ex- 
 change ; we 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 William. A thought strikes me. (Aside.) Now 
 you mention Sir William Honeywood, madam, and as he 
 seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you '11 be glad to 
 
228 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 hear he is 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. (Aside.) The devil he is ! If I had known 
 that, we should not have been quite so well acquainted. 
 
 Sir William. 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 in- 
 spection. 
 
 Miss Richland. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a per- 
 son employed in my affairs — I know you '11 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 William. That would be quite unnecessary. 
 
 Lofty. Well, we must introduce you then. Call upon 
 me — let me see — ay, in two days. 
 
 Sir William. Now, or the opportunity will be lost for 
 ever. 
 
 Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be ; but 
 damn it, that 's unfortunate : My Lord Grig's cursed Pen- 
 sacola business comes on this very hour, and I 'm engaged 
 to attend — another time 
 
 Sir William. 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 William. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds ! sir, do 3 r ou pretend to direct me ? 
 direct me in the business of office ? Do you know me, 
 sir ? who am I ? 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 229 
 
 Miss Richland. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so 
 much his as mine ; if my commands — but you despise 
 my power. 
 
 Lofty. Delicate creature ! — your commands could 
 even control a debate at midnight : to a power so consti- 
 tutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. He shall 
 have a letter : where is my secretary ? Dubardieu. And 
 yet, I protest, I do n't like this way of doing business. I 
 think if I first spoke to Sir William — but you will have 
 it so. [Exit with Miss Richland. 
 
 Sir William. (Alone.) Ha! ha! ha! This too is 
 one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O vanity ! thou 
 constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt serve but 
 to sink us ! Thy false colorings, like those employed to 
 heighten beauty, only seem to mend that bloom which 
 they contribute to destroy. I 'm not displeased at this in- 
 terview ; 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. 
 
 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 William. How so? 
 
 Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of the bail- 
 iffs, 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 William. Ever busy to serve others. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, anybody but himself. The young couple, 
 20 
 
230 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 it seems, are just setting out for Scotland; and he sup- 
 plies them with money for the journey. 
 
 Sir William. 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 William. 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 prop- 
 erest person to attend the young lady down. 
 
 Sir William. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant 
 journey, Jarvis. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, but I 'm only to have all the fatigues on 't. 
 
 Sir William. Well, it may be shorter, and less fatigu- 
 ing, than you imagine. I know but too much of the 
 young lady's family and connections, whom I have seen 
 abroad. I have also discovered that Miss Richland is not 
 indifferent to my thoughtless nephew ; and will endeavor, 
 though I fear in vain, to establish that connection. But 
 come, the letter I wait for must be almost finished ; I '11 
 let you farther into my intentions in the next room. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 231 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene — Croaker's House. 
 
 Enter Lofty. 
 
 Lofty. Well, sure the devil 's in me of late, for run- 
 ning my head into such defiles, as nothing but a genius 
 like my own could draw me from. I was formerly con- 
 tented to husband out my places and pensions with some 
 degree of frugality ; but curse it, 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! Honey wood 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 unfortu- 
 nate affairs. I had put things in a train to do your busi- 
 ness ; but it is not for me to say what I intended doing. 
 
 Honeyivood. 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 ? 
 
 Honeywood. Can 't guess at the person. 
 
 Lofty. Inquire. 
 
232 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN- 
 
 Honeywood. 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 ? 
 
 Honeywood. Absolutely fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Sure of that ? 
 
 Honeywood. Very sure. 
 
 Lofty. Then I '11 be damn'd if you shall ever know it 
 from me. 
 
 Honeywood. 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, t« 
 be sure, says such things of me. 
 
 Honeyioood. The world, by what I learn, is no stran- 
 ger 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 conversation, has asserted, that I never yet patronized 
 a man of merit. 
 
 Honeywood. I have heard instances to the contrary, 
 even from yourself. 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Honey wood ; and there are instances to 
 the contrary, that you shall never hear from myself. 
 
 Honeywood. Ha ! dear sir, permit me to ask you but 
 one question. 
 
 Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask me no 
 questions ; I '11 be damn'd if I answer them. 
 
 Honeyioood. I will ask no farther. My friend ! my 
 benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that I am indebted for 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 233 
 
 freedom — for honor. 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 do not understand all this, Mr. Hon- 
 eywood : 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 ? 
 
 Honeywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action 
 that adds to your honor. Your looks, your air, your man- 
 ner, 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. Do n'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 famil- 
 iar — indeed we must. 
 
 Honeywood. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such friend- 
 ship ? Is there any way ? Thou best of men, can I 
 ever return the obligation ? 
 
 Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I see your 
 heart is laboring to be grateful. You shall be grateful. 
 It would be cruel to disappoint you. 
 
 Honeywood. 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. 
 
 Honeywood. And can I assist you. 
 
 Lofty. Nobody so well. 
 
 20* 
 
234 TIIE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Honeywood. In what manner ? I 'm all impatience. 
 
 Lofty. You shall make love for me. 
 
 Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your 
 favor ? 
 
 Lofty. To a lady with whom you have a great inter- 
 est, 1 assure you — Miss Richland. 
 
 Honeywood. Miss Richland ! 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow 
 up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. 
 
 Honeywood. Heavens ! was ever any thing more un- 
 fortunate ? 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. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 '11 say no more, let friendship do the 
 rest. I have only to add, that if at any time my little in- 
 terest 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, I '11 not be answered ; it shall be 
 so. \_Exit. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 persecution ! What shall I do ? 
 Love, friendship ; a hopeless passion, a deserving friend ! 
 Love that has been my tormenter ; a friend, that has per- 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 235 
 
 haps distressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. Yes, 
 I will discard the fondling hope from my bosom, and ex- 
 ert all my influence in his favor. And yet to see her in 
 the possession of another! — Insupportable! But then 
 to betray a generous, trusting 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. 
 
 Miter 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 '11 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, how- 
 ever. 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 any thing 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. 
 
 Olivia. No matter, I 'm all impatience till we are out 
 of the house. 
 
236 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Garnet. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the 
 wedding ring ! The sweet little thing. I do n'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 the plague do you send me 
 of 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 Honey wood serve us 
 so ? What shall we do ? Can 't we go without it ? 
 
 Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scot- 
 land without money ! Lord ! how some people under- 
 stand geography ! We might as well set sail for Patago- 
 nia upon a cork-jacket. 
 
 Olivia. Such a disappointment ! What a base, insin- 
 cere man was your master, to serve us in this manner ! 
 Is this his good-nature ? 
 
 Jarvis. Nay, do n'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 not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leontine 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 237 
 
 receive forty guineas' 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 ; I '11 write imme- 
 diately. 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 better from you. 
 
 Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but poorly. 
 I never was cute at my learning. But I '11 do what I can 
 to please 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 see a love letter end like 
 poetry. 
 
 Olivia. Well, well, what you please, any thing. But 
 how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the servants 
 of this family. 
 
 Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honey wood's butler is in 
 the next room : he 's a dear, sweet man ; he '11 do any 
 thing for me. 
 
 Jarvis. He ! the dog, he '11 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 
 
238 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 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 un- 
 happy they make me 
 
 Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just as 
 unhappy when I was going to be married myself. I '11 
 tell you a story about that 
 
 Olivia. A story! when I am 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 for- 
 got one thing we should never travel without — a case of 
 good razors, and a box of shaving powder. But no mat- 
 ter, 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. Honey- 
 wood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the letter be- 
 fore 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. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 239 
 
 Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 
 
 Garnet. No, madam ; do n'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. O lud, 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. 
 
 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 conflagrations ? 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 the devil. 
 1 With speed.' Oh, confound your speed ! But let me 
 read it once more. (Heads.) i Muster Croaker, as sone 
 as yowe 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 gun- 
 powder in every line of it. Blown up ! murderous dog ! 
 All blown up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor 
 family done, to be all blown up ? (Heads.) ' Our pock- 
 ets are low, and money we must have.' Ay, there 's the 
 reason ; they '11 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 
 
240 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 be all of a flame.' Inhuman monsters ! blow us up, and 
 then burn us ! The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bon- 
 fire to it. (Beads.) * Make quick despatch, 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 to 
 the devil, 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 
 preparing 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 Richland. Lord, sir, what 's the matter ? 
 
 Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown 
 up in our beds before morning. 
 
 Miss Richland. 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 family ? 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 beef-steaks at a volcano. 
 
 Miss Richland. But, sir, you have alarmed them so 
 often already; we have nothing but earthquakes, fam- 
 ines, 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 bakers to poison us 
 in our bread ; and so kept the whole family a week upon 
 potatoes. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 241 
 
 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 out in 
 the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Richland. (Alone.) What can he mean by all 
 this ? Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms us in 
 this manner almost every day. But Honey wood has de- 
 sired 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 conduct that seemed particular. Sure, he cannot 
 mean to — but he -s here. 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 
 Honeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview, mad- 
 am, before I left town, to be permitted 
 
 Miss Richland. Indeed ! leaving town, sir ? 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, .madam, perhaps the kingdom. I 
 have presumed, I say, to desire the favor of this interview, 
 in order to disclose something which our long friendship 
 prompts. And yet my fears 
 
 Miss Richland. His fears ! what are his fears to mine ! 
 {Aside.) We have, indeed, been long acquainted, sir ; 
 very long. If I remember, our first meeting was at the 
 French ambassador's. Do you recollect how you were 
 pleased to rally me upon my complexion there ? 
 
 Honeywood. Perfectly, madam ; I presumed to re- 
 21 
 
242 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 prove you for painting ; but your warmer blushes soon 
 convinced the company that the coloring was all from 
 nature. 
 
 Miss Richland. And yet you only meant it in your 
 good-natured way, to make me pay a compliment to my- 
 self. In the same manner, you danced that night with 
 the most awkward woman in company, because you saw 
 nobody else would take her out. 
 
 Honeywood. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night 
 by dancing with the finest woman in company, whom ev- 
 erybody wished to take out. 
 
 Miss Richland. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I 
 fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of a 
 first impression. We 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. 
 
 ' Honeywood. The first impression, madam, did indeed 
 decieve me. I expected to find a woman with all the 
 faults of conscious, flattered 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 Richland. This, sir, is a 'style very unusual with 
 Mr. Honeywood ; and I should be glad to know why he 
 thus attempts to increase that vanity, which his "own les- 
 sons have taught me to despise. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 of- 
 fending. 
 
 Miss Richland. Sir ! I beg you 'd reflect : though I 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 243 
 
 fear I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request of 
 yours, yet you may be precipitate : consider, sir. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 Richland. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom 
 you mean, by this description of him. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 Richland. "Well, it would be affectation any long- 
 er to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I have long 
 been prejudiced in his favor. It was but natural to wish 
 to make his heart mine, as he seemed himself ignorant 
 of its value. 
 
 Honeywood. I see she always loved him. (Aside) I 
 find, madam, you 're already sensible of his worth, his pas- 
 sion. How happy is my friend to be the favorite of one 
 with such sense to distinguish merit, and such beauty to 
 reward it ! 
 
 Miss Richland. Your friend, sir ! what friend ? 
 
 Honeywood. My best friend — my friend Mr. Lofty, 
 madam. 
 
 Miss Richland. He, sir ? 
 
 Honeywood. 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 Richland. Amazement ! — No more of this, I 
 beg you, sir. 
 
244 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Honeywood. I see your confusion, madam, and know 
 how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read the lan- 
 guage of your heart, shall I make by friend happy, by 
 communicating your sentiments ? 
 
 Miss Richland. By no means. 
 
 Honeywood. Excuse me, I must ; I know you desire 
 it. 
 
 Miss Richland. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, that 
 you wrong my sentiments and yourself. "When I first 
 applied to your friendship, I expected advice and assist- 
 ance ; but now, sir, I see that it is in vain to expect hap- 
 piness from him who has been so bad an economist of his 
 own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship who ceases 
 to be a friend to himself. \Exit. 
 
 Honeywood. How is this ? she has confessed she lov- 
 ed 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 in- 
 cendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? Our house may 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 245 
 
 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 ev- 
 erything 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-humor ? 
 
 Croaker. And so your good-humor advises me to part 
 with my money ? Why, then, to tell your good-humor a 
 piece of my mind, I 'd sooner part with my wife. Here 
 is Mr. Honeywood ; see what he '11 say to it. My dear 
 Honeywood, look at this incendiary letter dropped at my 
 door. It Avill freeze you with terror ; and yet lovey can 
 read it — can read it, and laugh. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Croaker. If he does, I '11 suffer to be hanged the next 
 minute in the rogue's place, that 's all. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there any 
 thing more foolish than my husband's fright upon this oc- 
 casion ? 
 
 Honeywood. It would not become me to decide, mad- 
 am ; but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors now will but 
 invite them to renew their villany another time. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 
 
 Croaker. How, sir ! Do you maintain that I should 
 21* 
 
246 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 lie down under such an injury, and show, neither by my 
 fears nor complaints, that I have something of the spirit 
 of a man in me ? 
 
 Honeywood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the 
 loudest complaints, 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 do n't you think that laughing off 
 our fears is the best way ? 
 
 Honeywood. What is the best, madam, few can say ; 
 but I '11 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 bed-chamber. 
 
 Honeywood. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that 's a 
 very wise way too. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. But can any thing 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 ? 
 
 Honeywood. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 
 
 Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to de- 
 spise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? 
 
 Honeywood. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 
 
 Croaker. Then you are of my opinion. 
 
 Honeywood. Entirely. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine ? 
 
 Honeywood. Heavens forbid, madam ! No, sure no 
 reasoning can be more just than yours. We ought cer- 
 tainly to despise malice, if we cannot oppose it, and not 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 247 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Honeywood. Perfectly right. 
 
 Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't be both 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 perfectly reasonable, the other can 't be perfectly 
 right. 
 
 Honeywood. And why may not both be right, madam ? 
 Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you in 
 waiting the event in good-humor ? Pray, let me see the 
 letter again. I have it. This letter requires twenty 
 guineas to be left at the bar of the 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 expected 
 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 mis- 
 creant like a masked battery ; extort a confession at once, 
 and so hang him up by surprise. 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, but I would not choose to exercise 
 too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes gen- 
 erally punish themselves. 
 
 Croaker. "Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I 
 suppose. (Ironically.) 
 
 Honeywood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, leave that to mv own benevo- 
 lence. 
 
248 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, I do ; but remember that univer- 
 sal benevolence is the first law of nature. 
 
 [Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Yes; and my universal benevolence will 
 hang the dog, if he had a3 many necks as a hydra. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Scene — an inn. 
 Enter Olivia and Jarvis. 
 
 Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. 
 Now, if 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 
 impatience. 
 
 Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must 
 take their own time ; besides, you do n'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, I '11 go hasten things 
 without. And I '11 call, too, at the bar to see if any thing 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 2d9 
 
 should be left for us there. Do n'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 an- 
 swer ? To the Dolphin ; quick. The Angel has been 
 outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship call, mad- 
 am ? 
 
 Olivia. No, madam. 
 
 Landlady. I find as you are 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 certain 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. (Aside.) A very pretty picture of what lies 
 before me ! 
 
 Enter Leontine. 
 Leontine. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were 
 
250 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 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 disappoint- 
 ed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the city has, it seems, 
 been protested, and we have been utterly at a loss how 
 to proceed. 
 
 Leontine. 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 
 pardon, I do n'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 thimblefull to keep the 
 wind off your stomach. To be sure, the last couple we 
 had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, I 
 se^t 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 incendi- 
 ary'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 ? 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 251 
 
 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 — 
 
 Leontine. Not a drop more, good madam. I should 
 now take it as a greater favor, 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 ! 
 
 [Exit, bawling. 
 
 Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in fear, 
 should end in repentance. Every moment we stay in- 
 creases our danger, and adds to my apprehensions. 
 
 Leontine. There's no danger, trust me, my dear; 
 there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with honor, 
 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 sincer- 
 ity, and even his desire to serve us. My fears are from 
 your father's suspicions. A mind so disposed to be alarm- 
 ed without a cause, will be but too ready when there 's a 
 reason. 
 
 Leontine. Why, let him, when we are out of his pow- 
 er. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great reason to 
 dread his resentment 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 do n't know that ; but I 'm sure, on some 
 occasions, it makes him look most shockingly. 
 
252 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Croaker discovering himself. 
 
 Croaker. How does lie look now ? — How does he look 
 now? 
 
 Olivia. Ah ! 
 
 Leontine. 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 before you go. Tell me 
 first where you are going ; and when you have told me 
 that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did before. 
 
 Leontine. If that be so, our answer might but increase 
 your displeasure, without adding to your information. 
 
 Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy ; 
 and you too, good madam, what answer have you got ? 
 Eh! (A cry without, Stop him.) I think I heard a 
 noise. My friend Honey wood without — has he seized 
 the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now I hear no more on 't. 
 
 Leontine. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was Mr. 
 Honey wood that directed you hither ? 
 
 Croaker. No, sir, it was not Mr. Honeywood conduct- 
 ed me hither. 
 
 Leontine. Is it possible ? 
 
 Croaker. Possible ! why he 's in the house now, sir ; 
 more anxious about me than my own son, sir. 
 
 Leontine. Then, sir, he 's a villain. 
 
 Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes 
 most care of your father ? 1 11 not bear it. I tell you 
 I '11 not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the family, 
 and I '11 have him treated as such. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 253 
 
 Leontine. I shall study to repay his friendship as it 
 deserves. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he 
 entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to de- 
 tect them, you would love him as I do. (A cry without. 
 Stop him.) Fire and fury ! they have seized the incen- 
 diary: they have the villain, the incendiary in view. 
 Stop him I stop an incendiary ! a murderer ! stop him ! 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Olivia. Oh, my terrors ! What can this tumult mean ? 
 
 Leontine. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honey- 
 wood's sincerity. 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 inno- 
 cence will shortly be all that we have left us. You must 
 forgive him. 
 
 Leontine. Forgive him ! Has he not in every in- 
 stance 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. Do n't be precipitate. We may yet be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Enter Post-boy, 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 ; I '11 
 22 
 
254 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 take my oath I saw him ask for the money at the bar, 
 and then run for it. 
 
 Honeywood. 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, I '11 tell you what it means : that I was 
 an old fool, and that you are my master — that 's all. 
 
 Honeywood. Confusion ! 
 
 Leontine. 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 ! 
 
 Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my hon- 
 or 
 
 Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not con- 
 tinue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, 
 sir, I know you. 
 
 Honeywood. Why, won't you hear me ? By all that's 
 just, I knew not 
 
 Leontine. Hear you, sir ! to what purpose ? I riow 
 see through all your low arts j your ever complying with 
 every opinion ; your never refusing any request ; your 
 friendship 's as common as a prostitute's favors, and as 
 fallacious ; all these, sir, have long been contemptible to 
 the world, and are now perfectly so to me. 
 
 Honeywood. Ha ! contemptible to the world ! that 
 reaches me. [Aside. 
 
 Leontine. All the seeming sincerity of your profes- 
 sions, I now find were only allurements to betray ; and 
 all your seeming regret for their consequences, only cal- 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 255 
 
 culated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw, 
 villain ! 
 
 Enter Croaker, out of breath. 
 
 Croaker. Where is the villain ? Where is the incen- 
 diary ? (Seizing the Postboy.) Hold him fast, the dog ; 
 he has the gallows 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? 
 
 Postboy. 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 ! 
 
 Honeywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a 
 strange mistake 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 error; for 
 there *s guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned jesuitcial, 
 pestilential plot, and I must have proof of it. 
 
 Honeywood. Do but hear me. 
 
 Croaker. What ! you intend to bring 'em off, I sup- 
 pose ? I '11 hear nothing. 
 
 Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least calm enough 
 to hear reason. 
 
 Olivia. Excuse me. 
 
 Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to 
 you. 
 
256 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Jarvis. What signifies explanations when the thing is 
 done? 
 
 Honeywood. Will nobody hear me ? Was there ever 
 such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice ? (To the 
 Postboy.) My good friend, I believe you '11 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 favor or 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 mj daughter I 
 
 Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver— 
 who — support me, I cannot 
 
 Honeywood. 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, whose ever daughter 
 she may be — not so bad as that neither. 
 
 \_Mcewnt all but 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 
 imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and 
 yet I do n't find it afflicts me so much as one might think. 
 There 's the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes 
 beforehand, — we never feel them when they come. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 257 
 
 Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. 
 
 Sir William. But how do you know, madam, that my 
 nephew intends setting off from this place ? 
 
 Miss Richland. My maid assured me he was come to 
 this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to leave 
 the kingdom, suggested 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 Richland. But to what purpose did you come ? 
 
 Croaker. To play the fool. 
 
 Miss Richland. But with whom ? 
 
 Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 
 
 Miss Richland. 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 do n't know who, that is here : so now you 
 are as wise as I am. 
 
 Miss Richland. Married ! to whom, sir ? 
 
 Croaker. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to be ; 
 but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, I know 
 no more than the man in the moon. 
 
 Sir William. 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 Wood- 
 
 ville 
 
 Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What ! of the West ? 
 22* 
 
258 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Sir William. Being left by him, I say, to the care of 
 a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her 
 fortune to himself, she was sent to France, under pre- 
 tence 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 expect. Do you know Mr. 
 Lofty, sir ? 
 
 Sir William. Yes, sir: and know that you are de- 
 ceived in him. But step this way, and I '11 convince you. 
 [ Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 
 
 Miter Honeywood. 
 
 Honeywood. Obstinate man, still to persist in his out- 
 rage ! Insulted 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 over- 
 taxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of a single 
 fool should escape me ! But all is now over : I have 
 survived my reputation, my fortune, my friendships, and 
 nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and re- 
 pentance. 
 
 Miss Richland. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 259 
 
 are setting off, without taking leave of your friends ? The 
 report is, that you are quitting England : Can it be ? 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so un- 
 happy 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 affluence, and generosity to improve your 
 enjoyment of it. 
 
 Miss Richland. And are you sure, sir, that the gen- 
 tleman you mean is what you describe him ? 
 
 Honeywood. I have the best assurances of it — his 
 serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest happi- 
 ness, and 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 Richland. A thousand: to live among friends 
 that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be permit- 
 ted to oblige you. 
 
 Honeywood. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. In- 
 feriority 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 weak- 
 ness. 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 for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Miss Richland. You amaze me ! 
 
260 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Honeywood. But you '11 forgive it, I know you will : 
 since the confession 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 Richland. 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 farther ; things are not yet ripe for a dis- 
 covery. I have spirits working at a certain board ; your 
 affair at the Treasury will be done in less than — a thou- 
 sand years. Mum ! 
 
 Miss Richland. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 
 
 Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into prop- 
 er hands, that know where to push and where to parry ; 
 that know how the land lies — eh, Honeywood ? 
 
 Miss Richland. It has 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. 
 
 Honeywood. But how ? his lordship has been at New- 
 market these ten days. 
 
 Lofty. Indeed! then Sir Gilbert Goose must have 
 been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. 
 
 Miss Richland. He ! why, Sir Gilbert and his family 
 have been in the country this month. 
 
 Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — Sir 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 261 
 
 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 '11 read it to you. 
 (Taking out a large bundle.) % That's from Paoli of Cor- 
 sica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. Have you a 
 mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King 
 of Poland ? Honest Pon — (Searching.) Oh, sir, what, 
 are you here too ? I '11 tell you what, honest friend, if 
 you have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir Wil- 
 liam Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do 
 without him. 
 
 Sir William. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must in- 
 form you, it was received with the most mortifying con- 
 tempt. 
 
 Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean ? 
 
 Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You '11 
 find it come to something presently. 
 
 Sir William. Yes, sir ; I believe you '11 be amazed, 
 if, after waiting some time in the antechamber — after 
 being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing ser- 
 vants, I was at last assured, that Sir William Honeywood 
 knew no such person, and I must certainly have been im- 
 posed 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 pri- 
 vate gentleman to another. 
 
 Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the 
 
262 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 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 suspi- 
 cions are over. 
 
 Lofty. Your suspicions ! what, then, you have been 
 suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you! Mr. 
 Croaker, you and I were friends — we are friends no long- 
 er. Never talk to me. It 's over ; I say, it 's over. 
 
 Croaker. As I hope for your favor, I did not mean to 
 offend. It escaped me. Do n't be discomposed. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds! sir, but I am discomposed, and will 
 be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? Was 
 it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs ? 
 Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the 
 St James's; have I been chaired at Wildman'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 
 favor 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 ? 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 2G3 
 
 Sir William. Since you are so pressing for an answer, 
 I '11 tell you who you are : — A gentleman as well ac- 
 quainted 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 
 Honey wood. (Discovering his ensigns of the Bath.) 
 
 Croaker. Sir William Honeywood ! 
 
 Honeyivood. 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 have your head stuck up 
 in the pillory. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will ; for by the Lord, 
 it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at present. 
 
 Sir William. 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 William. I approve your resolution; and here 
 
264 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 they come, to receive a confirmation of your pardon and 
 consent. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, and 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 match, you know, my dear ; and 
 we never had any reason to repent of it. 
 
 Croaker. I wish we could both say so. However, this 
 gentleman, Sir William Honey wood, 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 to- 
 gether without crossing the Tweed for it. 
 
 [Joining their hands. 
 
 Leontine. 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 William. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your 
 thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. (Turn- 
 ing to Honeywood.) Yes, sir, you are surprised to see 
 me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your follies led 
 me hither. I saw with indignation the errors of a mind 
 that only sought applause from others ; that easiness of 
 disposition which, though inclined to the right, had not 
 courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret those 
 splendid errors, that still took name from some neighbor- 
 ing duty ; your charity, that was but injustice ; your be- 
 nevolence, that was but weakness ; and your friendship 
 but credulity. I saw with regret, great talents and exten- 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 2GJ> 
 
 sive learning only employed to add sprightliness to error, 
 and increase your perplexities. I saw your mind with a 
 thousand natural charms ; but the greatness of its beauty 
 served only to heighten my pity for its prostitution. 
 
 Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir: I have for 
 some time but totfstrongly felt the justice of your re- 
 proaches. But there is one 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 favor for 
 this gentleman, who, notwithstanding what has happened, 
 has laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr. Lof- 
 ty 
 
 Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I '"m resolved upon a reforma- 
 tion 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. \_Exit. 
 
 Honeywood. How have I been deceived ! 
 
 Sir William. No, sir, you have been obliged to a kind- 
 er, fairer friend, for that favor, — to Miss Richland. Would 
 she complete our joy, and make the man she has honored 
 by her friendship happy in her love, I should then forget 
 all, and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kinsman 
 can make me. 
 
 23 
 
266 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Miss Richland. After what is past, it would be but 
 affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an 
 attachment, which I 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 de- 
 tain him. [ Giving her hand. 
 
 Honeywood. Heavens ! 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 William. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect 
 yourself. He- who seeks only for applause from without, 
 has all his happiness in another's keeping. 
 
 Honeywood. 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. Henceforth, therefore, it shall be my 
 study to reserve my pity for real distress ; my friendship 
 for real merit ; and my love for her who first taught me 
 what it is to be happy. [Exeunt omnes. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 267 
 
 EPILOGUE.* 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BTJLKXEY. 
 
 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 makes full many a bitter pill go down. 
 Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, 
 And teased 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 : 
 i 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.' 
 
 * What I, dear sir?' the Doctor interposes, 
 
 ' What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! 
 JSTo, no, I 've other contests to maintain ; 
 To-night I head our troops at Warwick-Lane. 
 Go, ask your manager.' — 'Who, me ? Your pardon ; 
 Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden/ 
 
 * 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 success to the graceful manner of the 
 actress who spoke it. 
 
268 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 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 a way, 
 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, 
 Sinks 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 can, 
 And be each critic the Good-Matured Man. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer was represented for the first time, March 15, 
 1773. It was very successful, and became a stock play. Gold- 
 smith originally entitled it, The Old House a New Inn. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 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 honor 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 character, without impairing the most unaffected 
 piety. 
 
 I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality 
 to this performance. The undertaking a comedy, not mere- 
 ly sentimental, was very dangerous ; and Mr. Colman, who 
 saw this piece, in its various stages, always thought it so. How- 
 ever, 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. 
 23* 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN, 
 
 Sir Charles Marlow. 
 Young Marlow (his son.) 
 Hardcastle. 
 
 Tony Lumpkin. 
 Diggory. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 Miss Hardcastle 
 Miss Neville. 
 Maid. 
 
 Landlord, Servants, etc. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ; 
 
 OK, 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 BY DAVID GARRJCK, ESQ. 
 
 Mnter 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. 
 
 ' 'Tis not alone this mourning suit,' good masters : 
 
 I I 've that within,' for which there are no plasters ! 
 Pray, would you know the reason why I 'm crying ? 
 The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-clying ! 
 
 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 I shall be chief mourners here. 
 To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, 
 Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed. 
 Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents ; 
 We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments : 
 Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, 
 
272 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 We now and then take down a hearty cup. 
 
 What shall we do ? If Comedy forsake us, 
 
 They '11 turn us out, and no one else will take us. 
 
 But why can 't I be moral ? Let me try : 
 
 My heart thus pressing — fix'd my face and eye — 
 
 With a sententious look that nothing means 
 
 (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes), 
 
 Thus I begin, l All is not gold that glitters, 
 
 Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. 
 
 When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand : 
 
 Learning is better far than house or land. 
 
 Let not your virtue trip : who trips may stumble, 
 
 And virtue is not virtue if she 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 skill ; 
 
 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's and her case is, 
 
 If you reject the dose and make wry faces. 
 
 This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, 
 
 No pois'nous drugs are mixed in what he gives. 
 
 Should he succeed, you '11 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. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 273 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1 — a chamber in an old-fashioned house. 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you 're very 
 particular. Is 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 neighbor Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's pol- 
 ishing every winter. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation 
 to last them the whole year. I wonder why London can- 
 not keep its own fools at home. In my time, the follies 
 of the town crept slowly apong 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. Hardcastle. Aye, your times were fine times in- 
 deed : you have been telling us of them for many a long 
 year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that 
 looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see 
 company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the 
 curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, 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. C i 
 
 Hardcastle. And I love it. I love every thing that 's 
 old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old 
 wine ; and, I believe, Dorothy, (taking her hand,) you '11 
 own, I 've been pretty fond of an old wife. 
 

 274 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcasile. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for 
 
 ever at your Dorothys, and your old wives. You may be 
 
 a Darb y, but I '11 be no Joam I promise you. \ I 'm not so 
 
 old as you 'd make me, by more than one good year. 
 
 a Add twenty to twenty and make money of thab> 
 
 Hardcastle. Let me see; twenty added to twenty 
 makes just fifty and seven. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle; I was 
 but twenty when I was brought to-bed of Tony, that I 
 had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; and he 's not 
 come to years of discretion yet. 
 
 Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, 
 you have taught him finely ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a 
 good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I 
 do n't think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen 
 hundred a-year. 
 
 Hardcastle. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition of 
 tricks and mischief. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Humor, my dear, nothing but humor. 
 Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little 
 humor. 
 
 Hardcastle. I 'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If 
 burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, and 
 worrying the kittens, be humor, he has it. It was but 
 yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, 
 and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in 
 Mrs. Frizzle's face. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. And am I to blame ? The poor boy 
 was always too sickly to do any good. A school would 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 275 
 
 be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who 
 knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Latin for him I A cat and fiddle. No, 
 no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools he'll 
 ever go to. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, we must not snub the poor 
 boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. 
 Any body that looks in his face may see he's consumptive. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the 
 symptoms. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. 
 
 Hardcastle. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I 'm actually afraid of his lungs. 
 
 Hardcastle. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes 
 whoops like a speaking trumpet — ( Tony hallooing behind 
 the scenes.) — Oh, there he goes — a very consumptive 
 figure, truly ! 
 
 Enter Tony, crossing the Stage. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony,* where are you going, my 
 charmer ? Won't you give papa and I a little of your 
 company, lovey ? 
 
 Tony. I 'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. You shan't venture out this raw eve- 
 ning, 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 go- 
 ing forward. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, the alehouse, the old place ; I thought 
 so. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set of fellows. 
 
276 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins, 
 the exciseman, Jack Slang, the horse-doctor, little Amin- 
 adab, that grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist, that 
 spins the pewter platter. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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. Hardcastle. (Detaining him.) You shan't go. 
 
 Tony. I will, I tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I say you shan't. 
 
 Tony. We '11 see which is the strongest, you or I. 
 
 [Exit, hauling her out. 
 
 Hardcastle. (Alone.) Ay, there goes a pair that only 
 spoil each other. But is not the whole age in combina- 
 tion to drive sense and discretion out of doors ? There 's 
 my pretty darling, Kate ! the fashions of 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 Me&* Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 Hardcastle. 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. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 277 
 
 Hardcastle. "Well, remember I insist on the terms of 
 our agreement ; and, by the by, I believe I shall have 
 occasion to try your obedience this very evening. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I do n't comprehend 
 your meaning. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I ex- 
 pect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your hus- 
 band from town this very day. I have his father's letter, 
 in which he informs me his son is set out, and that he in- 
 tends to follow him shortly after. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Indeed ! I wish I had known some- 
 thing 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I never will con- 
 trol 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 designed for an 
 employment in the service of his country. I am told he's 
 a man of an excellent understanding. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Is he ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Very generous. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I believe I shall like him. 
 
 Hardcastle. Young and brave. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I 'm sure I shall like him. 
 
 Hardcastle. And very handsome. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no more, (kissing 
 his hand) he 's mine — I '11 have him. 
 
 Hardcastle. And, to crown all, Kate, he 's one of the 
 24 
 
278 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the 
 world. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 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. 
 
 /^Hardcastle. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides 
 
 ' in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It 
 
 was the very feature in his character that first struck me. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. He must have more striking features 
 to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so young, 
 so handsome, and so every thing as you mention, I believe 
 he '11 do still. I think I '11 have him. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. 
 It 's more than an even wager he may not have you. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, why will you mortify 
 one so ? Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my 
 heart at his indifference, I '11 only break my glass for its 
 flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out 
 for some less difficult admirer. 
 
 Hardcastle. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time, 
 I '11 go prepare the servants for his reception : as we sel- 
 dom see company, they want as much training as a com- 
 pany of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (Alone.) Lud, this news of papa's 
 puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ; these he put 
 last, but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-natured ; I 
 like all that. But then, reserved and sheepish ; that 's 
 much against him. Yet can 't he be cured of his timidity, 
 by being taught to be proud of his wife ? Yes ; and can't 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 279 
 
 I — But I vow I'm disposing of the husband, before I 
 have secured the lover. 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I 'm glad you 're come, Neville, my 
 dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening ? 
 Is there anything whimsical about me ? Is it one of my 
 well-looking days, child ? am I in face to day ? 
 
 Miss Neville. 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 Hardcastle. No ; nothing of all this. I have 
 been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have been 
 threatened with a lover. 
 
 Miss Neville. And his name 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Is Marlow. 
 
 Miss Neville. Indeed ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Miss Neville. 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 Hardcastle. Never. 
 
 Miss Neville. He 's a very singular character, I as- 
 sure 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 Hardcastle. An odd character, indeed. I shall 
 never be able to manage him. What shall I do ! Pshaw ! 
 
280 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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 Neville. I have just come from one of our agree- 
 able tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender 
 things, and setting off her pretty monster as the very pink 
 of perfection. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 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 Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly con- 
 sists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But, at 
 any rate, if my dear Hastings 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 Hardcastle. My good brother holds out stoutly. 
 I could almost love him for hating you so. 
 
 Miss Neville. 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 improvements. Allons ! Courage is 
 necessary, as our affairs are critical. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Would it were bed-time, and all were 
 well. [Exeunt. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 281 
 
 Scene n. — an alehouse room. 
 
 Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco ; Tony at 
 the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mal- 
 let in his hand. 
 
 Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! 
 
 First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 
 Squire is going to knock himself down for a song. 
 
 Omnes. Ay, a song, a song ! 
 
 Tony. Then I '11 sing you, gentlemen, a song I made 
 upon this alehouse, The Three Pigeons. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, 
 
 With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; 
 Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 
 
 Gives genus a better discerning. 
 Let them brag of their heathenish gods, 
 
 Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, 
 Their quis, and their quces, and their quods, 
 
 They 're all but a parcel of pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 
 
 When methodist preachers come down, 
 
 A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 
 I '11 wager the rascals a crown, 
 
 They always preach best with a skinful. 
 But when you come down with your pence, 
 
 For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
 I '11 leave it to all men of sense, 
 
 But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 
 
 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. 
 
 24* 
 
 ^ 
 
282 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Let some cry up woodcock or hare, 
 Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; 
 
 But of all the birds in the air, 
 Here 's health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 
 
 Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 
 
 First Fellow. The Squire has got some spunk in him. 
 
 Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he 
 never gives us nothing that 's low. 
 
 Third Fellow. Oh, damn any thing that 's low, I can- 
 not bear it. 
 
 Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel thing 
 at any time : if so be that a gentleman bees in a concate- 
 nation accordingly. 
 
 Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, Master Mug- 
 gins. 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 very genteel- 
 est of tunes ; i "Water Parted/ or t The minuet in Ariadne.' 
 
 Second Fellow. What a pity it is the Squire is not 
 come to his own. It would 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. 
 
 Second Fellow. Oh, 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 or a wench, 
 he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, 
 that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole 
 county. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 283 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and when I 'm of age, I '11 be no bastard, 
 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 reckon- 
 ing. Well, Stingo, what 's the matter ? 
 
 / Lan 
 
 Enter Landlord. 
 
 /■ Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise 
 at the door. They have lost their way upon 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 ? 
 
 Landlord. I believe they may. They look woundily 
 like Frenchmen. 
 
 Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I '11 set 
 them right in a twinkling. [Exit Landlord. 
 
 Gentlemen, as they may n't be good enough company for 
 you, step down for a moment, and I '11 be with you in the 
 squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt mob. 
 
 Tony. (Alone.) Father-in-law has been calling me 
 whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I pleased, I 
 could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. 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. 
 Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we 
 had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles across 
 the country, and we have come above threescore. 
 
284 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. And all, Marlow, from tha,t unaccountable 
 reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more fre- 
 quently on the way. 
 
 Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay my- 
 self under an obligation to every one I meet ; and often 
 stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. 
 
 Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely to 
 receive any answer. 
 
 Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I 'm told you have 
 been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in these parts. 
 Do you know what part of the country you are in ? 
 
 Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you 
 for information. 
 
 Tony. Nor the way you came ? 
 
 Hastings. 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. 
 
 Marlow. 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 ? 
 
 Marlow. 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 ? 
 
 Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he 
 has the family you mention. 
 
 Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talk- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 285 
 
 ative maypole; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable 
 youth, that every body is fond of? 
 
 Marlow. Our information differs in this. The daugh- 
 ter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful ; the son an awk- 
 ward 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. 
 
 Hastings. Unfortunate ! 
 
 Tony. It 's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, danger- 
 ous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. 
 Hardcastle's (winking upon tlie Landlord), Mr. Hard- 
 castle's, of Quagmire Marsh — you understand me ? 
 
 Landlord. Master Hardcastle's ! Lock-a-daisy, my 
 masters, you 're come a deadly deal wrong ! When you 
 came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed 
 down Squash Lane. 
 
 Marlow. Cross down Squash Lane? 
 
 Landlord. Then you were to keep straight forward, 
 till you came to four roads. 
 
 Marlow. Come to where four roads meet ? 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one of 
 them. 
 
 Marlow. O sir, you 're facetious. 
 
 Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go side- 
 ways, 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 
 
286 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 the left, and then to the right about again, till you find 
 out the old mill 
 
 Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the 
 longitude. 
 
 Hastings. What 's to be done, Marlow ? 
 
 Marlow. This house promises but a poor reception ; 
 though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. 
 
 Landlord. 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 : do n't you think, Stingo, our 
 landlady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fire- 
 side, with — three chairs and a bolster ? 
 
 Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 
 
 Marlow. 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 farther, to the Buck's Head ; the old 
 Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole 
 country. 
 
 Hastings. ho ! so we have escaped an adventure 
 for this night, however. 
 
 Landlord. (Apart t& 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 '11 see a pair of large horns over the door. That 's 
 the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. 
 
 Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants 
 can 't miss the way ? 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 287 
 
 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 '11 be for giving you his company ; and, ecod, if you 
 mind him, he '11 persuade you that his mother was an al- 
 derman, and his aunt a justice of peace. 
 
 Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but 
 as keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole 
 country. 
 
 Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall 
 want no further connection. We are to turn to the right, 
 did you say ? 
 
 Tony. No, no, straight forward ; I '11 just step myself, 
 and show you a piece of the way. (To the Landlord.) 
 Mum! 
 
 Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant 
 damned mischievous son of a whore. [ Exeunt. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene I. — an old-fashioned house. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awkward 
 Servants. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, I hope you are 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 ever stir- 
 ring from home. 
 
288 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Omnes. Ay, ay. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from 
 the barn, are to make a show at the side table; and you, 
 Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to 
 place yourself behind my chair. But you "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 little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. 
 
 Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to 
 hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the 
 malitia. And so being upon drill — 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 Jrink, 
 and not think of drinking ; you must see us eat, and not 
 think of eating. 
 
 Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that *s parfectly 
 unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going for- 
 ward, ecod, he 's always wishing for a mouthful himself. 
 
 Hardcastle. Blockhead ! is not a bellyful in the kitch- 
 en as good as a bellyful in the parlor ? Stay your stom- 
 ach with that reflection. 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a 
 shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the 
 pantry. 
 
 Hardcastle. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, if 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 289 
 
 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. 
 
 Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell the 
 story of the Ould Grouse in the gun-room ; I can 't help 
 laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for the soul of me. 
 We have laughed at that these twenty years — ha! ha! 
 ha! 
 
 Harckastk. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. 
 Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that ; but still 
 remember to be attentive. 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 Digjjory) — Eh, 
 why do n't you move ? 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage, 
 till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo' the ta- 
 ble, and then I 'm as bauld as a lion. 
 
 Hardcastle. What, will nobody move ? 
 
 First Servant I 'm not to leave this pleace. 
 
 Second Servant I 'm sure it 's no pleace of mine. 
 
 Third Servant Nor mine, for sartain. 
 
 Diggory. Wauns, and I 'm sure it canna be mine. 
 
 HardcastU. You numskulls ! 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 do n't I hear a coach drive into the yard ? 
 
 To your posts, you blockheads. I '11 go in the mean time, 
 and give my old friend's son a hearty welcome at the 
 gate. \Exit Hardcastle. 
 
 Diggory. By the elevens, my place is quite gone out 
 of my head. 
 
 25 
 
290 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Soger. I know that my place is to be every where. 
 First Servant. "Where the devil is mine ? 
 Second Servant. My pleace is to be no where at all ; 
 and so Ize go about my business. 
 
 [Exeunt Servants, running about, as if 
 frightened, several ways. 
 
 Enter Servant, with candles, showing in Marlow and 
 
 Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This 
 way. 
 
 Hastings. After the disappointments of the day, wel- 
 come once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room 
 and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking 
 house : antique, but creditable. 
 
 Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having 
 first ruined the master by good house-keeping, it at last 
 comes to levy contributions as an inn. 
 
 Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed 
 to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good side- 
 board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put 
 in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly. 
 
 Marlow. 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. 
 
 Hastings. 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. 
 
 Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 291 
 
 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 do n't know that I 
 was ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest wo- 
 man, except my mother. — But among females of another 
 
 class, you know 
 
 ^Hastings. Ay, among them you are impudent enough, 
 of all conscience. 
 
 Marlow, They are of us, you know. 
 
 Hastings. But 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 steal- 
 ing out of the room. 
 
 Marlow. Why, man, that 's because I do want to steal 
 out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution 
 to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I 
 do n't know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes 
 lias totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow 
 may counterfeit modesty, but I '11 be hanged if a modest 
 man can ever counterfeit impudence. 
 
 Hastings. If you could but say half the fine things to 
 them, that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of 
 an inn, or even a college bed-maker 
 
 Marlow. 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. 
 
 Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how can 
 you ever expect to marry ? 
 
292 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Marlow. Never ; unless, as among kings and princes, 
 my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like 
 an Eastern bridegroom, 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 staring question of ' Madam, 
 will you many me ? ' No, no, that *t a strain much above 
 me, I assure you. 
 
 Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend be- 
 having to the lady you are come down to visit at the re- 
 quest of your father ? 
 
 Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies : bow very 
 low ; answer yes, or no, to all her demands. But for the 
 rest, I do n't think I shall venture to look in her face till 
 I see my father's again. 
 
 Hastings. I 'm surprised that one who is so warm a 
 friend, can be so cool a lover. 
 
 Marlow. 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 do n't know you ; as my friend, you are sure 
 of a reception, and let honor do the rest. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Marlow ! — But I '11 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. 
 
 Marlow. Happy man ! You have talents and art to 
 captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore the sex, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 293 
 
 and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. 
 This stammer in my address, and this awkward unpre- 
 possessing visage of mine, can never permit me to soar 
 above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one of the 
 Duchesses of Drury-lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to 
 interrupt us. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
 welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow ? Sir, you are 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. 
 
 Marlow, (Aside.) He has got our names from the 
 servants already. (To him.) We approve your caution 
 and hospitality, sir. ( To Hastings.) I have been think- 
 ing, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the 
 morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. 
 
 Hardcastle. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you '11 use no ceremo- 
 ny in this house. 
 
 Hastings. I fancy, Charles, you're right: the first 
 blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign 
 with the white and gold. 
 
 Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentle- 
 men — pray be under no restraint in this house. This is 
 Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please 
 here. 
 
 Marlow. 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. 
 25* 
 
294 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hardcastle. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, 
 puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when we 
 went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the gar- 
 rison 
 
 Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat 
 will do with the plain brown ? 
 
 Hardcastle. He first summoned the garrison, which 
 might consist of about five thousand men 
 
 Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very 
 poorly. 
 
 Hardcastle. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he 
 summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five 
 thousand men 
 
 Marlow. The girls like finery. 
 
 Hardcastle. Which might consist of about five thou- 
 sand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and 
 other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marl- 
 borough to George Brooks, that stood next to him — You 
 must have heard of George Brooks — 'I'll pawn my 
 dukedom/ says he f l but I take that garrison without spill- 
 ing a drop of blood.' So 
 
 Marlow. 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 vigor. 
 
 Hardcastle. Punch, sir ! (Aside.) This is the most 
 unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, 
 after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty- 
 hall, you know. 
 
 Enter Roger with a cup, 
 
 Hardcastle. Here 's a cup, sir. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 295 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty -hall, 
 will only let us have just what he pleases. 
 
 Hardcastle. ( Taking the cup.) I hope you '11 find it to 
 your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and 
 I believe you '11 own the ingredients are tolerable. Will 
 you be so good as to pledge me, sir ? Here, Mr. Marlow, 
 here is to our better acquaintance. (Drinks.) 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ; but 
 he 's a character, and I '11 humor him a little. Sir, my 
 service to you. (Drinks.) 
 
 Hastings. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give 
 us his company, and forgets that he 's an innkeeper, be- 
 fore he has learned to be a gentleman. 
 
 Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my old 
 friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this 
 part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elec- 
 tions, I suppose. 
 
 Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that work over. 
 Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing 
 each other, there is no business ' for us that sell ale.' 
 
 Hastings. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I 
 find. 
 
 Hardcastle. Not in the least. There was a time, in- 
 deed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, 
 like other people ; but, finding myself every day grow 
 more angry, and the government growing no better, I left 
 it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head 
 about Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croak- 
 er. Sir, my service to you. 
 
 Hastings. So that with eating above stairs and drink- 
 ing below, with receiving your friends within and amus- 
 
296 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 ing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bustling 
 life of it. 
 
 Hardcastle. I do stir about a great deal, that 's cer- 
 tain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in 
 this very parlor. 
 
 Marlow. (After drinking.) And you have an argu- 
 ment in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in West- 
 minster-hall. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little 
 philosophy. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever 
 heard of an inkeeper's philosophy. 
 
 Hastings. 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.) 
 
 Hardcastle. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Jour generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, 
 when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You 
 *hall hear. 
 
 Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe 
 it 's almost time to talk about supper. What has your 
 philosophy got in the house for supper ? 
 
 Hardcastle. For supper, sir! (Aside.) Was ever 
 such a request to a man in his own house ! 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an ap- 
 petite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, 
 I promise you. 
 
 Hardcastle. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my 
 eyes beheld. (To him.) Why, really, sir, as for supper, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 297 
 
 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. 
 
 Marlow. You do, do you ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Entirely. By the by, I believe they are 
 in actual consultation upon what 's for supper this mo- 
 ment in the kitchen. 
 
 Marlow. Then I beg they '11 admit me as one of their 
 privy-council. 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 hope, sir. 
 
 Hardcastle. O no, sir, none in the least ; yet I do n't 
 know how, our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very com- 
 municative upon these occasions. Should we send for 
 her, she might scold us all out of the house. 
 
 Hastings. Let 's see your list of the larder, then. I 
 ask it as a favor. I always match my appetite to my 
 bill of fare. 
 
 Marlow. (To Hardcastle, who looks at them with sur- 
 prise.) Sir, he 's very right, and it 's my way too. 
 
 Hardcastle. Sir, you have a right to command here. 
 Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's sup- 
 per : I believe it 's drawn out. — Your manner, Mr. Has- 
 tings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It 
 was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper 
 till he had eaten it. 
 
 Enter Roger. 
 
 Hastings. (Aside.) All upon the high rope ! His 
 uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother being 
 a justice of the peace. But let 's hear the bill of fare. 
 
 Marlow. (Perusing.) What 's here ? For the first 
 
298 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. The 
 devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the whole 
 Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of Bedford, to eat 
 up such a supper ? Two or three little things, clean and 
 comfortable, will do. 
 
 Hastings. But let 's hear it. 
 
 Marlow. (Reading.) 'For the first course, — at the 
 top, a pig, and pruin-sauce.' 
 
 Hastings. Damn your pig, I say. 
 
 Marlow. And damn your pruin-sauce, say I. 
 
 Hardcasile. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hun- 
 gry, pig with pruin-sauce is very good eating. 
 
 Marlow. 'At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains.' 
 
 Hastings. Let your brains be knocked out, my good 
 sir, I do n't like them. 
 
 Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by them- 
 selves. 
 
 Hardcasile. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. 
 ( To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what 
 alterations you please. Is there any thing else you wish 
 to retrench, or alter, gentlemen ? 
 
 Marlow. « Item : A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sau- 
 sages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff 
 — taff — taffety cream ! ' 
 
 Hastings. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be as 
 much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow din- 
 ner at the French ambassador's table. I 'm for plain 
 eating. 
 
 « Hardcasile. I 'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing 
 you like ; but if there be any thing you have a particular 
 fancy to 
 
 Marlow. Why, really sir, your bill of fare is so ex- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 290 
 
 quisite, 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. I entreat you '11 leave all that to me. You 
 shall not stir a step. 
 
 Marlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you must 
 excuse me : I always look to these things myself. 
 
 Hardcastle. I must insist, sir, you '11 make yourself 
 easy on that head. 
 
 Marlow. You see I 'm resolved on it. {Aside.) A 
 very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met with. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, sir, I 'm resolved at least to attend 
 
 you. (Aside.) This may be modern modesty, but I 
 
 never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned impudence. 
 
 \Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastle. 
 
 Hastings. (Alone.) So I find this fellow's civilities 
 begin to grow troublesome. But who can be angry at 
 those assiduities which are meant to please him ? Ha ! 
 what do I see ? Miss Neville, by all that 's happy ! 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear Hastings! To what unex- 
 pected good fortune — to what accident, am I to ascribe 
 this happy meeting ? 
 
 Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, as I 
 could never have hoped to meet my dearest Constance 
 at an inn. 
 
 3Iiss Neville. An inn ! sure you mistake : my aunt, 
 my guardian, lives here. What could induce you to 
 think this house an inn ? 
 
300 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, 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 Neville. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful 
 cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often ; 
 ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for you ? he 
 of whom I have such just apprehensions ? 
 
 Miss Neville. 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 underta- 
 ken to court me for him, and actually begins to think she 
 has made a conquest. 
 
 Hastings. 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 '11 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 Neville. 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 director, and chiefly consists in jew- 
 els. I have been for some time persuading my aunt to 
 let me wear them. I fancy I 'm very near succeeding. 
 The instant they are put into my possession, you shall 
 find me ready to make them and myself yours. 
 
 Hastings. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all I 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 301 
 
 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 Neville. But how shall we keep him in the de- 
 ception? — Miss Hardcastle is just returned from walk- 
 ing — What if we still continue to deceive him ? — This, 
 this way [ They confer. ( 
 
 H 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. The assiduities of these good people tease 
 me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill man- 
 ners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only himself, 
 but his old-fashioned^ wife on my back. They talk of 
 coming to sup with us too ; and then, I suppose, we are 
 to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the family. 
 What have we got here ? 
 
 Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate 
 you — The most fortunate accident ! — Who do you think 
 is just alighted ? 
 
 Marlow. Cannot guess. 
 
 Hastings. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and 
 Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss Con- 
 stance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening to dine 
 in the neighborhood, they called on their return to take 
 fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just stept into the 
 next room, and will be back in an instant. Was n't it 
 lucky? eh! 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) I have been mortified enough of 
 26 
 
302 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 all conscience, and here comes something to complete my 
 embarrassment. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but was n't it the most fortunate thing 
 in the world ? 
 
 Marlow. Oh, 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. 
 
 Hastings. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will 
 displease her. The disorder otf your dress will show the 
 ardor of your impatience. Besides, she knows you are 
 in the house, and will permit you to see her. 
 
 Marlow. Oh, the devil ! 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 '11 take courage. Hem ! 
 
 Hastings. Pshaw, man ! it 's but the first plunge, and 
 all 's over. She 's but a woman, you know. 
 
 Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread most to 
 encounter. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from walking. 
 
 Hastings. (Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, Mr. 
 Marlow, I 'm proud of bringing two persons of such mer- 
 it together, that only want to know, to esteem each other. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) Now for meeting my mod- 
 est gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his own 
 manner. (After a -pause, in which he appears very uneasy 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 303 
 
 and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your safe arrival, sir. 
 I 'm told you had some accidents by the way. 
 
 Marlow. 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 ! 
 
 Hastings. ( To him.) You never spoke better in your 
 whole life. Keep it up, and I '11 insure you the victory. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 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. 
 
 Marlow. ( Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, 
 in the world, madam ; but I have kept very little compa- 
 ny. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, while 
 others were enjoying it. 
 
 Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy 
 it at last. 
 
 Hastings. (To him.) Cicero never spoke better. 
 Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. 
 
 Marlow. (To him.) Hem! stand by me then, and 
 when I 'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up 
 again. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. An observer, like you, upon life, 
 were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must have 
 had much more to censure than to approve. 
 
 Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing 
 to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an ob- 
 ject of mirth than uneasiness. 
 
 Hastings. (To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke 
 so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see 
 that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be very good com- 
 
304 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 pany. I believe our being here will but embarrass the 
 interview. 
 
 Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like 
 your company of all things. (To Mm.) Zounds! 
 George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us ? 
 
 Hastings. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so 
 we'll retire to the next room. (To Mm.) You do n't 
 consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete 
 of our own. [Exeunt. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (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. 
 
 Marlow. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, mad- 
 am, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to — de- 
 serve them. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the very worst 
 way to obtain them. 
 
 Marlow. 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 Hardcastle. 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 admire those light, airy 
 pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. 
 
 Marlow. It 's a disease of the mind, madam. 
 
 In the variety of tastes there must be some who, wanting 
 a relish for um — u — um — 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I understand you, sir. There must 
 be some who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pre- 
 tend to despise what they are incapable of tasting. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 305 
 
 Marlow. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better 
 expressed. And I can 't help observing a 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) Who could ever suppose 
 this fellow impudent upon some occasions ! ( To him.) 
 You were going to observe, sir 
 
 Marlow. I was observing, madam — I protest, mad- 
 am, I forget what I was going to observe. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. (To 
 him.) You were observing, sir, that in this age of hy- 
 pocrisy — something about hypocrisy, sir. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy, 
 there are few who, upon strict inquiry, do not — a — 
 a 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I understand you perfectly, sir. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) Egad ! and that 's more than I do 
 myself. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. You mean that, in this hypocritical 
 age, there are a few that do not condemn in public what 
 they practise in private, and think they pay every debt 
 to virtue when they praise it. 
 
 Marlow. 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 Hardcastle. Not in the least, sir ; there 's some- 
 thing so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life 
 and force — Pray, sir, go on. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam, I was saying -that there 
 
 are some occasions — when a total want of courage, mad- 
 am, destroys all the and puts us upon — a — 
 
 a — a 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I agree with you entirely : a want 
 26* 
 
306 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 of courage upon some occasions, assumes the appearance 
 of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to ex- 
 cel. I beg you '11 proceed. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam — 
 but I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I 
 would not intrude for the world. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I never was more 
 agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons 
 
 us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honor to 
 attend you ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Well, then, I '11 follow. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has 
 done for me. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. {Alone.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there 
 ever such a sober, sentimental interview ? I 'm certain 
 he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the 
 fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, 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 some- 
 body ? That, faith, is a question I can scarce answer. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs. Hardcastle 
 and Hastings. 
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con? I 
 wonder you 're not ashamed to be so very engaging. 
 
 Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's 
 own relations, and not be to blame. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 307 
 
 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 '11 keep your dis- 
 tance — I want no nearer relationship. 
 
 \_She follows, coquetting him to the back scene. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are 
 very entertaining. There 's nothing in the world I love 
 to talk of so much as London, and the fashions ; though 
 I was never there myself. 
 
 Hastings. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your 
 air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your 
 life either at Ranelagh, St. James's, or Tower Wharf. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, 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 serves to raise me above 
 some of our neighboring rustics ; but who can have a 
 manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto 
 Gardens, the Borough, and such places, where the nobili- 
 ty 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 ? 
 
 Hastings. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my 
 word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I protest, I dressed it myself from 
 a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-book for the last 
 year. 
 
 Hastings. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box at the 
 
308 SUE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 play-house, would draw as many gazers as my Lady 
 Mayoress at a city ball. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, since inocula^on began, there 
 is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; so one 
 must dress a little particular, or one may escape in the 
 crowd. 
 
 Hastings. But that can never be your case, madam, in 
 any dress. (Bowing.) 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Yet what signifies my dressing, when 
 I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hard- 
 castle ? all I can say will never argue down a single but- 
 ton from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw 
 off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plas- 
 ter it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder. 
 
 Hastings. You are right, madam ; for, as among the 
 ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there are 
 none old. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 
 tcte for my own wearing. 
 
 Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear 
 what you please, and it must become you. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you 
 take to be the most fashionable age about town ? 
 
 Hastings. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; but 
 I 'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing 
 winter. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously ? Then I shall be too 
 young for the fashion. 
 
 Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels till 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 309 
 
 she 's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a polite 
 circle, would be considered as a child — a mere maker of 
 samplers. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. And yet, my niece thinks herself as 
 much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of 
 us all. 
 
 Hastings. Your niece, is she ? And that young gen- 
 tleman — a brother of yours, I should presume ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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, 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. Hardcastle. Never mind him, Con, my dear : he's 
 in another story behind your back. 
 
 Miss Neville. There 's something generous in my 
 cousin's manner. He falls out before faces, to be forgiven 
 in private. 
 
 Tony. Thai 's a damned confounded — crack. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he 's a sly one. Do n't you 
 think they 're like each other about the mouth, Mr. Has- 
 tings? 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 Neville. lud ! he has almost cracked my head. 
 
310 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, the monster ! for shame, Tony, 
 You a man, and behave so ! 
 
 Tony. If I 'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod ! 
 I '11 not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 w r as 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 Housewife ten 
 times over ; and you have thoughts of coursing me through 
 Quincey next spring. But, ecod ! I tell you, I' 11 not be 
 made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Was n't it all for your good, viper ? 
 "Was n'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. Hardcastle. 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 agreea- 
 ble wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the wild- 
 est of the two. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Was ever the like? But I see lie 
 wants to break my heart ; I see he does. 
 
 Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 311 
 
 young gentleman a little. I 'm certain I can persuade 
 him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I must retire. Come, Con- 
 stance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretched- 
 ness of my situation : was ever poor woman so plagued 
 with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy ! 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 
 
 Tony. (Singing.) 
 
 There was a young man riding by, 
 And fain would have his will. 
 
 Eang do didlo dee. 
 
 Do n'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. 
 
 Hastings. Then you 're no friend to the ladies, I find, 
 my pretty young gentleman ? 
 
 Tony. That 's as I find 'um. 
 
 Hastings. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare 
 answer ? And yet she appears to me a pretty, well-tem- 
 pered girl. 
 
 Tony. That 's because you do n't know her as well 
 as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and there's 
 not a more bitter cantanckerous toad in all Christendom. 
 
 Hastings. (Aside.) Pretty encouragement 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 breaking. 
 
 Hastings. To me she appears sensible and silent. 
 
312 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Tony. Ay, before company. But when she "s with 
 /her playmates, she 's as loud as a hog in a gate. 
 
 Hastings. 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. 
 
 Hastings. 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. 
 
 Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that would 
 take this bitter bargain off your hands ? 
 
 Tony. Anan ! 
 
 Hastings. Would you thank him that would take Miss 
 Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsey? 
 
 Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend — for 
 who would take her ? 
 
 Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage 
 to whip her off to France, and you shall never hear more 
 of her. 
 
 Tony. Assist you ! Ecod I will to the last drop of 
 my blood. I '11 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 besides, in jewels, that you little 
 dream of. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Squire, this looks like a lad of 
 spirit. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 313 
 
 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. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 t Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. What could my old friend Sir Charles 
 mean by recommending his son as the modestest young 
 man in town ? To me he appears the most impudent 
 piece of brass that ever spoke witli a tongue. He has 
 taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side already. 
 He took off his boots in the parlor, and desired me to see 
 them taken care of. I 'm desirous to know how his im- 
 pudence affects my daughter. She will certainly be shock- 
 ed at it. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed 
 your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was no 
 great occasion. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obey- 
 ing your commands, that I take care to observe them 
 without ever debating their propriety. 
 
 Hardcastle. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you 
 27 
 
314 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 some cause, particularly when I recommended my modest 
 gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. You taught me to expect something 
 extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the de- 
 scription. 
 
 Hardcastle. I was never so surprised in my life ! He 
 has quite confounded all my faculties. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I never saw any thing like it ; and 
 a man of the world, too ! 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 Hardcastle. It seems all natural to him. 
 
 Hardcastle. A good deal assisted by bad company and 
 a French dancing-master. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Sure you mistake, papa. A French 
 dancing-master could never have taught him that timid 
 look — that awkward address — that bashful manner. 
 
 Hardcastle. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaise hmte, 
 his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then your first sight deceived you : for I 
 think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever 
 astonished my senses. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw 
 any one so modest. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 Hardcastle. Surprising ! He met me with a re- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 315 
 
 spectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on the 
 ground. 
 
 Hardcastle. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, 
 and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. He treated me with diffidence and 
 respect ; censured the manners of the age ; admired the 
 prudence of girls that never laughed, tired me with apol- 
 ogies for being tiresome, then left the room with a bow, 
 and ' Madam, I would not for the world detain you.' 
 
 Hardcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his 
 life before, asked twenty questions, and never waited for 
 an answer, interrupted 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 Hardcastle. One of us must certainly be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Hardcastle. If he be what he has shown himself, I 'm 
 determined he shall never have my consent. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And if he be the sullen thing I take 
 him, he shall never have mine. 
 
 Hardcastle. In one thing, then, we are agreed — to 
 reject him. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes — but upon conditions. For if 
 you should find him less impudent, and I more presum- 
 ing ; if you find him more respectful, and I more impor- 
 tunate — I do n't know — the fellow is well enough for a 
 man — certainly we do n't meet many such at a horse-race 
 in the country. 
 
 Hardcastle. If we should find him so -But that 's 
 
/ 
 
 316 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 impossible. The first appearance has done my business. 
 I 'm seldom deceived in that. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And yet there may be many good 
 qualities under that first appearance. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to 
 her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of his fur- 
 niture. With her a smooth face stands for good sense, 
 and a genteel figure for every virtue. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, a conversation begun 
 with a compliment to my good sense, won't end with a 
 sneer at my understanding ! 
 
 Hardcastle. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. 
 Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, he 
 may please us both, perhaps. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And as one of us must be mistaken, 
 what if we go to make farther discoveries ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the 
 right. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 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 
 genus, is that you ? 
 
 Miter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed 
 with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 317 
 
 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. 
 
 Hastings. But how have you procured them from 
 your mother ? 
 
 Tony. Ask me no questions, and I '11 tell you no fibs. 
 I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a 
 key to every draw in my mother's bureau, how could I go 
 to the alehouse so often as I do ? An honest man may 
 rob himself of his own at any time. 
 
 Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But, to be 
 plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavoring 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. 
 But I know how it will be well enough, — she'd as soon 
 part with the only sound tooth in her head. 
 
 Hastings. 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 do n't value her resentment the bounce 
 of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are. Morrice ! Prance ! 
 
 [Exit Hastings. 
 
 Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, and Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. 
 
 27* 
 
318 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Such a girl as you want jewels ! It will be time enough 
 for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your beau- 
 ty begins to want repairs. 
 
 Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, 
 will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 acquaintance, my Lady Kill- 
 daylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry 
 their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and 
 marcasites back ? 
 
 Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but somebody 
 that shall be nameless would like me best with all my 
 little finery about me ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 any jewels in your eyes to set off 
 her beauty ? 
 
 Tony. That 's as hereafter may be. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would 
 oblige me. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 be- 
 lieve I can 't readily come at them. They may be miss- 
 ing 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 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 319 
 
 her they 're lost. It 's the only way to quiet her. Say 
 they 're lost, and call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (Apart to Tony.) You know, my 
 dear, I 'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they 
 are gone, you '11 bear me witness, will you ? He ! he ! he ! 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I '11 say I saw them 
 taken out with my own eyes. 
 
 Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, madam — 
 just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then they 
 may be locked up again. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear Con- 
 stance, if I could find them you should have them. They 
 are missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I know ; but 
 we must have patience, wherever they are. 
 
 Miss Neville. I '11 not believe it ; this is but a shallow 
 pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable to be 
 so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss — 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Do n'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 '11 take my oath on 't. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at the 
 misfortunes of others. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Now, I wonder a girl of your good 
 sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We 
 shall soon find them ; and in the mean time you shall 
 make use of my garnets till your jewels be found. 
 
320 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Miss Neville. I detest garnets. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 Neville. I dislike them of all things. You shan't 
 stir. "Was ever any thing so provoking, to mislay my 
 own jewels, 'and force me to wear her trumpery ? 
 
 Tony. Do n'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 '11 tell you more of the 
 matter. Leave me to manage her. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear cousin 1 
 
 Tony. Vanish. She 's here, and has missed them al- 
 ready. [Exit Miss Neville.'] Zounds ! how she fidgets 
 and spits about like a Catharine wheel I 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we 
 are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. 
 
 Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, mam- 
 ma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good 
 family ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau has 
 been broken 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. Hardcastle. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. 
 My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 321 
 
 Tony. Stick to that, ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that. I '11 
 bear witness, you know ! call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 are gone, and I am to say so. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 
 They 're gone, I say. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to 
 laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well enough, ha ! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. 
 I '11 bear witness that they are gone. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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. Hardcastle. Bear witness again, you blockhead, 
 you, and I '11 turn you out of the room directly. My 
 poor niece, what will become of her? Do you laugh, 
 you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress ? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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.) 
 
322 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. What an unaccountable creature is 
 that brother of mine, to send them to the house "as an inn ; 
 ha ! ha ! I do n't wonder at his impudence. 
 
 Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentle- 
 man, 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 Hardcastle. Did he ? Then, as I live, I 'm re- 
 solved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how 
 do you like my present dress ? Do n't you think I look 
 something like Cherry in the Beaux' Stratagem ? 
 
 Maid. It 's the dress, madam, that every lady wears 
 in the country, but when she visits or receives company. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And are you sure he does not re- 
 member my face or person ? 
 
 Maid. Certain of it. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so ; for though we 
 spoke for some time together, yet his fears were such that 
 he never once looked up during the interview. Indeed, 
 if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing 
 me. 
 
 Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in 
 his mistake ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 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 acquaint- 
 ance, and that 's no small victory gained over one who 
 never addresses any but the wildest of her sex. But 
 my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard, and, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 323 
 
 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 mistaken your person ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I have got 
 the true bar cant — Did your honor 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. 
 
 Marlow. 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 courtesy down 
 to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, 
 and now for recollection. [ Walks and muses. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Did you call, sir ? Did your honor 
 call ? 
 
 Marlow. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she 's 
 too grave and sentimental for me. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Did your honor call ? 
 
 [She still places herself before him, 
 he turning away. 
 
 Marlow. ~ No, child. (Musing.) Besides, from the 
 glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I 'm sure, sir, I heard the bell 
 ring. 
 
 Marlow. No, no. (Musing.) I have pleased my 
 
324 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 father, however, by coming down, and I'll to-morrow 
 please myself by returning. ( Taking out his tablets and 
 perusing.) 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Perhaps the other gentleman called, 
 sir? 
 
 Marhw. I tell you no. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I should be glad to know, sir : we 
 have such a parcel of servants. 
 
 Marlow. No, no, I tell you, (Looks full in her face) 
 Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted — I wanted — I 
 vow, child, you are vastly handsome. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. la, sir, you '11 make one ashamed. 
 
 Marlow. 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 Hardcastle. No, sir, we have been out of that 
 these ten days. 
 
 Marlow. 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 Hardcastle. Nectar ! nectar ! That 's a liquor 
 there 's no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. 
 We keep no French wines here, sir. 
 
 Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure you. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Then it's odd I should not know it. 
 AVe brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have 
 lived here these eighteen years. 
 
 Marlow. Eighteen years ! Why, one would think, 
 child, you kept the bar before you were born. How old 
 are you ? 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 325 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Oh, sir, I must not tell my age. 
 They say women and music should never be dated. 
 
 Marhw. To guess at this distance, you can't be much 
 above forty. (Approaching) Yet nearer, I do n'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 Hardcastle. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One 
 would think you wanted to know one's age as they do 
 horses, by mark of mouth. 
 
 Marhw. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. 
 If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you 
 and I can ever be acquainted ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastk. And who wants to be acquainted 
 with you ? I 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. I '11 warrant 
 me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the 
 ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you were be- 
 fore a justice of the peace. 
 
 Marhw. {Aside) Egad, she has hit it, sure enough ! 
 (To her) In awe of her, child? Ha ! ha ! ha ! A mere 
 awkward, squinting thing ! No, no. I find you do n'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, 
 curse me I 
 
 Miss Hardcastk. Oh, then, sir, you are a favorite, I 
 find, among the ladies ? 
 
 Marhw, Yes, my dear, a great favorite. And yet, 
 hang me, I do n't see what they find in me to follow. At 
 the ladies' club in town I 'm called their agreeable Rattle. 
 28 
 
326 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I 'm known 
 by. My name is Solomons ; Mr. Solomons, my dear, at 
 your service. ( Offering to salute her.) 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. Hold, sir, you are introducing me to 
 your club, not to yourself. And you 're so great a favor- 
 ite there, you say ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, my dear. There 's Mrs. Mantrap, 
 Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Lang- 
 horns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble serv- 
 ant, keep up the spirit of the place. 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. Then it's a very merry place, I 
 suppose ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and 
 old women can make us. 
 
 Miss Hardcasile. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Marlow. (Aside) Egad ! I don't quite like this chit. 
 She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ? 
 
 Miss Hardcasile. I can't but laugh to think what time 
 they all have for minding their work, or their family. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside) All *s well ; she don't laugh at me. 
 (To her) Do you ever work, child ? 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. Aye, sure. There *s not a screen or 
 a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to 
 that. 
 
 Marlow. Odso ! then you must show me your em- 
 broidery. 1 embroider and draw patterns myself a little. 
 If you want a judge of your work, you must apply to 
 me. (Seizing her hand.) 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. Ay, but the colors do n't look well 
 by candle-light, You shall see all in the morning. 
 {Struggling.) 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 327. 
 
 Marlow. 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, ivho stands in surprise. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 Hardcastle. Never trust me, dear papa, but he 's 
 still the modest man I first took him for ; you '11 be con- 
 vinced of it as well as I. 
 
 Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, I believe his 
 impudence is infectious ! Did n't I see him seize your 
 hand? Didn't I see him bawl you about like a milk- 
 maid ? And now you talk of his respect and his modesty, 
 forsooth ] 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 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 '11 forgive him. 
 
 Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one run 
 mad ! I tell you I '11 not be convinced. I am convinced. 
 He has scarcely been three hours in the house, and he 
 
 * Ames ace, or ambs ace, is two aces thrown at the same time 
 on two dice. As seven is the main, to throw ames ace thrice run- 
 ning, when the player nicks, that is, hazards his money on seven, 
 
 is singularly bad lack. 
 
328 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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 Hardcastle. Sir, I ask but this night to convince 
 you. 
 
 Hardcastle. You shall not have half the time, for I 
 have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Give me that hour, then, and I hope 
 to satisfy you. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, an hour let it be then. But I '11 
 have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, do 
 you mind me. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever found that 
 I considered your commands as my pride ; for your kind- 
 ness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclination. 
 
 [ExeunL 
 
 ACT FOUETH. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastings. You surprise me : Sir Charles Marlow ex- 
 pected here this night ! Where have you had your in- 
 formation ? 
 
 Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I just saw 
 his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he in- 
 tends setting out in a few hours after his son. 
 
 Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be complet- 
 ed before he arrives. He knows me; and should he 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 329 
 
 find me here, would discover my name, and, perhaps, my 
 designs, to the rest of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe ? 
 
 Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, 
 iv ho keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean time, 
 I '11 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 direc- 
 tions. \_Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, success attend you ! In the mean 
 time, I '11 go amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a 
 violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. 
 
 Marlow. I wonder what Hastings could mean by send- 
 ing me so 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 ? 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honor. 
 
 Marlow. She said she 'd keep it safe, did she ? 
 
 Servant. 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. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 
 Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They 're safe, however. 
 
 What an unaccountable set of beings have we got 
 
 amongst ! This little bar-maid, though, runs in my mind 
 
 most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the 
 
 28* 
 
330 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 rest of the family. She 's mine, she must be mine, or 
 I 'm greatly mistaken. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that I 
 intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Mar- 
 low here, and in spirits too ! 
 
 Marlow. 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. 
 
 Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what suc- 
 cess has your honor's modesty been crowned with now, 
 that it grows so insolent upon us ? 
 
 Marlow. Did n't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely, 
 little thing, that runs about the house with a bunch of 
 keys to its girdle ? 
 
 Hastings. Well, and what then ? 
 
 Marlow. She 's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such 
 motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she would not 
 let me kiss them though. 
 
 Hastings. But are you so sure, so very sure of 
 her? 
 
 Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing me her 
 work above stairs, and I am to approve the pattern. 
 
 Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob 
 a woman of her honor ? 
 
 Marlow. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honor of 
 the bar-maid of an inn. I do n't intend to rob her, take 
 my word for it ; there's nothing in this house I sha n't 
 honestly pay for. 
 
 Hastings. I believe the girl has virtue. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 331 
 
 Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last man in 
 the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 
 
 Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket 
 I sent you to lock up ? It 's in safety ? 
 
 Marlow. 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 ! numscull ! 
 I have taken better precautions for you than you did for 
 yourself — I have « — 
 
 Hastings. What ? 
 
 Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for 
 you. 
 
 Hastings. To the landlady ! 
 
 Marlow. The landlady. 
 
 Hastings. You did ? 
 
 Marlow. I did. She 's to be answerable for its forth- 
 coming, you know. 
 
 Hastings. Yes, she '11 bring it forth with a witness. 
 
 Marlow. Wasn't I right? I believe you'll allow 
 that I acted prudently upon this occasion. 
 
 Hastings. (Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness. 
 
 Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted though, me- 
 thinks. Sure nothing has happened ? 
 
 Hastings. 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. 
 
 Marlow. Rather too readily; for she not only kept 
 the casket, but, through her great precaution, was going 
 to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hastings. He ! he ! he ! They 're safe, however. 
 
 Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 
 
332 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are 
 at an end, and we must set off without it. (To him) 
 Well, Charles, I '11 leave you to your meditations on the 
 pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you be as suc- 
 cessful for yourself as you have been for me ! 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Marlow. -Thank ye, George : I ask no more. — Ha ! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Enter Hardcasile. 
 
 Hardcastle. I no longer know my own house. It 's 
 turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk al- 
 ready. I '11 bear it no longer ; and yet, from my respect 
 for his father, I'll be calm. (To him) Mr. Marlow, your 
 servant. I'm your very humble servant. (Bowing 
 low.) 
 
 Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside.) What 
 is to be the wonder now ? 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 ? 
 
 Marlow. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want much 
 entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome 
 wherever he goes. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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. 
 
 Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, that is no fault 
 of mine. If they do n't drink as they ought, they are to 
 blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. I did, I 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 333 
 
 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. 
 
 Hardcasile. Then they had your orders for what they 
 do ? I 'm satisfied ! 
 
 Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall hear it 
 from one of themselves. 
 
 Enter Servant, drunk. 
 
 Marlow. 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 ? 
 
 Hardcastle. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. 
 
 Jeremy. Please your honor, liberty and Fleet-street 
 forever ! Though I 'm but a servant, I 'm as good as 
 another man. I '11 drink for no man before supper, sir, 
 damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, but a 
 
 good supper will not sit upon hiccup upon my 
 
 conscience, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Marlow. You see my old friend, the fellow is as drunk 
 as he can possibly be. I do n't know what you 'd have 
 more, unless you 'd have the poor devil soused in a beer- 
 barrel. 
 
 Hardcastle. Zounds, he'll drive me distracted, if I 
 contain myself any longer ! 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 re- 
 solved to be master here, sir, and I desire that you and 
 your drunken pack may leave my house directly. 
 
334 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Marlow. Leave your house ! — Sure, you jest, my 
 good friend ? "What ! when I am doing what I can to 
 please you. 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, you do n't please ; so I de- 
 sire you will leave my house. 
 
 Marlow. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time o' 
 night, and such a night ? You only. mean to banter me. 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, I 'm serious ! and now that 
 my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, and I 
 command you to leave it directly. 
 
 Marlow. 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, 
 curse me ; never in my whole life before. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 ! 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 candle-sticks, and 
 there 's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed 
 bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy to them ? 
 
 Marlow. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your bill 
 and let 's make no more words about it. 
 
 Hardcastle. There are a set of prints, too. What 
 think you of the Rake's Progress for your own apart- 
 ment ? 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 335 
 
 Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say, and I'll leave 
 you and your infernal house directly. 
 
 Hardcasile. Then there's a mahogany table that you 
 may see your face in. 
 
 Marlow. My bill, I say. 
 
 Hardcastle. I had forgot the great chair for your own 
 particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 
 
 Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let's 
 hear no more on 't. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 present- 
 ly, and shall hear more of it. \Exit. 
 
 Marlow. 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. 
 
 Miter Miss Hardcasile. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Let it be short, then. I'm in a 
 hurry. (Aside) I believe he begins to find out his mis- 
 take. But it "s too soon quite to undeceive him. 
 
 Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one question. "What 
 are you, and what may your business in this house be ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. A relation of the family, sir. 
 
 Marlow. What, a poor relation ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, a poor relation, appointed 
 to keep the keys/and to see that the guests want nothing 
 in my power to give them. 
 
336 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Marlow. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn. 
 
 Miss Hardcasile. Inn! O la what brought that 
 
 into your head ? One of the best families in the county 
 keep an inn ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! old Mr. Hardcastle's house 
 
 an inn 
 
 Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this Mr. Hard- 
 castle's house, child ? 
 
 Miss Hardcasile. Ay, sure. "Whose else should it be ? 
 
 Marlow. So then, all 's out, and I have been damna- 
 bly imposed upon. Oh, confound my stupid head, I shall 
 be laughed at over the whole town ! I shall be stuck up 
 in caricature in all the print-shops. The Dullissimo- 
 Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all others for an 
 inn, and my father's old friend for an inn-keeper ! 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. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Dear me ! dear me ! I 'm sure 
 there 's nothing in my behavior to put me upon a level 
 with one of that stamp. 
 
 Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in 
 for a list of blunders, and could not help making you a 
 subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the wrong way. 
 I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your sim- 
 plicty for allurement. But it's over — this house I no 
 more show my face in. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 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 on my account. I'm sure I 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 337 
 
 should be sorry people said anything amiss, since I have 
 no fortune but my character. 
 
 Marlow. (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 honorable 
 connection impossible ; and I can never harbor a thought 
 of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honor, of bring- 
 ing ruin upon one whose only fault was being too lovely. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) Generous man ! I now 
 begin to admire him. (To him.) But I am 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. 
 
 Marlow. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? 
 Miss Hardcastle. Because it puts me at a distance 
 from one, that if I had a thousand pounds, I would give 
 it all to. 
 
 Marlow. (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 favor 
 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 speak it — it af- 
 fects me — Farewell. [Exit. 
 Miss Hardcastle. I never knew half his merit till now. 
 He shall not go if I have power or art to detain him. I'll 
 29 
 
338 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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 and 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 Neville. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't for- 
 sake us in this distress ? If she in the least suspects that 
 I am going off, I 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 damned 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 to fondle. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be 
 sure, but my son tells me it was all a mistake of the ser- 
 vants. I shan't be easy, however, till they are fairly mar- 
 ried, 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 glances and 
 broken. murmurs ? Ah ! 
 
 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 339 
 
 now and then, to be sure ; but there 's no love lost be- 
 tween us. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the 
 flame, only to make it burn brighter. 
 
 Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises us to give us 
 more of his company at home. Indeed, he shant leave us 
 any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it ? 
 
 Tony. Oh, 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 becom- 
 ing. 
 
 Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help ad- 
 miring that natural humor, that pleasant, broad, red, 
 thoughtless, (patting his cheek,) — ah ! it's a bold face ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 incontinently. You shall 
 have them. Is n't he a sweet boy, my dear ? You shall 
 be married to-morrow, and we '11 put off the rest of his 
 education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportu- 
 nity. 
 
 JEhter Diggory. 
 
 Diggory. Where 's the Squire ? I have got a letter 
 for your worship. 
 
340 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my let- 
 ters first. 
 
 Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your own 
 hands. 
 
 Tony. Who does it come from ? 
 
 Diggory. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter 
 itself. 
 
 Tony. I could wish to know though. {Turning the 
 letter ; and gazing on it.) 
 
 Miss Neville. (Aside) Undone ! undone ! A letter to 
 him from Hastings : I know the hand. If my aunt sees 
 it, we are ruined forever. I'll keep her employed a lit- 
 tle, if I can. (To Mrs. Hardcasile) But I have not told 
 you, madam, of my cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. 
 Mario w. We so laughed — You must know, madam — 
 This way a little, for he must not hear us. (They con- 
 fir.) \ 
 
 Tony. (Still gazing) A damned cramp piece of pen- 
 manship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your 
 print-hand 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, Esquire." 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 's all buzz. That 's hard — very hard ; for the in- 
 side of the letter is always the cream of the corres- 
 pondence. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcasile. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. 
 And so my son was too hard for the philosopher ? 
 
 Miss Neville. Yes, madam; but you must bear the 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 341 
 
 rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear us. 
 You '11 hear how he puzzled him again. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. He seems strangely puzzled now him- 
 self, methinks. 
 
 Tony. (Still gazing) A damned up-and-down hand, 
 as if it was disguised in liquor. (Heading) " Dear Sir," 
 — Ay, that's that. Then there 's an M, and a T, and an 
 S, but whether the next be an izzard or an R, confound 
 me I cannot tell ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. What's that, my dear ; can I give 
 you any assistance ? 
 
 Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody 
 reads a cramp hand better than I. ( Twitching the letter 
 from him) Do you know who it is from ? 
 
 Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder. 
 
 Miss Neville. Ay, so it is : (pretending to read) Dear 
 Squire, hoping that you 're in health, as I am at this pres- 
 ent. The gentlemen of the Shake Bag Club has cut the 
 gentlemen of the Goose Green quite out of feather. The 
 
 odds um odd battle — um — long — fighting — 
 
 um — here, here, it 's all about cocks and fighting ; it 's 
 of no consequence — here, put it up, put it up. Thrust- 
 ing the crumpled letter upon him.) 
 
 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 letter. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. How 's this ! (Reads.) " Dear Squire, 
 
 I 'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a postchaise and 
 
 pair, at the bottom of the garden, but I find my horses 
 
 yet unable to perform the journey. I expect you 11 as- 
 
 29* 
 
342 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 sist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. De- 
 spatch 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 Neville. I hope, madam, you '11 suspend your re- 
 sentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any 
 impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to another. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. ( Courtesying 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 disappoint them. So, if you please, in- 
 stead of running away with your spark, prepare this very 
 moment, to run off with me. Your old aunt Pedigree 
 will keep you secure, I '11 warrant me. You too, sir, may 
 mount your horse, and guard us upon the way. — Here, 
 Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! — I '11 show you, that I wish 
 you better than you do yourselves. \_Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. So, now I 'm completely ruined. 
 
 Tony. Ay, that 's a sure thing. 
 
 Miss Neville. What better could be expected, from 
 being connected with such a stupid fool, and; after all the 
 nods and signs I 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 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 343 
 
 Greens, that I thought you could never be making be- 
 lieve. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. Sti, 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 be- 
 trayed you. Ecod ! it was her doing, not mine. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. So, I have been finely used here among you* 
 Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-manners, despised, 
 insulted, laughed at. 
 
 Tony. Here's another. We shall have all Bedlam 
 broke loose presently. 
 
 Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom 
 we all owe every obligation. 
 
 Marlow. What can I say to him ? a mere boy, an 
 idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. 
 
 Hastings. A poor contemptible booby, that would but 
 disgrace correction. 
 
 Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice enough to 
 make himself merry with all our embarrassments. 
 
 Hastings. An insensible cub. 
 
 Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
 
 Tony. Baw ! damme, but I '11 fight you both, one 
 after the other with baskets. 
 
 Marlow. 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. 
 
344 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own disappoint- 
 ments, is this a time for explanations ? It is not friendly, 
 Mr. Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. But, sir 
 
 Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your 
 mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. Be 
 pacified. 
 
 Enter Servant, 
 
 Servant. My mistress desires you '11 get ready imme- 
 diately, madam. The horses are putting-to. Your hat 
 and things are in the next room. We are to go thirty 
 miles before morning. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, well, I '11 come presently. 
 
 Marlow. (To Hastings.) Was it well done, sir, to as- 
 sist in rendering me ridiculous ? — To hang me out for 
 the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend upon it, sir, 
 I shall expect an explanation. 
 
 Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you 're upon that 
 subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the care 
 of another, sir ? 
 
 Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why will 
 you increase my distress by this groundless dispute ? I 
 implore — I entreat you 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impa- 
 tient. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Neville. I come. Pray, be pacified. If I leave 
 you thus, I shall die with apprehension. j 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 345 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The 
 horses are waiting. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Neville. Oh, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what a 
 scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I am 
 sure it would convert your resentment into pity ! 
 
 Marlow. 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. 
 
 Hastings. The torture of my situation is my only ex- 
 cuse. 
 
 Miss Neville. "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 connection. If 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. ( Within.) Miss Neville ! Constance, 
 why, Constance, I say ! 
 
 Miss Neville. I 'm coming ! Well, constancy, remem- 
 ber, constancy is the word. [Exit. 
 
 Hastings. My heart ! how can I support this ? To 
 be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 
 
 Marlow. (To Tony.) You see now, young gentle- 
 man, the effects of your folly. What might be amuse- 
 ment to you, is here disappointment, 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 do n't find Tony Lump- 
 kin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I '11 
 
346 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer 
 into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Servant. 
 
 Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
 drive off, you say ? 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honor. They went off in a post- 
 coach, and the young Squire went on horseback. They 're 
 thirty miles off by this time. 
 
 Hastings. Then all my hopes are over ! 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He 
 and the old gentleman of the house have been laughing 
 at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They are com- 
 ing this way. [Exit. 
 
 Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So now to my 
 fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. This 
 is about the time. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Hardcasile. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. And yet he might have seen something in 
 me above a common innkeeper, too. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 347 
 
 Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an un- 
 common innkeeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 al- 
 ready, 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 
 
 Hardcastle. If, man ! I tell you they do like each oth- 
 er. My daughter as good as told me so. 
 
 Sir Cliarles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, 
 you know. 
 
 Hardcastle. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest 
 manner, myself; and here he comes to put you out of 
 your ifs, I warrant him. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my 
 strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence 
 without confusion. 
 
 Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too grave- 
 ly. An hour or two's laughing with my daughter, will 
 set all to rights again. She '11 never like you the worse 
 for it. 
 
 Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. 
 
 Hardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Mar- 
 low ; if 1 am not deceived, you have something more than 
 approbation thereabouts. You take me ! 
 
348 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Marlow. Really, sir, I 've not that happiness. 
 
 Hardcastle. Come, boy, I 'm an old fellow, and know 
 what 's what as well as you that are younger. I know 
 what has past between you ; but mum. 
 
 Marlow. Sure, sir, nothing has past between us, but 
 the most profound respect on my side, and the most dis- 
 tant reserve on hers. You don't think, sir, that my impu- 
 dence has been past upon all the rest of the family ! 
 
 Hardcastle. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — not 
 quite impudence — though girls like to be played with, 
 and rumpled a little too, sometimes. But she has told no 
 tales, I assure you. 
 
 Marlow. I never gave her the slightest cause. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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. 
 
 Marlow. May I die, sir, if I ever 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and as I 
 am sure you like her 
 
 Marlow. Dear sir, I protest, sir 
 
 Hardcastle. I see no reason why you should not be 
 joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 
 
 Marlow. But hear me, sir 
 
 Hardcastle. Your father approves the match, I admire 
 it ; every moment's delay will be doing mischief, so 
 
 Marlow. But why don't you hear me ? By all that 's 
 just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest 
 mark of my attachment, or even the most distant hint to 
 suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and 
 that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 349 
 
 Hardcasile. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest 
 impudence is beyond bearing. 
 
 Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or 
 made any protestations ? 
 
 Marlow. 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 '11 
 exact no farther 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 which he parted. 
 
 Hardcastle. And I 'm astonished at the deliberate in- 
 trepidity of his assurance. 
 
 Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honor upon 
 his truth. 
 
 Hardcastle. Here comes my daughter, and I would 
 stake my happiness upon her veracity. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us 
 sincerely, and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow made 
 you any professions of love and affection ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. The question is very abrupt, sir! 
 But since you require unreserved sincerity — I think he 
 has. 
 
 Hardcastle. (To Sir Charles) You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and my son 
 had more than one interview ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, several. 
 
 Hardcastle. (To Sir (Maries) You see. 
 SO 
 
350 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Sir Charles. But did he profess any attachment? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. A lasting one. 
 
 Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Much, sir. 
 
 Sir Charles. Amazing ! And all this formally ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Formally. 
 
 Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied. 
 
 Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 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 pre- 
 tended 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 Hardcastle. 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. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And if you do n't find him what I 
 describe, I fear my happiness must never have a be- 
 ginning. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 351 
 
 SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OP THE GARDEN. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. What an idiot am I to wait here for a fel- 
 low who probably 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. 
 
 Hastings. 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 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. 
 
 Hastings. But how ? where did you leave your fel- 
 low-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 : rabbit me ! but I 'd rather ride forty miles after a 
 fox, than ten with such varmint. 
 
 Hastings. 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 ? 
 
 Hastings. This is a riddle. 
 
 Tony. Kiddle me this, then. What's that goes round 
 the house, and round the house, and never touches the 
 house ? 
 
352 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. I 'm still astray. 
 
 Tony. Why, that 's it, mun. I have led them astray. 
 By jingo, there 's not a pond or a slough within five miles 
 of the place but they can tell the taste of. 
 
 Hastings. 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 circumbendibus, I 
 fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of the 
 garden. 
 
 Hastings. But no accident, I hope ? 
 
 Tony. No, no: only mother is confoundedly fright- 
 ened. 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 ? 11 be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to 
 follow you. 
 
 Hastings. 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. 
 Damn 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 
 he dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. 
 
 Hastings. 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. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 353 
 
 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. Hardcastle. 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 know- 
 ing one inch of the way. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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 Crack-skull 
 Common, about forty miles from home. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. O lud ! O lud ! The most notori- 
 ous spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to 
 make a complete night on 't. 
 
 Tony. Do n't be afraid, mamma ; do n't be afraid. Two 
 of the five that kept here are hanged, and the other three 
 may not find us. Do n't be afraid. — Is that a man that's 
 galloping behind us. No, it 's only a tree. — Do n't be 
 afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. The fright will certainly kill me. 
 
 Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat moving 
 behind the thicket ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death ! 
 30* 
 
354 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Tony. No ; it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma ; 
 don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. As I 'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
 coming towards us. Ah! I am sure on't. If he per- 
 ceives 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. A 
 damn'd ill-looking fellow ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven, defend us ! He ap- 
 proaches. 
 
 Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave 
 me to manage him. If there be any danger, I '11 cough 
 and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to keep close. 
 
 [_Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the bach scene. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. I 'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people 
 in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ? I did not ex- 
 pect you so soon back. Are your mother and her charge 
 in safety ? 
 
 Tony. Yery safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (From behind) Ah, death ! I find 
 there 's danger. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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. Hardcastle. (From behind) Sure, he '11 do the 
 dear boy no harm. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 355 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 four 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. We '11 go in, if you please. 
 Hem. 
 
 Hardcastle. But if you talked to yourself, you did not 
 answer yourself. I 'm certain I heard two voices, and 
 am resolved (raising his voice) to find the other out. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (From behind) Oh ! he 's coming 
 to find me out. Oh ! 
 
 Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you ? Hem. 
 I '11 lay down my life for the truth — hem —I '11 tell you 
 all, sir. ^Detaining him. 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist 
 on seeing. It 's in vain to expect I '11 believe you. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (Running forward from behind) O 
 lud ! he '11 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. My wife, as I 'm a Christian. From 
 whence can she have come ? or what does she mean ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (Kneeling) Take compassion on 
 us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watch- 
 es, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring 
 you to justice ; indeed we won't, good Mr. Highwayman. 
 
 Hardcastle. I believe the woman 's out of her senses. 
 What, Dorothy, don't you know me ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I 'm alive ! My 
 
356 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expect- 
 ed to meet you here, in this frightful place, so far from 
 home ? What has brought you to follow us ? 
 
 Hardcastle. 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. Hardcastle. 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 '11 teach you to abuse your mother — I will. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
 spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I '11 spoil you, I will. 
 
 [Follows him off the stage. 
 
 Hardcastle. There 's morality, however, in his reply. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Constance, why will you delibe- 
 rate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost forever 
 Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon be out of 
 the reach of her malignity. 
 
 Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are so 
 sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am una- 
 ble to face any new danger. Two or three years' pa- 
 tience will at last crown us with happiness. 
 
 Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than incon- 
 stancy. Let us fly, my charmer ! Let us date our hap- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 357 
 
 piness from this very moment. Perish fortune ! Love 
 and content will increase what we possess beyond a mon- 
 arch's revenue. Let me prevail ! 
 
 Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once 
 more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In 
 the moment of passion, fortune may be despised, but it ev- 
 er produces a lasting repentance. I 'm resolved to apply 
 to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for redress. 
 
 Hastings. But though he had the will, he has not the 
 power, to relieve you. 
 
 Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon that I 
 am resolved to rely. 
 
 Hastings. I have no hopes. But, since you persist, I 
 must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE CHANGES. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what you 
 say appears, 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 daughter. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approbation; 
 and to show I merit it. if you place yourselves as I direct- 
 ed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But he comes. 
 
 Sir Charles. I '11 to your father, and keep him to the 
 appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. 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. 
 
358 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (In her own natural manner) I 
 believe these sufferings 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. 
 
 Marlow. (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 passion. The disparity of educa- 
 tion 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 Hardcastle. Then go, sir ; I '11 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 advantages without equal af- 
 fluence ? I must remain contented with the slight ap- 
 probation 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 Marlow, from behind* 
 
 Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, ay ; make no noise. I '11 engage my 
 Kate covers him with confusion at last. 
 
 Marlow. By Heavens ! madam, fortune was ever my 
 smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my 
 eye ; for who could see that without emotion ? But ev- 
 ery moment that I converse with you, steals in some new 
 grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger expres- 
 sion. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 359 
 
 refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now 
 strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and 
 conscious virtue. 
 
 $r Charles. What can it mean ? He amazes me ! 
 
 Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 
 
 Marlow. 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 Hardcastle. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot 
 detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connection 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 ? Do you think I 
 could ever relish that happiness which was acquired by 
 lessening yours ? 
 
 Marlow. 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 be- 
 fore. I will stay even contrary to your wishes i and 
 .though you should persist to shun me, I will make my 
 respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past con- 
 duct. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I must entreat you '11 desist. As 
 our acquaintance 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 con- 
 nection where I must appear mercenary, and you impru- 
 dent ? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident 
 addresses of a secure admirer. 
 
 Marlow. (Kneeling.) Does this look like security ? 
 Does this look like confidence ? No, madam, every mo- 
 
360 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 ment 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 indif- 
 ference, your uninteresting conversation ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Your cold contempt ; your formal inter- 
 view ! What have you to say now ? 
 
 Marlow. That I 'm all amazement ! What can it 
 mean? 
 
 Hardcastle. It means that you can say and unsay 
 things at pleasure : that you can address a lady in private, 
 and deny it in public : that you have one story for us, 
 and another for my daughter. 
 
 Marlow. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter ? 
 
 Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter — my Kate ; 
 whose else should she be ? 
 
 Marlow. Oh, the devil !■ 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, 
 squinting lady you were pleased to take me for (courtesy- 
 ing ;) she that you addressed as the mild, modest, senti- 
 mental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable 
 Battle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Marlow. Zounds, there 's no bearing this \ it 's worse 
 than death! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. In which of your characters, sir, 
 will you give us leave to address you ? As the faltering 
 gentleman, which 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 I — Ha I 
 ha ! ha ! 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 361 
 
 Marlow. Oh, curse on my noisy head ! I never at- 
 tempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken down ! 
 I must be gone. 
 
 Hardeastle. By the hand of my body, but you shall 
 not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find 
 it. You shall not stir, I tell you. I know she '11 forgive 
 you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? We '11 all forgive 
 you. Take courage, man. 
 
 [They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardeastle and Tony. 
 
 Mrs. Hardeastle. So, so, they 're gone off. Let them 
 go, I care not. 
 
 Hardeastle. Who gone ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardeastle. 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. 
 
 Hardeastle. Then, by the hand of my body, I 'm proud 
 of the connection. 
 
 Mrs. Hardeastle. 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. 
 
 Hardeastle. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mer- 
 cenary ? 
 
 Mrs, Hardeastle. Ay, that 's my affair, not yours. 
 
 Hardeastle. But you know if your son, when of age, 
 refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at 
 her own disposal. 
 
 31 
 
362 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, but lie 's not of age, and she has 
 not thought proper to wait for his refusal. 
 
 Miter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (Aside) What, returned so soon ! 
 I begin not to like it. 
 
 Hastings. (To Hardcastle) For raj 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 passions were first 
 founded in duty. 
 
 Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been obliged to 
 stoop to dissimulation 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 connection. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Pshaw, pshaw ; this is all but the 
 whining end of a modern novel. 
 
 Hardcastle. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come 
 back' to reclaim 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 1 
 find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare you 
 have been of age these three months. 
 
 Tony. Of age 1 Am I of age,, father ? 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 363 
 
 Hardcastle. Above three months. 
 Tony. Then you '11 see the first use I '11 make of my 
 liberty. ( Talcing Miss Neville's hand) Witness all men 
 by these presents, 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 Con- 
 stance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony 
 Lumpkin is his own man again. 
 
 Sir Charles. O brave Squire S 
 
 Hastings. My worthy friend ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. My un dutiful offspring ! 
 
 Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- 
 cerely ! 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 favor. 
 
 Hastings. (To Miss Hardcastle) Come, madam, you 
 are now driven to the very last scene of all your con- 
 trivances. I know you like him, I 'm sure he loves you, 
 and you must and shall have him. 
 
 Hardcastle. (Joining their hands) And I say so too. 
 And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has 
 a daughter, I do n't believe you '11 ever repent your bar- 
 gain. 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 morning. 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. [Exeunt Omnes. 
 
364 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY IN THE CHARACTER OS* 321 SS 
 HARI>CASTLE. 
 
 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; 
 4 We have our exits and our entrances.' 
 The first act shows the simple country maid, 
 Harmless and young, of everything afraid ; 
 Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action-, 
 4 1 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 j 
 And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 
 E'en common-councilmen forget to eat. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 365 
 
 The fourth act shews her wedded to the squire, 
 And madam now begins to hold it higher ; 
 Pretends to taste, at opera 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, th' 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 Bays. 
 
 31* 
 
366 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 EPILOGUE,* 
 
 TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OP TONY LUMPKIN, 
 
 BY J. CRADOCK, ESQ. 
 
 Well, now all's ended, and my comrades gone, 
 Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son ? 
 A hopeful blade ! — in town I '11 fix my station, 
 And try to make a bluster in the nation : 
 As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her — 
 Off, in a crack, I '11 carry big Bet Bouncer. 
 
 Why should not I in the great world appear ? 
 I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year ! 
 No matter what a man may here inherit, 
 In London — gad, they 've some regard to spirit : 
 I see the horses prancing up the streets, 
 And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; 
 Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes every night — 
 Not to the plays — they say it an't polite : 
 To Sadler's Wells, perhaps, or operas go, 
 And once, by chance, to the roratorio. 
 Thus, here and there, forever up and down ; 
 We '11 set the fashions, too, to half the town ; 
 And then at auctions — money ne'er regard — 
 Buy pictures, like the great, ten pounds a-yard : 
 Zounds ! we shall make these London gentry say, 
 We know what 's damn'd genteel as well as they ! 
 
 * This came too late to be spoken. 
 
ESSAYS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, a more whimsical figure in 
 nature, than a man of real modesty who assumes an air 
 of impudence ; who, while his heart beats with anxiety, 
 studies ease and affects good-humor. In this situation, 
 however, every unexperienced writer, as I am, finds him- 
 self. Impressed with terrors of the tribunal before which 
 he is going to appear, his natural humor turns to pert- 
 ness, and for real wit he is obliged to substitute vivacity. 
 
 For my part, as I was never distinguished for address, 
 and have often even blundered in making my bow. I am 
 at a loss whether to be merry or sad on this solemn occa- 
 sion. Should I modestly decline all merit, it is too proba- 
 ble the hasty reader may take me at my word. If, on 
 the other hand, like laborers in the magazine trade, I 
 humbly presume to promise an epitome of all the good 
 things that were ever said or written, those readers I most 
 desire to please may forsake me. 
 
 My bookseller, in this dilemma, perceiving my embar- 
 rassment, instantly offered his assistance and advice. 
 " You must know, sir," says he, " that the republic of let- 
 ters is at present divided into several classes. One 
 writer excels at a plan or a title-page ; another works 
 away at the body of the book ; and a third is a dab at an 
 index. Thus a magazine is not the result of any single 
 
368 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 Chartres paid 
 his seraglio, at the rate of three-halfpence in hand, and 
 three shillings more in promises." 
 
 He was proceeding in his advice, which, however, I 
 thought proper to decline, by assuring him, that as I in- 
 tended to pursue no fixed method, so it was impossible to 
 form any regular plan ; determined never to be tedious 
 in order to be logical ; wherever pleasure presented, I was 
 resolved to follow. 
 
 It will be improper, therefore, to pall the reader's cu- 
 riosity by lessening his surprise, or anticipate any pleasure 
 I am to procure him, by saying what shall come next. 
 Happy, could any effort of mine but repress one criminal 
 pleasure, or but for a moment fill up an interval of anxi- 
 ety ? How gladly would I lead mankind from the vain 
 prospects of life, to prospects of innocence and ease, 
 where every breeze breathes health, and every sound is 
 but the echo of tranquillity ! 
 
 But whatever may be the merit of his intentions, 
 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. It has been re- 
 marked, that almost every character which has excited 
 either attention or pity, has owed part of its success to 
 merit, and part to a happy concurrence of circumstances 
 in its favor. Had Caesar or Cromwell exchanged coun- 
 tries, the one might have been a serjeant, and the other 
 
ESSAYS. 369 
 
 an exciseman. So it is with wit, which generally suc- 
 ceeds more from being happily addressed, than from its 
 native poignancy. A jest calculated to spread at a gaming- 
 table, may be received with perfect indifference should it 
 happen to drop in a mackerel-boat. We have all seen 
 dunces triumph in some companies, where men of real 
 humor were disregarded, by a general combination in 
 favor of stupidity. To drive the observation as far as it 
 will go, should the labors of a writer, who designs his 
 performances for readers of a more refined appetite, fall 
 into the hands of a devourer of compilations, what can 
 he expect but contempt 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 colored from 
 Nature. 
 
 Thus, then,- though I cannot j>romise as much enter- 
 tainment, 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 of writing and sleep- 
 ing. 
 
 During the course of this paper, therefore, all the wit 
 and learning I have, are heartily at his service ; which if, 
 after so candid a confession, he should, notwithstanding, 
 still find intolerably dull, or low, or sad stuff, this I protest 
 is more than I know ; I have a clear conscience, and am 
 entirely out of the secret. 
 
370 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 a fourth, in case of extremi- 
 ty ; if he should still continue refractory, and find me dull 
 to the last, I must inform him, with Bayes in the Re- 
 hearsal, that I think him a very odd kind of fellow, and 
 desire no more of his acquaintance ; but still, if my read- 
 ers impute the general tenor of my subject to me as a 
 fault, I must beg leave to tell them a story. 
 
 A traveller, in his way to Italy, found himself in a coun- 
 try where the inhabitants had each a large excrescence 
 depending from the chin ; a deformity which, as it was 
 endemic, and the people little used to strangers, it had 
 been the custom, time immemorial, to look upon as the 
 greatest beauty. Ladies grew toasts from the size of 
 their chins, and no men were beaux whose faces were 
 not broadest at the bottom. It was Sunday ; a country- 
 church was at hand, and our traveller was willing to per- 
 form the duties of the day. Upon his first appearance 
 at the church-door, the eyes of all were fixed on the 
 stranger ; but what was their amazement, when they 
 found that he actually wanted that emblem of beauty, a 
 pursed chin ! Stifled bursts of laughter, winks, and whis- 
 pers, circulated from visage to visage; the prismatic 
 figure of the stranger's face, was a fund of infinite gaiety. 
 Our traveller could no longer patiently continue an object 
 of deformity to point at. " Good folks," said he, " I per- 
 ceive that I am a very ridiculous figure here, but I assure 
 you I am reckoned no way deformed at home." 
 
371 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP ; OR THE STORY OF AL- 
 CANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 
 
 Taken from a ByzaritiDe Historian. 
 
 Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman 
 empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and 
 -wisdom. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, repaired the schools 
 which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and con- 
 tinued those pensions to men of learning, which avari- 
 cious governors had monopolized. 
 
 In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Sep- 
 timius were fellow-students together ; the one, the most 
 subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum ; the other, the most 
 eloquent speaker in the Academic grove. Mutual ad- 
 miration soon begot a friendship. Their fortunes were 
 nearly equal, and they were natives of the two most cel- 
 ebrated cities in the world-; for Alcander was of Athens, 
 Septimius came from Rome. 
 
 In this state of harmony they lived for some time to- 
 gether, 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 exqui- 
 site beauty. The day of their intended nuptials was 
 fixed ; the previous ceremonies were performed ; and 
 nothing now remained but her being conducted in tri- 
 umph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom. 
 
 Alcander's exultation in his own happiness, or being 
 unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend 
 Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce 
 
372 ESSAYS. 
 
 Hypatia to his fellow-student ; 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 future peace of both ; for Septimius no sooner saw 
 her but he was smitten with an involuntary passion ; and 
 though he used every effort to suppress desires at once so 
 imprudent and unjust, the emotions 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 these means, soon discovered that the cause 
 of their patient's disorder was love ; and Alcander, being 
 apprized of their discovery, at length extorted a confes- 
 sion 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 that 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 pri- 
 vately by his connivance, and this unlooked-for change of 
 fortune wrought, as unexpected a change in the constitu- 
 tion 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 which he 
 was so eminently possessed of, Septimius, in a few years, 
 arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was con- 
 stituted the city judge, or praetor. 
 
373 
 
 In the mean time Alcander not only felt the pain of 
 being separated from his friend and his mistress, but a 
 prosecution was commenced against him by the relations 
 of Hypatia, for having basely given up his bride, as was 
 suggested for money. His innocence of the crime laid to 
 his charge, and even his eloquence in his own defence, 
 were not able to withstand the influence of a powerful 
 party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous 
 fine. However, being unable to raise so large a sum at 
 the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, he 
 himself was stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed as 
 a slave in the market-place, and sold to the highest 
 bidder. 
 
 A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Al- 
 cander, with some other companions of distress, was car- 
 ried into that region of desolation and sterility. His 
 stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperi- 
 ous master, and his success in hunting was all that was 
 allowed him to supply his precarious subsistence. Every 
 morning awaked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and 
 every change of season served but to aggravate his un- 
 sheltered distress. After some years of bondage, how- 
 ever, an opportunity of escaping offered ; he embraced it 
 with ardor ; so that travelling by night, and lodging in 
 caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived 
 in Rome. The same day on which Alcander arrived, 
 Septimius sat administering justice in the forum, whither 
 our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, and 
 publicly acknowledged by his former friend. Here he 
 stood the whole day amongst the crowd, watching the 
 eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; 
 32 
 
374 • ESSAYS. 
 
 but he was so much altered by a long succession of hard- 
 ships, that he continued unnoticed amongst the rest ; and 
 in the evening, when he was going up to the prcetor's 
 chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. 
 The attention of the poor is generally driven from one 
 ungrateful object to another ; for night coming on, he 
 now found himself under the necessity of seeking 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 
 harbor so much wretchedness ; and sleeping in the streets 
 might be attended with interruption or danger ; in short, 
 he was obliged to take up his lodgings in one of the 
 tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, 
 and despair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head 
 upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while 
 in sleep, and found on his flinty couch more ease than 
 beds of down can supply to the guilty. 
 
 As he continued here about midnight two robbers 
 came to make this their retreat, but happening to dis- 
 agree 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 dead at the mouth of the vault. 
 This naturally inducing a farther inquiry, an alarm was 
 spread; the cave was examined; and Alcander being 
 found, was immediately apprehended, and accused of 
 robbery and murder. The circumstances against him 
 were strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance 
 confirmed suspicion. 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, 
 
ESSAYS. 375 
 
 falsehood, and cruelty ; he was determined to make no 
 defence ; and thus, lowering with resolution, he was 
 dragged bound with cords before the tribunal of Sep- 
 timius. As the proofs were positive against him, and he 
 offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was pro- 
 ceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious 
 death, when the attention of the multitude was soon di- 
 verted by another object. The robber, who had been 
 really guilty, was apprehended selling his plunder, and, 
 struck with a panic, had confessed his crime. He was 
 brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every 
 other person of any partnership in his guilt. Alcander's 
 innocence therefore appeared ; but the sullen rashness of 
 his conduct remained a wonder to the surrounding multi- 
 tude ; but their astonishment was still farther increased 
 when they saw their judge start from his tribunal to em- 
 brace the supposed criminal. Septimius recollected his 
 friend and former benefactor, and hung upon his neck 
 with tears of pity and joy. Need the sequel be related ? 
 — Alcander was acquitted, shared the friendship and 
 honors of the principal citizens of Rome, lived afterwards 
 in happiness and ease, and left it to be engraved on his 
 tomb, that no circumstances are so desperate which Pro- 
 dence may not relieve. 
 
 ON HAPPINESS OF TEMPER. 
 
 When I reflect on the unambitious retirement in which 
 I passed the early part of my life in the country, I cannot 
 avoid feeling some pain in thinking that those happy 
 
376 
 
 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-pur- 
 poses the highest stretch of human wit, and questions 
 and commands the most rational way of spending the 
 evening. Happy could so charming an illusion continue ! 
 I find that age and knowledge only contribute to sour our 
 dispositions. My present enjoyments may be more re- 
 fined, but they are infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure 
 the best actor gives, can no way compare to that I have 
 received from a country wag who imitated a quaker's 
 sermon. The music of the finest singer is dissonance to 
 what I felt when our old dairy-maid sung me into tears 
 with Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or the Cru- 
 elty of Barbara Allen. 
 
 Writers of every age have endeavored to show that 
 pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered for our 
 amusement. If the soul be happily disposed, everything 
 becomes capable of affording entertainment, and distress 
 will almost want a name. Every occurrence 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 Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his situ- 
 ation. He was maimed, deformed, and chained ; obliged 
 to toil from the appearance of day till night-fall; and 
 condemned to this for life : yet, with all these circum- 
 stances of apparent wretchedness, he sung, would have 
 danced but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the mer- 
 
377 
 
 riest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical 
 philosopher was here ! a happy constitution supplied phi- 
 losophy ; and though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he 
 was really wise. No reading or study had contributed 
 to disenchant the fairy-land around him. Every thing 
 furnished him with an opportunity of mirth ; and, though 
 some thought him, from his insensibility, a fool, he was 
 such an idiot as philosophers should wish to imitate ; -for 
 all philosophy is only forcing the trade of happiness, 
 when nature seems to deny the means. 
 
 They who, like our slave, can place themselves on 
 that side of the world in which every thing appears in a 
 pleasing light, will find something in every occurrence to 
 excite their good-humor. The most calamitous events, 
 either to themselves or others, can bring no new afflic- 
 tion; 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 absurd- 
 ity of the scene, and make the humor 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 
 Retz 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, where- 
 ever 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 generally fell 
 in love with another, from whom he expected a more 
 favorable reception. If she too rejected his addresses, 
 32* 
 
378 ESSAYS. 
 
 lie never thought of retiring into deserts, or pining in 
 hopeless distress : he persuaded himself, that instead of 
 loving the lady, he only fancied that he had loved her, 
 and so all was well again. When Fortune wore her 
 angriest look, and he at last fell into the power of his 
 most deadly enemy, Cardinal Mazarine (being confined a 
 close prisoner in the castle of Valenciennes), he never 
 attempted to support his distress by wisdom or philoso- 
 phy, for he pretended to neither. He only 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 amuse- 
 ments, and even the coveniences of life, he still retained 
 his good-humor, laughed at all the little spite of his ene- 
 mies, and carried the jest so far as to be revenged by 
 writing the life of his jailer. 
 
 All that the wisdom of the proud can teach is to be 
 stubborn or sullen under misfortunes. The cardinal's ex- 
 ample will instruct us 'to be merry in circumstances of 
 the highest affliction. It matters not whether our good- 
 humor 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 ; for my own part, I never pass by one of our pris- 
 ons for debt, that I do not envy that felicity which is 
 still going forward among those people, who forget the 
 cares of the world by being shut out from its silly ambi- 
 tion. 
 
 The happiest silly fellow I ever knew, was of the 
 number of those good-natured creatures that are said to 
 do no harm to any but themselves. Whenever he fell 
 
ESSAYS. 379 
 
 into 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 Hiber- 
 nian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of 
 the other. Nothing came amiss to him. His inattention 
 to money-matters had incensed his father to such a de- 
 gree, that all the intercession of friends in his favor was 
 fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. 
 The whole family, and Dick among the number, gath- 
 ered around 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 and health to enjoy it yourself ! " 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 halter." — " Ah ! 
 father," cries Dick, without any emotion, " may Heaven 
 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 my 
 friend is now not only excessively good-humored, but 
 competently rich. 
 
 Yes, let the world 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 
 
 » 
 
380 -ESSAYS. 
 
 approach of the vulgar, or the lady who keeps her good- 
 humor in spite of scandal ; but such is the wisest be- 
 havior that any of us can possibly assume. It is certainly 
 a better way to oppose calamity by dissipation, than to 
 take up the 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 mis- 
 fortunes, we are sure to receive some wounds in the con- 
 flict ; but a sure method to come off victorious, is by 
 running away. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF YAEIOUS CLUBS. 
 
 I remember to haVe read in some philosopher (I be- 
 lieve in Tom Brown's works), that, let a man's character, 
 sentiments, or complexion, be what they will, he can find 
 company in London to match them. If he be splenetic, 
 he may every day meet companions 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 damn 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 ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 But, although such as have a knowledge of the town 
 may easily class themselves with tempers congenial to 
 their own, a countryman who comes to live in London 
 
ESSAYS. 381 
 
 finds nothing more difficult. With regard to myself, none 
 ever tried with more assiduity, or came off with such in- 
 different success. I spent a whole season in the search, 
 during which time my name has been enrolled in so- 
 cieties, lodges, convocations, and meetings, without num- 
 ber. To some I was introduced by a friend, to others 
 invited by an advertisement ; to these I introduced my 
 self, and to those I changed my name to gain admit- 
 tance. 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 suit- 
 ed to my taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good-humor, and 
 even sometimes of fun, from my childhood. 
 
 As no other passport was requisite but the payment of 
 two shillings at the door, I introduced myself without 
 farther ceremony to the members, who were already as- 
 sembled, 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, mak- 
 ing use of all my skill in physiognomy, in order to dis- 
 cover 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. Sprigging for a song. I was, 
 
382 
 
 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 endeavored 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 presi- 
 dent 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 com- 
 pany that did not expose themselves, it was no great dis- 
 appointment to me to find Mr. Spriggins among the num- 
 ber ; 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 ardor of my approbation ; and 
 whispering told me I had suffered an immense loss ; for, 
 had I come a few minutes sooner, I might have heard 
 Geeho Dobbin sung in a tiptop manner, by the pimpled- 
 nose spirit at the president's right elbow : but he was 
 evaporated before I came. 
 
 As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappoint- 
 ment, 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, 
 
333 
 
 with the humors 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 as well as any of the rest : one beg- 
 ged to be heard while he gave Death and the Lady in 
 high taste ; another sung to a plate which he kept trun- 
 dling on the edges ; nothing was now heard but singing ; 
 voice rose above voice, and the whole became one univer- 
 sal shout, when the landlord came to acquaint the com- 
 pany 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 ! " w T as echoed in a tone of 
 discontent round the table : " drunk out already ! that 
 w T as very odd ! that so much punch could be drunk out 
 already ! impossible ! " The landlord, however, seeming 
 resolved not to retreat from his first assurances, the com- 
 pany 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 : be- 
 sides, some of our members are worth forty thousand 
 
384 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 pro- 
 posal ; to be acquainted with men worth forty thousand 
 pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, were offers 
 that threw me into rapture. 
 
 At seven o'clock, I was accordingly introduced by my 
 friend ; not indeed to the companjr, 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 ven- 
 eration 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, expecting each moment that somebody would begin 
 to open his mouth ; every time the pipe Avas laid down, I 
 expected it was to speak ; but it was only to spit. At 
 length, resolving to break the charm myself, and over- 
 come their extreme diffidence, for to this I imputed their 
 silence, I rubbed my hands, and looking as wise as possi- 
 ble, 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 particular, none thought himself 
 obliged to answer ; wherefore I continued still to rub my 
 hands and look wise. My next effort was addressed to a 
 
ESSAYS. 385 
 
 gentlemen who sat next me ; to whom I observed, that 
 the beer was extremely good ; my neighbor made no re- 
 ply, 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. " Ah ! " 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 person commends in institutions of this na- 
 ture. The landlord was himself 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 land- 
 lord's good word, which, as he gains by it, he never 
 refuses. 
 
 We all here talked and behaved as every body 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. Cur- 
 rycomb-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 chin-cough. Doctor Twist told us a story of a parlia- 
 ment man with whom he was intimately acquainted ; 
 while the bug-man, at the same time, was telling a better 
 33 
 
386 ESSAYS. 
 
 story of a noble lord with whom he could do anything. 
 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 dis- 
 puting on the old subject of religion with a Jew pedlar, 
 over the table, while the president vainly knocked down 
 Mr. Leathersides for a song. Besides the combination 
 of these voices, which I could hear all together, and which 
 formed an upper part to the concert, there were several 
 others playing under parts by themselves, and endeavor- 
 ing to fasten on some luckless neighbor's ear, who was 
 himself bent upon the same design against some other. 
 
 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 company. It may be necessary to 
 observe, that the man who told of the ghost had the loud- 
 est voice and the longest story to tell, so that his con- 
 tinuing narrative filled every chasm in the conversation. 
 
 " 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 y earth for whom I have so high" — "A damnable 
 false heretical opinion of all sound doctrine and good 
 learning ; for I '11 tell it aloud, and spare not, that" — " Si- 
 lence for a song; Mr. Leathersides for a song" — As I 
 was 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 
 
ESSAYS. 387 
 
 whole way from Islington turnpike to Dog-house bar" — • 
 " Dam" — " As for Abel Drugger, sir, he 's damn'd low in 
 it ; my prentice boy has more of the gentleman than he" 
 
 — " For murder will out one time or another ; and none 
 but a ghost, you know, gentlemen, can" — " Damme if I 
 do n't ; for my friend, whom you know, gentlemen, and 
 who is a parliament man, a man of consequence, a dear 
 honest creature, to be sure ; we were laughing last night 
 at" — " Death and damnation upon all his posterity by 
 simply barely tasting" — " Sour grapes, as the fox said 
 once when he could not reach them ; and I '11, I '11 tell 
 you a story about that, that will make you burst your 
 sides with laughing. A fox once" — " Will nobody 
 listen to the song ? " — "As I was a walking upon 
 the highway, I met a young damsel both buxom and 
 gay" — "No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered; nor 
 did I ever hear but of one ghost killed in all my life, 
 and that was stabbed in the belly with a " — " My 
 blood and soul if I do n't " — " Mr. Bellows-mender ; 
 I have the honor of drinking your very good health' 
 
 — "Blast me if I do" — "Dam" — "Blood" — "Bugs" 
 _ « Fire " — " Whiz " — " Blid" — " Tit " — " Eat " 
 — "Trip" — The rest all riot, nonsense, and rapid con- 
 fusion. 
 
 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 myself; and why should I be angry with them 
 for being something so natural to every child of ha- ' 
 manity ? 
 
 Fatigued with this society, I was introduced, the follow- 
 ing night, to a club of fashion. On taking my place, I 
 
found the conversation sufficiently easy, and tolerably 
 good-natured ; for my lord and Sir Paul were not yet ar- 
 rived. I now thought myself completely 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 apprize us that his lordship and 
 Sir Paul were just arrived. 
 
 From this moment all our felicity was at an end ; our 
 new 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 regard- 
 less 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 
 obsequious attention, our great men took any notice of 
 the rest of the company. Their wmole discourse was ad- 
 dressed to each other. Sir 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 manag- 
 ing silkworms ; 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 di- 
 gression upon grass-seeds, and a long parenthesis about 
 his new postilion. In this manner we travelled on, wish- 
 ing every story to be the last ; but all in vain : — 
 
 " Hills over hills, and Alps on alps arose." 
 
389 
 
 The last club in which I was enrolled a member, was 
 a society of moral philosophers, as they called them- 
 selves, 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 six- 
 pence upon entering the room. The president swore 
 that he had laid his own down, and so swore all the com- 
 pany. 
 
 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 cra- 
 vat ; a third, by the brownness of his 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, 
 intend to dispute twice a week about religion and priest- 
 craft ; 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 shil- 
 lings, to be spent by the company in punch. 
 
 "II. That no member get drunk before nine of the 
 clock, upon pain of forfeiting three-pence, to be spent by 
 the company in punch. 
 
 " III. That as members are sometimes apt to go away 
 33* 
 
390 ESSAYS. 
 
 without paying, every person shall pay sixpence upon 
 his entering the room ; and all disputes shall be settled 
 by a majority ; and all fines shall 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 ; par- 
 ticularly the works of Tully, Socrates, Cicero, which he 
 will soon read to the society. 
 
 " V. All them who brings a new argument against re- 
 ligion, and who, being a philosopher, and a man of learn- 
 ing, 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 f mark. 
 William Turpin, Secretary." 
 
 ON THE POLICY OF CONCEALING OUR WANTS, OR 
 POVERTY. 
 
 It is usually said by grammarians, that the use of lan- 
 guage is^to express our wants and desires ; but men who 
 know the world, hold, and I think with some show of 
 reason, that he who best knows how to keep his necessi- 
 ties private, is the most likely person to have them re- 
 
391 
 
 dressed ; and that the true use of speech is not so much 
 to express our wants as to conceal them. 
 
 When we reflect on the manner in which mankind 
 generally confer their favors, there appears something 
 so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally col- 
 lects from the smaller ; and the poor find as much 
 pleasure in increasing the enormous mass of the rich, 
 as the miser, who owns it, sees happiness in its in- 
 crease. Nor is there anything in this repugnant to the 
 laws of humanity. Seneca himself allows, that, in con- 
 ferring 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 fre- 
 quently experienced 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 is it obliged to sustain. Thus, when a 
 man's circumstances are such that he has no occasion to 
 borrow, he finds numbers willing to lend him; but should 
 his wants be such, that he sues for a trifle, it is two to one 
 whether he may be trusted with the smallest sum. A 
 certain young fellow, whom I knew, whenever he had oc- 
 casion to ask his friend for a guinea, used to prelude his 
 request as if he wanted two hundred ; and talked so 
 
392 ESSAYS. 
 
 familiarly of large sums, that none could ever think he 
 wanted a small one. The same gentleman, whenever he 
 wanted credit for a suit of clothes, always made the pro- 
 posal in a laced coat ; for he found, by experience, that if 
 he appeared shabby on these occasions, his tailor had 
 taken an oath against trusting, or, what was every whit 
 as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and would not be 
 at home for some time. 
 
 There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, exeept 
 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 is contented to lose the esteem of the 
 person he solicits, and whether he is willing to give up 
 friendship to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are 
 passions incompatible with each other; and it is impossi- 
 ble 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 can never entertain both at once. 
 
 In fact, pity, though it may often relieve, is but, at best, 
 a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress more 
 than transitory assistance ; with some it scarce 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 together ; but still, last as it may, it gen- 
 erally produces but beggarly effects, and where, from this 
 motive, we give five farthings, from others we give 
 pounds : whatever be our feelings from the first impulse 
 of distress, when the same distress solicits a second time, 
 
393 
 
 we then feel with diminished sensibility; and, like the 
 repetition of an echo, every -stroke becomes weaker; till, 
 at last, our sensations lose all mixture of sorrow, and de- 
 generate into downright contempt. 
 
 These speculations bring to my mind the fate of a very 
 good-natured fellow who is now no more. He 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 my friend 
 had been brought up, had thrown a gloom upon his temper, 
 which some regarded as prudence ; and, from such con- 
 siderations, he had every day repeated offers of friend- 
 ship. Such as had money, were ready to offer him their 
 assistance that way ; and they who had daughters, fre- 
 quently, in the warmth of affection, advised him to marry. 
 My friend, however, was in good circumstances; he 
 wanted neither their money, friends, nor a wife ; and 
 therefore modestly declined their proposals. 
 
 Some errors, however, in the management of his af- 
 fairs, and several losses in trade, soon brought him to a 
 different way of thinking ; and he at last considered, that 
 it was his best way to let his friends know that their of- 
 fers were at length acceptable. His first address was 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. As a man, 
 therefore, confident of not being refused, he requested the 
 use of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then 
 had occasion for money. "And pray, sir," replied the 
 scrivener, " do you want all this money ? " — " Want it, 
 sir!" says the other; "if I did not want it I should not 
 
394 ESSAYS. 
 
 have asked it." — "I am sorry for that," says the friend, 
 "for those who want money when they borrow, will 
 always want money when they should come to pay. To 
 say the truth, sir, money is money now ; and I believe it 
 is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for my part ; he that 
 has got a little, is a fool if he does not keep what he has 
 got." 
 
 jSTot quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adventurer 
 was resolved to try another, who he knew was the very 
 best friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom 
 he now addressed, received his proposal with all the affa- 
 bility 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." — " 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 ? You know, my dear sir, that you need make no 
 ceremony with me at any time; you know, I'm your 
 friend; and when you choose a bit of dinner or so — 
 You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't for- 
 get 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. A young lady, 
 a distant relation by the mother's side, had a fortune in 
 her own hands ; and, as she had already made all the 
 
ESSAYS. 395 
 
 advances that her sex's modesty would permit, he made 
 his proposal with confidence. He soon, however, per- 
 ceived that no bankrupt ever found the fair one kind. 
 She had lately fallen deeply in love with another, who 
 had more money, and the whole neighborhood thought it 
 would be a match. 
 
 Every day now began to strip my poor friend of his 
 former finery ; his clothes flew, piece by piece, to the 
 pawnbroker's, and he seemed at length equipped in the 
 genuine livery of misfortune. But still he thought him- 
 self secure from actual necessity; the numberless invita- 
 tions 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 him in was 
 at a reverend divine's. He had, as he fancied, just nicked 
 the time of dinner, for he came in as the cloth was lay- 
 ing. 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 in the Park, where he had been that morning. 
 He went on, and praised the figure of the damask table- 
 cloth ; talked of a feast where he had been the day be- 
 fore, but that the venison was over-done. But all this 
 procured him no invitation : finding, therefore, the gen- 
 tleman of the house insensible to all his fetches, he 
 thought proper, at last to retire, and mend his appetite by 
 a second walk in the Park. 
 
 You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether 
 in rags or lace, whether in Kent street or the Mall, 
 
398 ESSAYS. 
 
 ■whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's, might I be per- 
 mitted to advise as a friend, never seem to want the 
 favor which "you solicit. Apply to every passion but 
 human pity for redress : you may find permanent relief 
 from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but from 
 compassion never. The very eloquence of a poor man 
 is disgusting ; and that mouth which is opened even by 
 wisdom, is seldom expected to close without the horrors 
 of a petition. 
 
 To ward off the gripe of poverty, you must pretend to 
 be a stranger to her, and she will at least use you with 
 ceremony. If you be caught dining upon a half-penny 
 porringer of peas-soup and potatoes, praise the whole- 
 someness of your frugal repast. You may observe that 
 Dr. Cheyne has prescribed peas-broth for the gravel ; 
 hint that you are not one of those who are always making 
 a deity of your belly. If, again, you are obliged to wear 
 a flimsy stuff in the midst of winter, be the first to re- 
 mark, that stuffs are very much worn at Paris ; or, if 
 there be found any 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 Sir Samson Gideon were ever very fond 
 of dress. If you be a philosopher, hint that Plato or 
 Seneca are the tailors you choose to employ ; assure the 
 company that man ought to be content with a bare cover- 
 ing, since what now is so much his pride, was formerly 
 his shame. In short, however caught, never give out ; 
 but ascribe to the frugality of your disposition what others 
 might be apt to attribute to the narrowness of your cir- 
 cumstances. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain 
 
ESSAYS. 397 
 
 method never to rise ; pride in the great is hateful ; in 
 the wise it is ridiculous ; but beggarly pride is a rational 
 vanity, which I have been taught to applaud and excuse. 
 
 ON GENEROSITY AND JUSTICE. 
 
 Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the whole 
 world admires. His generosity is such, that it prevents 
 a demand, and saves the receiver the confusion of a re- 
 quest. His liberality also does not oblige more by its 
 greatness, than by his inimitable grace in giving. Some- 
 times he even distributes his bounties to strangers, and 
 has been knov/n 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 conducts 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 creditors. Generosity 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 degree of 
 rapture. Justice, on the contrary, is a mechanic virtue, 
 only fit 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 Ly- 
 sippus satisfy his creditors, who would be at the pains of 
 34 
 
telling it to the world ? Generosity js 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 generosity. 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. Ly- 
 sippus 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 favor what the former requires as a debt. 
 
 Mankind in general are not sufficiently acquainted 
 with the import of the word justice : it is commonly be- 
 lieved 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 embrace 
 all the virtues united. 
 
 Justice may be defined, 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 reason prescribes, or society should expect. 
 Our duty to our Maker, to 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 candor, fortitude, charity, and gene- 
 rosity, for instance,, are not in their own nature virtues ; 
 
399 
 
 and if ever they deserve the title, it is owing only to jus- 
 tice, which impels and directs them. Without such a 
 moderator, candor might become indiscretion, fortitude 
 obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity 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 superfluities ; but they become 
 vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from 
 a more virtuous disposition of our circumstances. 
 
 True generosity is a duty as indispensably necessary as 
 those imposed upon us by law. It is a rule imposed on us 
 by reason, which should be the sovereign law of a ration- 
 al being. But this generosity does not consist in obeying 
 every impulse of humanity, in following blind passion for 
 our guide, and impairing our circumstances by present 
 benefactions, so as to render us incapable of future ones. 
 
 Misers are generally characterized as men without 
 honor, 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 imagi- 
 nary wants, real necessities. But few, very few, cor- 
 respond 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 indus- 
 trious branded by the vain and the idle with this odious 
 appellation ; men who, by frugality and labor, raise them- 
 
400 ESSAYS. 
 
 selves above their equals, and contribute 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 these characters amongst 
 us. In general these close men are found at last the true 
 benefactors of society. With an avaricious man we sel- 
 dom lose in our dealings, but too frequently in our com- 
 merce with prodigality. 
 
 A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went for a 
 long time by the name of the Griper. He refused to re- 
 lieve the most apparent wretchedness, and by a skilful 
 management of his vineyard, had the good fortune to ac- 
 quire immense sums of money. The inhabitants of 
 Rheims, who were his fellow-citizens, detested him ; and 
 the populace, who seldom love a miser, wherever he went, 
 followed him with shouts of contempt. He still, however, 
 continued his former simplicity of life, his amazing and 
 unremitted frugality. He 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 amass- 
 ing, he laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the poor 
 more useful and lasting service, than if he had dis- 
 tributed his whole income in charity every day at his 
 door. 
 
 Among men long conversant with books, we too fre- 
 quently find those misplaced virtues, of which I have 
 been now complaining. We find the studious animated 
 with a strong passion for the great virtues, as they are 
 mistakingly called, and utterly forgetful of the ordinary 
 ones. The declamations of philosophy are generally 
 
ESSAYS. ' 401 
 
 rather exhausted on those 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 misplac- 
 ed liberality, to put himself into the indigent circumstan- 
 ces 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 substance 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, that you rob a man who is cer- 
 tainly deserving, to bestow it on one who may possibly be 
 a rogue ; and, while you are unjust in rewarding uncer- 
 tain merit, you are doubly guilty by stripping yourself.'* 
 
 ON THE EDUCATION OF YOUTH. 
 
 As few subjects are more interesting to society, so few 
 have been more frequently written upon, than the educa- 
 tion of youth. Yet it is a little surprising that it has 
 been treated almost by all in a declamatory manner. 
 They have insisted largely on the advantages that result 
 from it, both to individuals and to society ; and have ex- 
 patiated in the praise of what none have ever been so 
 hardy as to call in question. 
 
 Instead of giving us_ fine but empty harangues upon 
 this subject, instead of indulging each his particular and 
 
 34* 
 
402 ESSAYS. 
 
 whimsical systems, it had been much better if the writers 
 on this subject had treated it in a more scientific manner, 
 repressed all the sallies of imagination, and given us the 
 result of their observations with didactic simplicity. Up- 
 on this subject, the smallest errors are of the most dan- 
 gerous consequence, and the author should venture the 
 imputation of stupidity upon a topic, where his slightest 
 deviations may tend to injure the rising generation. How- 
 ever, such are the whimsical and erroneous productions 
 written upon this subject. Their authors have studied to 
 be uncommon, not to be just ; and at present, we want a 
 treatise upon education, not to tell us anything new, but 
 to explode the errors which have been introduced by the 
 admirers of novelty. It is in this manner books become 
 numerous ; a desire of novelty produces a book, and 
 other books are required to destroy the former. 
 
 I shall, therefore, throw out a few thoughts upon this 
 subject, which, though known, 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 pres- 
 ent educated, 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 
 an education in the country tends to promote this, much 
 more than a continuance in town. Thus far he is 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 vigor of, perhaps, the mind as well as the body. 
 It may be thought whimsical, but it is truth ; I have found 
 by experience, that they, who have spent all their lives 
 
ESSAYS. 403 
 
 in cities, contract 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 conceive 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 re- 
 source in setting up a school. Do any become bankrupts 
 in trade, they still set up a boarding-school, and drive a 
 trade this way, when all others fail; nay, I have been 
 told of butchers and barbers, who have turned school- 
 masters ; and, more surprising still, made fortunes in their 
 new profession. 
 
 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 guardians of the liberties of 
 Europe ; and who may serve as the honor and bulwark 
 of their aged parents ? The care of our children, is it 
 below the state ? Is it fit to indulge the caprice of the 
 ignorant with the disposal of their children in this partic- 
 plar ? For the state to take the charge of all it's child- 
 ren, as in Persia or Sparta, might at present be inconve- 
 nient .; but surely, with great ease, it might cast an eye 
 to their instructors. Of all professions in society^ I do 
 not know a more useful, or a more honorable one, than a 
 schoolmaster; at the same time that I do not see any 
 more generally despised, or whose talents are so ill re- 
 warded. 
 
404 ESSAYS. 
 
 "Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be augmented 
 from a diminution of useless sinecures, how might it turn 
 to the advantage 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 de- 
 serving, I would dismiss those utterly unqualified for 
 their employment ; in short, I would make the business 
 of a schoolmaster every way more respectable by in- 
 creasing their salaries, and admitting only men of proper 
 abilities. 
 
 It is true we have schoolmasters appointed, and they 
 have some small salaries ; but where at present there is 
 only one schoolmaster 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 bene- 
 fices 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 schoolmasters in a state are more necessaiy 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 sufficient, the child is generally con- 
 signed to the usher. This is commonly some poor needy 
 animal, little superior to a footman either in learning or 
 spirit, invited to his place by an advertisement, and kept 
 there merely from his being of a complying disposition, 
 and making the children fond of him. ' You give your 
 
405 
 
 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 abili- 
 ties of the usher, as well as the master ; for whatever 
 they are told to the contrary, the usher is generally the 
 person most employed in their education. If, then, a 
 gentleman, upon putting 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 endeavors to please, they 
 are generally the laughing-stock of the school. Every 
 trick is played upon the usher : the oddity of his manners, 
 his dress, or his language, are 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 fam- 
 ily. This is a very proper person, is it not, to give chil- 
 dren a relish for learning ? They must esteem learning 
 very much, when they see its professors used with such 
 little ceremony ! If the usher be despised, the father 
 may be assured that his child will never be properly in- 
 structed. 
 
 • But let me suppose that there are some schools without 
 these inconveniences, where the masters and ushers are 
 men of learning, reputation, and assiduity. If there are 
 to be found such, they cannot be prized in a state suffi- 
 ciently. A boy will learn more true wisdom in a public 
 school in a year, than by private education in five. It is 
 not from masters, but from their equals, youth learn a 
 knowledge of the world ; the little tricks they play each 
 
406 ESSAYS. 
 
 other, the punishment that frequently attends the com- 
 mission, 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 advan- 
 tage ; since it may justly be said, that a great part of their 
 disorders arise from surfeit, ' plus occidit gula quam gla- 
 dius.' 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 consti- 
 tutions, that they cross rivers by swimming, endure cold, 
 thirst, hunger, and want of sleep, to a surprising degree ; 
 that when they happen to fall sick, they are cured with- 
 out the help of medicine, by nature alone. Such exam- 
 ples 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 how many lives are lost in this ascetic practice ; had 
 they considered, that those savages and peasants are gen- 
 erally not so long lived as they who have led a more 
 
407 
 
 indolent life ; that the more laborious the life is, the less 
 populous is the country ; had they considered, that what 
 physicians call the l stamina vitas,' by fatigue and labor 
 become rigid, and thus anticipate old age ; that the num- 
 ber who survive those rude trials, bears no proportion to 
 those who die in the experiment ; had these things been 
 properly considered, they would not have thus extolled 
 an education 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 only drink sea- 
 water ; but they unfortunately all died under the trial. 
 
 But while I would exclude all unnecessary labors, yet 
 still I would recommend temperance in the highest de- 
 gree. No luxurious dishes with high seasoning, nothing 
 given children to force an appetite ; as little sugared or 
 salted provisions as possible, though ever 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 consumptive 
 habits, not unfrequently found amongst the children of 
 city parents. 
 
 As boys should be educated with temperance, so the 
 first greatest lesson that should be taught them is to 
 admire frugality. It is by the exercise of this virtue 
 alone, they can ever expect to be useful members of soci- 
 ety. It is true, lectures continually repeated 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 amongst us. I know 
 few characters more useful in society ; for a man's having 
 
408 ESSAYS. 
 
 a larger or smaller share of money lying useless by him, 
 no way injures the commonwealth ; since, should every 
 miser now exhaust his stores, this might make gold more 
 plenty, but it would not increase the commodities or plea- 
 sures 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 neces- 
 saries of life, society is 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 conclude a life of dissipation, folly and ex- 
 travagance, 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 service- 
 able to the tender mind, than either Tom Jones, Joseph 
 Andrews, or a hundred others, where frugality is the only 
 good quality the hero is not possessed of. Were our 
 schoolmasters, if any of them have 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 may afterwards draw the greatest advantages. 
 When the wonders of nature are never exposed to our 
 view, we have no great desire to become acquainted with 
 
409 
 
 those parts of learning which pretend to account for the 
 phenomena. One of the ancients complains, that as soon 
 as young men have left school, and are obliged to con- 
 verse with the world, they fancy themselves transported 
 into a new region. " Ut, cum in forum venerint, existi- 
 ment se in alium terrarum orbem delatos." We should 
 early, therefore, instruct them in the experiments, if I 
 may so express it, of knowledge, and leave to maturer 
 age the accounting for the causes. 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 be- 
 fore seen the phenomena, and consequently have no cu- 
 riosity 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 dif- 
 ferent sorts of the phosphorus, the artificial pyrites, mag- 
 netism, 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 would 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 of wondering at all 
 the novelties about him, and not till then, does he desire 
 35 
 
410 
 
 to be made acquainted with the causes that create those 
 wonders. 
 
 What I have observed with regard to natural philoso- 
 phy, I would extend to every other science whatsoever. 
 We should teach them as many of the facts as were pos- 
 sible, and defer the causes until they seemed of them- 
 selves desirous of knowing them. A mind thus leaving 
 school, stored with all the simple experiences 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 disa- 
 greeable 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 disgusting 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 sometimes continues a cox- 
 comb all his life after. He is reputed a wit at four- 
 teen, and becomes a blockhead at twenty. Nurses, foot- 
 men, 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 little master happens to say a good or a smart 
 
411 
 
 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 is infinitely more serviceable to its 
 possessor, than the most florid harangue, or the most pa- 
 thetic tones, that can be imagined ; and the man who is 
 thoroughly convinced himself, who understands his sub- 
 ject, 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 instruct- 
 ed by rhetoricians, 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 architects were 
 once candidates for the building a certain temple at Ath- 
 ens ; 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 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 
 
412 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 becomes 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 con- 
 nection, so the reader must not be surprised to find me 
 once more addressing schoolmasters on the present meth- 
 od of teaching the learned languages, 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 the most 
 strongly remembered ? Boys who, if I may continue the 
 allusion, gallop through one of the ancients with the as- 
 sistance of a translation, can have but a very slight ac- 
 quaintance 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 them, to save himself 
 the trouble of looking out for them for the future. 
 
 To continue in the same pedantic strain, of all the va- 
 rious grammars now taught in the schools about town, I 
 would recommend only the old common one. I have forgot 
 
ESSAYS. 413 
 
 whether Lily's, or an emendation of him. The others 
 may be improvements ; but such improvements seem to 
 me only mere grammatical niceties, no way influencing 
 the learner; but perhaps loading him with subtilties, 
 which at a proper age, he must be at some pains to 
 forget. 
 
 Whatever pains a master may take to make the learn- 
 ing of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he may de- 
 pend upon it, it will be at first extremely unpleasant. 
 The rudiments of every language, therefore, must be 
 given as a task, not as an amusement. Attenuating to de- 
 ceive children into instruction of this kind, is only de- 
 ceiving ourselves ; and I know no passion capable of 
 conquering 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 ten- 
 derness 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 passions 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 recoure to 
 the following expedient to prevent his passions from be- 
 ing engaged, yet at the same time administer justice with 
 impartiality. Whenever any of his pupils committed a 
 35* 
 
414 ESSAYS. 
 
 fault, he summoned a jury of bis peers, I mean of the 
 boys of his own or the next classes to him : his accusers 
 stood forth ; he had liberty of pleading in his own de- 
 fence, and one or two more had the liberty of pleading 
 against him ; when found guilty by the pannel, he was 
 consigned to the footman, who attended in the house, and 
 had previous orders to punish, but with lenity. By this 
 means the 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. 
 
 ON THE VERSATILITY OE POPULAR EAVOR. 
 
 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 doAvn his old sign, 
 and put up that of 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 favorite of his cus- 
 tomers ; he changed her, therefore, some time ago, for the 
 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. When we have sufficiently wondered at one, 
 that is taken in, and another exhibited in its room, which 
 
ESSAYS. 415 
 
 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 
 neighborhood 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 represent himself. There 
 were also some knocking down a neighboring statue of 
 one of the Orsini family, with whom he was at war, in 
 order to put Alexander's effigy in its place. It is possi- 
 ble 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, " Vides, mi fili, quam 
 leve discrimen patibulum inter et statuam: — 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, 
 
416 
 
 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 of his more 
 talked-of predecessor; since an assemblage of all the 
 mild and amiable virtues are far superior to those vulgar- 
 ly 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 receive any thing 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 judgment; 
 and, instead of making reflections, by telling a story. 
 
 A Chinese who had long studied the works of Confu- 
 cius, 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 arri- 
 val at Amsterdam, his passion for letters naturally led 
 
ESSAYS. 417 
 
 him into a bookseller's shop ; and, as he could speak a little 
 Dutch, he civilly asked the bookseller for the works of the 
 immortal Xixofou. The bookseller assured him he had 
 never heard the book mentioned before. " What ! have 
 you never heard of that immortal poet ? " returned the 
 other, much surprised ; " that light of the eyes, that favor- 
 ite 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 sacrifice to the Tartar enemy, to 
 gain a renown which has never travelled beyond the pre- 
 cincts of China?" 
 
 There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one uni- 
 versity, that is not thus furnished with its little great men. 
 The head of a petty corporation, who opposes the de- 
 signs of a prince, who would tyranically force his subjects 
 to save their best clothes for Sundays ; the puny pedant 
 who finds one undiscovered property in the polype, or 
 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, phi- 
 losopher, and poet, are shouted in their train. — " Where 
 was there ever so much merit seen? No times so impor- 
 tant as our own ; ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with wonder 
 and applause!" To such music, the important pigmy 
 
418 ESSAYS. 
 
 moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly compared 
 to a puddle in a storm. 
 
 I have lived to see generals who once had crowds hal- 
 looing after them wherever they went, who were be- 
 praised by newspapers and magazines, those echoes of the 
 voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long sunk into 
 merited obscurity, with scarce 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 shall find all our expec- 
 tations a herring-fishery. 
 
 SPECIMEN OF A MAGAZINE IN MINIATURE. 
 
 We essayists, who are allowed but one subject at a 
 time, are by no means so fortunate as the writers of mag- 
 azines, who write upon several. If a magaziner be dull 
 upon the Spanish war, he soon has us up again with the 
 ghost in Cock-lane ; if the reader begins to doze upon 
 that, he is quickly roused by an eastern tale ; tales pre- 
 pare us for poetry, and poetry for the meteorological 
 history of the weather. It is the life and soul of a mag- 
 azine, never to be long dull upon one subject ; and the 
 
ESSAYS. 419 
 
 reader, like the sailor's horse, has at least the comfortable 
 refreshment of having the spur often changed. 
 
 As I see no reason why they should carry off all the 
 rewards of genius, I have some thoughts, for the future, 
 of making this essay a magazine in miniature : I shall 
 hop from subject to subject, and if properly encouraged, 
 I intend in time to adorn my feuille-volant with pictures. 
 But to begin, in the usual form, with 
 
 A modest Address to the Public. 
 
 The public has been so often imposed upon by the un- 
 performing promises of others, that it is with the utmost 
 modesty we assure them of our inviolable design of giving 
 the very best collection that ever astonished society. The 
 public we honor and regard, and therefore to instruct and 
 entertain them is our highest ambition, with labors calcu- 
 lated as well to the head as the heart. If four extraordi- 
 nary pages of letter-press be any recommendation of our 
 wit, we may at least boast the honor of vindicating our 
 own abilities. To say more in favor of the Infernal Mag- 
 azine, would be unworthy the public ; to say less, would 
 be injurious to ourselves. As we have no interested 
 motives for this undertaking, being a society of gentlemen 
 of distinction, we disdain to eat or write like hirelings ; 
 we are all gentlemen, resolved to sell our sixpenny mag- 
 azine merely for our own amusement. 
 
 Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. 
 
420 ESSAYS. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OF ALL PATRONS, THE 
 TR1POLINE AMBASSADOR. 
 
 May it please } r our Excellency, 
 As your taste in the fine arts is universally allowed and 
 admired, permit the authors of the Infernal Magazine to 
 lay the following sheets humbly at your excellency's toe ; 
 and should our labors ever have the happiness of one day 
 adorning the courts of Fez, we doubt not that the influ- 
 ence wherewith we are honored, shall be ever retained 
 with the most warm ardor by, 
 
 May it please your Excellency, 
 
 Your most devoted humble servants, 
 
 The Authors of the Infernal Magazine. 
 
 A SPEECH, 
 
 SPOKEN BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSOPHER, TO PERSUADE HIS 
 CLUB AT CATEATON NOT TO DECLARE WAR AGAINST SPAIN. 
 
 My honest friends and brother politicians, I perceive 
 that the intended war with Spain makes many of you 
 uneasy. Yesterday, as we were told, the stocks rose, and 
 you were glad ; to-day they fall, and you are again mis- 
 erable. But, my dear friends, what is the rising or falling 
 of the stocks to us, who have no money ? Let Nathan 
 Ben Funk, the Dutch Jew, be glad or sorry for this ; but 
 my good Mr. Bellows-mender, what is all this to you or 
 me ? You must mend broken bellows, and I write bad 
 
421 
 
 prose, as long as we live, whether we like a Spanish war 
 or not. Believe me, my honest friends, whatever you 
 may talk of liberty and your own reason, both that liberty 
 and reason are conditionally resigned by every poor man 
 in every society ; and as we were born to work, so others 
 are born to watch over us while we are working. In the 
 name of common sense then, my good friends, let the 
 great keep watch over us, and let us mind our business, 
 and perhaps we may at last get money ourselves, and set 
 beggars at work in our turn. I have a Latin sentence 
 that is worth its weight in gold, and which I shall beg 
 leave to translate for your instruction. An author, called 
 Lily's Grammar, finely observes, that "JEs in present i 
 perfectum format :" that is, " Ready money makes a per- 
 fect man." Let us then get ready money, and let them 
 that will, spend theirs by going to war with Spain. 
 
 EULES FOE BEHAVIOE. 
 
 DRAWN UP BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 If you be a rich man, you may enter the room with 
 three loud hems, march deliberately up to the chimney, 
 and turn your back to the fire. If you be a poor man, I 
 would advise you to shrink into the room as fast as you 
 can, and place yourself, as usual, upon the corner of a 
 chair, in a remote corner. 
 
 "When you are desired to sing in company, I would ad- 
 vise you to refuse ; for it is a thousand to one but that 
 you torment us with affectation or a bad voice. 
 
 If you be young, and live with an old man, I would 
 advise you not to like gravy. I was disinherited myself 
 for liking gravy. 
 
 36 
 
422 ESSAYS. 
 
 Do not laugh much in public : the spectators that are 
 not as merry as you, will hate you, either because they 
 envy your happiness, or fancy themselves the subject of 
 your mirth. 
 
 RULES FOR RAISING THE DEVIL. 
 
 Translated from the Latin of Danaeus de Sort.iariis, a writer 
 contemporary with Calvin, and one of the Reformers of our 
 Church. 
 
 The person who desires to raise the devil, is to sacrifice 
 a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own property, to Beel- 
 zebub. He is to swear an eternal obedience, and then to 
 receive a mark in some unseen place, either under the 
 eye-lid, or in the roof of the mouth, inflicted by the devil 
 himself. Upon this he has power given him over three 
 spirits ; one for earth, another for air, and a third for the 
 sea. Upon certain times the devil holds an assembly of 
 magicians, in which each is to give an account of what 
 evil he has done, and what he wishes to do. At this as- 
 sembly he appears in the shape of an old man, or often 
 like a goat with large horns. They, upon this occasion, 
 renew their vows of obedience ; and then form a grand 
 dance in honor of their false deity. The deity instructs 
 them in every method of injuring mankind, in gathering 
 poisons, and of riding upon occasion through the air. He 
 shows them the whole method, upon examination, of giv- 
 ing evasive answers ; his spirits have power to assume 
 the form of angels of light, and there is but one method 
 of detecting them, viz. to ask them in proper form, what 
 method is the most certain to propagate the faith over all 
 
ESSAYS. 423 
 
 the world? To this they are not permitted by the supe- 
 rior Power to make a false reply, nor are they willing to 
 give the true one ; wherefore they continue silent, and 
 are thus detected. 
 
 BEAU TIBBS: A CHARACTER. 
 
 Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay com- 
 pany, and take every opportunity of thus dismissing the 
 mind from duty. From this motive I am often found in 
 the centre of a crowd ; and wherever pleasure is to be 
 sold, am always a purchaser. In those places, without 
 being remarked by any, I join in whatever goes forward, 
 work my passions into a similitude of frivolous earnest- 
 ness, shout as they shout, and condemn as they happen 
 to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for a while below its 
 natural standard, is qualified for stronger flights, as those 
 first retire who would spring forward with greater vigor. 
 
 Attracted by the serenity of the evening, a friend and 
 I lately went to gaze upon the company in one of the pub- 
 lic walks near the city. Here we sauntered together for 
 some time, either praising the beauty of such as were 
 handsome, or the dresses of such as had nothing else to 
 recommend them. We had gone thus deliberately 
 forward for some time, when my friend., stopping on a 
 sudden, caught me by the elbow, and led me out of the 
 public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of his 
 pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that he was 
 attempting to avoid somebody who followed : we now 
 turned to the right, then to the left : as we went forward, 
 
424 ( ESSAYS. 
 
 he still went faster, but in vain ; the person whom he at- 
 tempted to escape, hunted us through every doubling, 
 and gained upon us each moment ; so that at last we 
 fairly stood still, resolving to face what we could not 
 avoid. 
 
 Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the 
 familiarity of an old acquaintance. " My dear Charles," 
 cries he, shaking my friend's hand, " where have you 
 been hiding this half a century ? Positively, I had fancied 
 you had gone down to cultivate matrimony and your 
 estate in the country." During the reply, I had an op- 
 portunity of surveying the appearance of our new com- 
 panion. His hat was pinched up with peculiar smartness : 
 his looks were 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 washed, were 
 grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged 
 with the peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to 
 the latter part of my friend's reply ; in which he com- 
 plimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the 
 bloom in his countenance. " Psha, psha, Charles," cries 
 the figure, " no more of that if you love me : you know I 
 hate flattery, on my soul I do ; and yet, to be sure, an in- 
 timacy 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 damned honest fellows among them, and we must 
 not quarrel with one half because the other wants breed- 
 ing. If they were all such as my Lord Mudler, one 
 
ESSAYS. 425 
 
 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 will hold gold to silver I can tell where 
 you were poaching last night. Poaching ! my lord, says 
 I; faith you have missed already; for I staid at home 
 and let the girls poach for me. That is my way : I take 
 a fine woman as some animals do their prey ; stand still, 
 and swoop, they fall into my mouth." 
 
 " Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow," cried my com- 
 panion, with looks of infinite pity. " I hope your fortune 
 is as much improved as your understanding in such com- 
 pany." " Improved ! " replied the other, "you shall know 
 — but let it go no farther, — a great secret — five hun- 
 dred a year to begin with. — My lord's word of honor for 
 it — His lordship took me in his own chariot yesterday, 
 and we had a tete-a-tete dinner in the country, where we 
 talked of nothing else." " I fancy you forgot, 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 remember, I did dine in town ; but I dined in the coun- 
 try too ; for you must know, my boys, I eat two dinners. 
 By the by, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. 
 I will 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, says I, I 
 will hold a thousand guineas, and say Done first, that — 
 But, dear Charles, you are an honest creature ; lend me 
 half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till — But 
 36* 
 
426 ESSAYS. 
 
 hark'ee, 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 extraordinary a character. " His very dress," 
 cries my friend, is not less extraordinary than his con- 
 duct. If you meet him this day, you find him in rags ; 
 if the next, in embroidery. With those persons of dis- 
 tinction, of whom he talks so familiarly, he has scarce a 
 coffee-house acquaintance. However, both for the inter- 
 est 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 understands flattery: 
 and all must be pleased with the first part of his conver- 
 sation, though all are sure of its ending with a demand 
 on their purse. While his youth countenances the levity 
 of his conduct, he may thus earn a precarious subsist- 
 ence ; 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 em- 
 ployed only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear to 
 fright children into duty." 
 
 BEAU TIBBS — CONTINUED. 
 
 There are some acquaintances whom it is no easy 
 matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday overtook 
 me again in one of the public walks, and slapping me on 
 
427 
 
 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, and 
 had on 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 walked forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, 
 and in a few minutes discussed all the usual topics pre- 
 liminary to particular conversation. 
 
 The oddities that marked his character, however, soon 
 began to appear ; he bowed to several well-dressed per- 
 sons, 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 importance and assiduity. In 
 this manner he led me through the length of the whole 
 Mall, fretting at his absurdities, and fancying myself 
 laughed at as well as him by every spectator. 
 
 When we were got to the end of our procession, 
 " Blast me," cries he, with an air of vivacity, " I never 
 saw the Park so thin in my life before ; there 's no com- 
 pany 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 is too much. 
 What are the thousands that have been laughing at us 
 but company?" "Lord, my dear," returned he with the 
 utmost good-humor, " you seem immensely chagrined ; 
 but, blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at 
 the world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill 
 Squash, the Creolian, and I, sometimes make a party at 
 
428 essays. 
 
 being ridiculous ; and so we say and do a thousand things 
 for the joke's sake. But I see you are grave ; and if 
 you are for a fine grave sentimental companion, you shall 
 dine with my wife to-day ; I must insist on 't ; I '11 intro- 
 duce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifications 
 as any in nature ; she was bred, but that 's between our- 
 selves, under the inspection of the countess of Shoreditch. 
 A charming body of voice ! But no more of that — she 
 shall 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 old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on 
 the guitar, immensely, already. I intend she shall be as 
 perfect as possible in every accomplishment. In the first 
 place, I '11 make her a scholar ; I '11 teach her Greek my- 
 self, and I intend to 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 frequented street ; at last, however, we 
 got to the door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets 
 of the town, where he informed me he chose to reside for 
 the benefit of the air. 
 
 We entered the lower door, which seemed ever to lie 
 most hospitably open ; and I began to ascend an old and 
 creaking staircase ; when, as he mounted to show me the 
 way, he demanded, whether I delighted in prospects ; to 
 which answering in the affirmative, " Then," said he, " I 
 
429 
 
 shall show you one of the most charming out of my win- 
 dows ; we shall see the ships sailing, and the whole country 
 for twenty miles 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 love to 
 keep my prospects at home, that my friends may come to 
 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 with a Scotch accent 
 from within demanded, " Wha 's there ? " 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 maid-servant with cautious reluctance. 
 
 When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house 
 with great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, asked 
 where her lady was. " Good troth," replied she, in the 
 northern dialect, " she 's washing your twa shirts at the 
 next door, because they have taken an oath against lend- 
 ing out the tub any longer." u My two. shirts !" cries he, 
 in a tone that faltered with confusion, " what does the 
 idiot mean?" — "I ken what I mean well enough," re- 
 plied the other ; " she 's washing your twa shirts at the 
 next door, because - — — " "Fire and fury, no more of 
 thy stupid explanations," he cried. " Go and inform her we 
 have got company. Were that Scotch hag," continued he, 
 turning to me, " to be forever in my family, she would 
 never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd, poisonous 
 accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breed- 
 
430 ESSAYS. 
 
 ing 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' 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 lumber-cabinet in the 
 other ; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a 
 head, were stuck over the chimney ; and round the walls 
 several paltry unframed pictures, which he observed were 
 all of his own drawing. " What do you think, sir, of 
 that head in the 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 slat- 
 tern and coquette ; much emaciated, but still carrying the 
 remains of beauty. She made twenty apologies for being 
 seen in such an odious dishabille, but hoped to be excused, 
 as she had stayed out all night at Vauxhall Gardens with 
 the countess, who was excessively fond of the horns, 
 "And, indeed, my dear," added she, turning to her hus- 
 band, " 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, 
 
ESSAYS. 431 
 
 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 ox-cheek, 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 all over ; 
 extreme disgusting to those who are in the least acquaint- 
 ed with high life." 
 
 By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appe- 
 tite to increase ; the company of fools may at first make 
 us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melan- 
 choly. I therefore pretended to recollect a prior engage- 
 ment, and after having shown my respects to the house, 
 by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I 
 took my leave ; Mr. Tibbs assuring me, that dinner, if I 
 stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours. 
 
 ON THE IRRESOLUTION OF YOUTH. 
 
 As it has been observed that few 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 ; and must take leave to throw 
 together a few observations upon that part of a young 
 man's conduct, on his entering into life, as it is called. 
 
 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 ; than to ask advice of anoth- 
 er, and turn to that j so of a third, still unsteady, always 
 
432 ESSAYS. 
 
 changing. However, 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 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 : 
 great abilities are generally obnoxious to the possessors. 
 Life has been compared to a race ; but the allusion still 
 improves by observing, that the most swift are ever the 
 most apt to stray from the course. 
 
 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 ^ou business in neither. 
 
 A conjurer and a tailor once happened to converse to- 
 gether. " Alas ! " cries the tailor, " what an unhappy poor 
 creature am I ! If people take it into their heads to live 
 without clothes, I am undone ; I have no other trade to 
 have recourse to." " Indeed, friend, I pity you sincerely," 
 replies the conjurer ; " 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. However, 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 conjurer, with all his hun- 
 dred 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 
 
433 
 
 was at last obliged to beg from the very tailor whose call- 
 ing 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 till 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 its young by a pond- 
 side ; and a goose, in such circumstances, is always ex- 
 tremely proud, and excessively punctilious. If any other 
 animal, without the least design to offend, happened to 
 pass that way, the goose was immediately at it. The 
 pond, she said, was hers, and she would maintain her 
 right in it, and support her honor, 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, pecked at him with her 
 beak, and slapped him with her feathers. The dog grew 
 angry, and had twenty times a 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." So saying, he went forward to the 
 pond, quenched his thirst, in spite of the goose, and fol- 
 lowed his master. 
 
 Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, that 
 37 
 
434 ESSAYS. 
 
 while tliey are willing to take offence from none, they are 
 also equally desirous of giving nobody offence. From 
 hence they endeavor to please all, comply with every re- 
 quest, and attempt to suit themselves to every company ; 
 have no will of their own, but, like wax, catch every con- 
 tiguous impression. By thus attempting to give universal 
 satisfaction, they at last find themselves miserably disap- 
 pointed : 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, there- 
 fore 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 every spectator 
 to mark with a brush, that lay by, eyary limb and feature 
 which seemed erroneous. The spectators came, and in the 
 general applauded ; but each, willing to show his talent 
 at criticism, stigmatized whatever he thought proper. At 
 evening, when the painter came, he was mortified to find 
 the picture one universal blot, not a single stroke that had 
 not the marks of disapprobation. Not satisfied with this 
 trial, the next day he was resolved to try them in a dif- 
 ferent manner : and exposing his picture as before, de- 
 sired that every spectator would mark those beauties he 
 approved or admired. The people complied, and the art- 
 ist returning, found his picture covered 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 
 all the world, is to attempt pleasing one half of it." 
 
435 
 
 ON 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 for a few days 
 beyond the expected season, in some parts of the globe, 
 spreads famine, desolation, and terror, over the whole 
 country ; but, in this fortunate island of Britain, the in- 
 habitant courts health in every breeze, and the husband- 
 man ever sows in joyful expectation. 
 
 But though the nation be exempt from real evils, it is 
 not more happy on this account than others. The people 
 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 pestilential rapidity, and infects almost ev- 
 ery rank of people ; what is still more strange, the natives 
 have no name for this peculiar malady, though well 
 known to foreign physicians by the appellation of Epi- 
 demic 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 six- 
 penny loaf, the next it takes the appearance of a comet 
 with a fiery tail, the third it threatens like a flat-bottomed 
 boat, and the fourth it carries consternation in the bite of a 
 mad dog. The people, when once infected, lose their 
 relish for happiness, saunter about with looks of despond- 
 ence, ask after the calamities of the day, and receive no 
 comfort but in heightening each other's distress. It is in- 
 
436 
 
 significant 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 consterna- 
 tion 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 discon- 
 tinued which at first set it in motion. 
 
 A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror which 
 now prevails, and the whole nation is at present actual- 
 ly groaning under the malignity of its influence. The 
 people sally from their houses with that circumspection 
 which is prudent in such as expect a mad dog at every 
 turning. The physician publishes his prescription, 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 
 being tamely bit by mad dogs no longer. 
 
 Their manner of knowing whether a dog be mad or 
 no, somewhat resembles the ancient gothic custom of try- 
 ing witches. The old woman suspected was tied hand 
 and foot, and thrown into the water. If she swam, then 
 she was instantly carried off to be burnt for a witch ; if 
 she sunk, then indeed she was acquitted of the charge, 
 but drowned in the experiment. In the same manner a 
 crowd gather round a dog suspected of madness, and they 
 begin by teasing the devoted animal on every side. If 
 he attempts to stand on the defensive, and bite, then he 
 is unanimously found guilty, for " a mad dog always snaps 
 
ESSAYS. 437 
 
 at everything." If, on the contrary, he strives to escape 
 by running away, then he can expect no compassion, for 
 " mad dogs always run straight forward before them." 
 
 It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, who 
 have no share in those ideal calamities, to mark the 
 stages of this national disease. The terror at first feebly 
 enters with a disregarded story of a little dog that had 
 gone through a neighboring village, which was thought to 
 be mad by several who had seen him. The next account 
 comes, that a mastiff ran through a certain town, and bit 
 five geese, which immediately ran mad, foamed at the 
 bill, and died in great agonies soon after. Then comes 
 an affecting story of a little boy bit in the leg, and gone 
 down to be dipped in the salt water. When the people 
 have sufficiently shuddered at that, they are next con- 
 gealed with a frightful account of a man who was said 
 lately to have died from a bite he had received some 
 years before. This relation only prepares the way for 
 another, still more hideous ; as how the master of a fam- 
 ily, with seven small children, were all bit by a mad lap- 
 dog ; and how the poor father first perceived the infection 
 by calling for a draught of water, where he saw the lap- 
 dog swimming in the cup. 
 
 When epidemic terror is thus once excited, every morn- 
 ing 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 with 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 
 37* 
 
438 ESSAYS. 
 
 story soon is improved, and spreads, that a mad dog had 
 frighted a lady of distinction. These circumstances be- 
 gin to grow terrible before they have reached the neigh- 
 boring 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 is described with wild eyes, foaming 
 mouth, running mad upon all four, 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. 
 
 My land-lady, a good-natured woman, but a little cred- 
 ulous, waked me some mornings ago before the usual 
 hour, with horror and astonishment in her looks. She 
 desired me, if I had any regard for my safety, to keep 
 within ; for a few days ago, so dismal an accident had 
 happened, as to put all the world upon their guard. A 
 mad dog down in the country, she assured me, had bit a 
 farmer, who soon becoming mad, ran into his own yard 
 and bit a fine brindled cow ; the cow quickly became as 
 mad as the man, began to foam at the mouth, and raising 
 herself up, walked about on her hind legs, sometimes 
 barking like a dog, and sometimes attempting to talk like 
 the farmer. Upon examining the grounds of this story, I 
 found my landlady had it from one neighbor, who had it 
 from another neighbor, who heard it from very good au- 
 thority. 
 
 Were most stories of this nature well examined, it 
 
439 
 
 would be found that numbers of such as have been said 
 to suffer are in 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. 
 
 But even allowing three or four to die in a season of 
 this terrible death (and four is probably too large a con- 
 cession), yet still it is not considered how many are pre- 
 served in their health and in their property by this devot- 
 ed animal's services. The midnight robber is kept at a 
 distance ; the insidious thief is often detected ; the health- 
 ful chase repairs many a worn constitution ; and the poor 
 man finds in his dog*a willing assistant, eager to lessen 
 his toil, and content with the smallest retribution. 
 
 " A dog," says one of the English poets, '•' is an honest 
 creature, and I am a friend to dogs." Of all the beasts 
 that graze the lawn, or hunt the forest, a dog is the only 
 animal, that leaving his fellows, attempts to cultivate the 
 friendship of man : to man he looks, in all his necessities, 
 with speaking eye for assistance ; exerts for him all the 
 little service in his power with cheerfulness and pleasure ; 
 for him bears famine and fatigue with patience and resig- 
 nation ; no injuries can abate his fidelity, no distress in- 
 duce him to forsake his benefactor ; studious to please, 
 and fearing to offend, he is still an humble, steadfast de- 
 pendant ; and in him alone fawning is not flattery. How 
 unkind then to torture this faithful creature, who has left 
 the forest to claim the protection of man ! How ungrate- 
 ful a return to the trusty animal for all its services. 
 
440 ESSAYS. 
 
 ON THE INCREASED LOVE OF LIFE WITH AGE. 
 
 Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our 
 desire of living. Those dangers, which, in the vigor of 
 youth, we had learned to despise, assume new terrors as 
 we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years in- 
 crease, fear becomes at last the prevailing passion of the 
 mind, and the small remainder of life is taken up in use- 
 less efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued 
 existence. 
 
 Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even 
 the wise are liable ! If I should judge of that part of 
 life which lies before me by that which I have already 
 seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells me, that 
 my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity ; and 
 sensation assures me, that those I have felt are stronger 
 than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and 
 sensation in vain persuade; hope, more powerful than 
 either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty ; 
 some happiness, in long perspective, still beckons me to 
 pursue ; and, like a losing gamester, every new disap- 
 pointment increases my ardor to continue the game. 
 
 Whence then is this increased love of life, which grows 
 upon us with our years ! Whence comes it, that we thus 
 make greater efforts to preserve our existence, at a period 
 when it becomes scarce worth the keeping ! Is it that 
 nature, attentive to the preservation of mankind, increas- 
 es our wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoyments ; 
 and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips im- 
 agination in the spoil ? Life would be insupportable to 
 an old man, avIio, loaded with infirmities, feared death no 
 
441 
 
 more than when in the vigor of manhood : the numberless 
 calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of 
 surviving every pleasure, would at once induce him, with 
 his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery ; but hap- 
 pily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when 
 it could only be prejudicial ; and life acquires an imagi- 
 nary value in proportion as its real value is no more. 
 
 Our attachment to every object around us increases, in 
 general, from the length of our acquaintance with it. " I 
 would not choose," says a French philosopher, " to see an 
 old post pulled up with which I had been long acquaint- 
 ed." A mind long habituated to a certain set of objects, 
 insensibly becomes fond of seeing them ; visits them from 
 habit, and parts from them with reluctance : from hence 
 proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of posses- 
 sion ; they love the world and all that it produces ; they 
 love life and all its advantages ; not because it gives them 
 pleasure, but because they have known it long. 
 
 Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, 
 commanded that all who were unjustly detained in prison, 
 during the preceding reigns, should be set free. Among 
 the number who came to thank their deliverer on this 
 occasion, there appeared a majestic old man, who, falling 
 at the emperor's feet, addressed him as follows : " Great 
 father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five years 
 old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty- 
 two. I was imprisoned, though a stranger to crime, or 
 without being even confronted by my accusers. I have 
 now lived in solitude and darkness for more than sixty 
 years, and am grown familiar with distress. As yet daz- 
 zled with the splendor of that sun to which you have re- 
 
442 ESSAYS. 
 
 stored me, I have been wandering the streets to find out 
 some friend that would assist, or relieve, or remember 
 me ; but my friends, my family, and relations, are all 
 dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me then, O Chinvang, 
 to wear out the wretched remains of life in my former 
 prison ; the walls of my dungeon are to me more pleas- 
 ing than the most splendid palace : I have not long to 
 live, and shall be unhappy except I spend the rest of my 
 days where my youth was passed, in that prison from 
 whence you were pleased to release me." 
 
 The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that 
 we all have for life. We are habituated to the prison ; 
 we look round with discontent, are displeased with the 
 abode, and yet the length of our captivity only increases 
 our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, 
 the houses we have built, or the posterity we have be- 
 gotten, all serve to bind us closer to the earth, and embit- 
 ter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaint- 
 ance ; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once in- 
 structive and amusing ; its company pleases ; yet, for all 
 this, it is but little regarded. To us, who are declined in 
 years, life appears like an old friend ; its jests have been 
 anticipated in former conversation ; it has no new story 
 to make us smile, no new improvement with which to sur- 
 prise ; yet still we love it ; destitute of every enjoyment, 
 still we love it ; husband the wasting treasure with in- 
 •creasing frugality, and feel all the poignancy of anguish 
 in the fatal separation. 
 
 Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, 
 brave — an Englishman. He had a complete fortune of 
 his own, and the love of the king his master, which was 
 
443 
 
 equivalent to riches. Life opened all her treasures before 
 him, and promised a long succession of future happiness. 
 He came, tasted of the entertainment, but was disgusted 
 even at the beginning. He professed an aversion to 
 living ; was tired of walking round the same circle ; had 
 tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker 
 at every repetition. " If life be, in youth, so displeasing," 
 cried he to himself, " what will it appear when age comes 
 on ? If it be at present indifferent, sure it will then be 
 execrable." This thought imbittered every reflection ; till, 
 at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he end- 
 ed the debate with a pistol ! Had this self-deluded man 
 been apprised, that existence grows more desirable to us 
 the longer we exist, he would then have faced old age 
 without shrinking ; he would have boldly dared to live ; 
 and serve that society, by his future assiduity, which he 
 basely injured by his desertion. 
 
 ON THE LADIES' PASSION FOR LEVELLING ALL 
 DISTINCTION OF DRESS. 
 
 Foreigners observe that there are no ladies in the 
 w r orld 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 powerful an antagonist for the opposite 
 sex ; and therefore it was wisely ordered that our ladies 
 
444 ESSAYS. 
 
 should want taste, lest their admirers should entirely want 
 reason. 
 
 But to confess a truth, I do not find they have 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 for- 
 tune 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 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 in the mode. CA French woman is a perfect architect 
 in dress ;/ she never, with Gothic ignorance, mixes the 
 orders ; 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 repugnant to private beauty. 
 
 The English ladies, on the contrary, seem to have no 
 other standard of grace but the run of the, town. If fash- 
 ion gives the word, every distinction of beauty, complex- 
 ion, 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 playhouses, are filled Avith ladies in uniform ; and 
 their whole appearance shows as little variety of taste as 
 if their clothes were bespoke by the colonel of a marching 
 regiment, or fancied by the artist who dresses the three 
 battalions of guards. 
 
ESSAYS. 445 
 
 But not only the ladies of every shape and complex- 
 ion, but of every age, too, are possessed of this unaccount- 
 able passion for levelling all distinction in dress. The 
 lady of no quality travels first behind the lady of some 
 quality ; and a woman of sixty is as gaudy as her grand- 
 daughter. A friend of mine, a good-natured old man, 
 amused me the other day with an account of his journey 
 to the Mall. It seems, in his walk thither, he, for some 
 time, followed a lady, who, as he thought, by her dress, was 
 a girl of fifteen. It was airy, elegant, and youthful. My 
 old friend had called up all his poetry on this occasion, 
 and fancied twenty Cupids prepared for execution in every 
 folding of her white negligee. He had prepared his im- 
 agination for an angel's face ; but what was his mortifica- 
 tion to find that the imaginary goddess was no other than 
 his cousin Hannah, some years older than himself. 
 
 But to give it in his own words : " After the transports 
 of our first salute," said he, " 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 consisted of a few bits 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 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 rose-bud, 
 ' Quanto si nostra men, tanto e piu bella." A female 
 breast is generally thought the most beautiful as it is more 
 sparingly discovered. 
 
446 ESSAYS. 
 
 As my cousin had not put on all this finery for nothing, 
 she was at that time sallying out to the Park, where 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, 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 perceived w r e brought good-humor with us. The 
 polite could not forbear smiling, and the vulgar burst out 
 into a horse-laugh, at our grotesque figures. Cousin 
 Hannah, who was perfectly conscious 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 crea- 
 tures alive, before we got halfway up the Mall, we both 
 began to grow peevish, and, like two mice on a string, en- 
 deavored to revenge the impertinence of others upon our- 
 selves. ' I am amazed, cousin Jeffery," 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 frizzled, and yet so beggarly, and your mon- 
 strous 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 
 
ESSAYS. 447 
 
 eyes with a spiteful 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 asham- 
 ed of her gentleman-usher, and as I was never \erj fond 
 of any kind of exhibition 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, em- 
 ployed in very different speculations. I regarded the 
 whole company, now passing in review before me, as 
 drawn out merely for my amusement. For my entertain- 
 ment 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 differ- 
 ent were the sentiments of cousin Hannah : she regarded 
 every well-dressed woman as a victorious rival; hated 
 every face that seemed dressed in good-humor, or wore 
 the appearance of greater happiness than her own. I 
 perceived her uneasiness, and attempted to lessen it, by 
 observing that there was no company in the Park to-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 inclination, 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 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 
 
448 ESSAYS. 
 
 it is now, she seems resolved to keep what she has to her- 
 self. She is ugly enough, you see ; yet, I assure you, she 
 has refused several offers, to my knowledge, within this 
 twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentlemen from Ireland, 
 who study the law, two waiting captains, her doctor, and a 
 Scotch preacher who had liked 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 company 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 lustring 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 marriageble daugh- 
 ters, like bunters in stuff gown*, are now taking six- 
 penny-worth of tea at the White-conduit house. Odious 
 puss, how she waddles along, with her train two yards be- 
 hind 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 lustring 
 wearing against the ground, like one of his knives on a 
 grindstone. To speak my mind, cousin Jeffery, I never 
 liked those tails ; for suppose a young fellow should be 
 rude, and the lady should offer to step back in the 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. 
 
 "<Ah! Miss Mazzard! I knew we should not miss 
 
449 
 
 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 lessen- 
 ing her little fortune, and is now, you see, become a belle 
 and a bankrupt.' 
 
 "My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which 
 were interrupted by the approach of the very lady she 
 had been so freely describing. Miss had perceived her 
 at a distance, and approached to salute her. I found by 
 the warmth of the two ladies' protestations, 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 St. James's." 
 
 ASEM; AN EASTERN TALE: 
 
 OR THE WISDOM OF PROVIDENCE IN THE MORAL GOVERN- 
 MENT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Wheee Tauris lifts his head above the storm, and 
 presents nothing 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 detest- 
 ing the ways of men, lived Asem, the man-hater. 
 38* 
 
450 
 
 Asem had spent his youth with men ; had shared in 
 their amusements ; and had been taught to love his fel- 
 low-creatures with the most ardent affection ; but, from 
 the tenderness of his disposition, he exhausted all his for- 
 tune in relieving the wants of the distressed. The pe- 
 titioner never sued in vain ; the weary traveller never 
 passed his door ; he only desisted from doing good when 
 he had no longer the power of relieving. 
 
 From a fortune thus spent in benevolence he expected 
 a grateful return from those he had formerly relieved ; 
 and made his application with confidence of redress : 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 : 
 wherever he turned, ingratitude, dissimulation, and treach- 
 ery, contributed to increase his detestation of them. He- 
 solved, 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, 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 society, passing the 
 hours in meditation, and sometimes exulting that that he 
 was able to live independently of his fellow-creatures. 
 
 At the foot of the mountain an extensive lake dis- 
 
451 
 
 played its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad surface 
 the impending horrors of the mountain. To this capacious 
 mirror he would sometimes 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 com- 
 parable with their utility ; from 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, un- 
 grateful man is a blot in the fair page of universal beau- 
 ty. Why was I born of that detested species, whose vices 
 are almost a reproach to the wisdom of the Divine Crea- 
 tor ? Were men entirely free from vice, all would be 
 uniformity, harmony, and order. A world of moral recti- 
 tude should be the result of a perfectly moral agent. Why, 
 why, then, Alia ! must I be thus confined in darkness, 
 doubt, and despair ? " 
 
 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 per- 
 ceived 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 aw- 
 ful and divine in his aspect. 
 
452 ESSAYS. 
 
 " Son of Adam," cried the genius, " stop thy rash pur- 
 pose ; 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 with- 
 out 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 curi- 
 osity, but a rectitude of intention. Follow me, and be 
 wise." 
 
 Asem immediately descended upon the lake, and his 
 guide conducted 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. 
 
 " I plainly perceive your amazement," said the genius ; 
 " but suspend it for a while. This world was formed by 
 Alia, at the request, 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 
 consequence of which you were so lately rescued. The 
 rational inhabitants of this world are formed agreeable to 
 your own ideas ; they are absolutely without vice. In other 
 respects 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 
 
453 
 
 left, you have free permission 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 habitation." 
 
 " A world without vice ! Rational beings without im- 
 morality ! " cried Asem, in a rapture ; " I thank thee, O 
 Alia, who hast at length heard my petitions : this, this in- 
 deed, will produce happiness, ecstasy, and ease. O 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 acclamations," replied the genius. " Look 
 around thee ; reflect on every object and action before us, 
 and communicate to me the result of thine observations. 
 Lead wherever you think proper, I shall be your at- 
 tendant and instructor." Asem and his companion trav- 
 elled on in silence for some time; the former 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 our prophet, I would have re- 
 moved this defect, and formed no voracious or destructive 
 animals, which only prey on the other parts of the crea- 
 tion." — " Your tenderness for inferior animals, is, I find, 
 remarkable," said the genius, smiling. " But, with regard 
 to meaner creatures, this world exactly resembles the 
 
454 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 her vegetable productions. So that animals 
 of different natures thus formed, instead of lessening their 
 multitudes, 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 innocent society. But they had 
 scarce 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 ?" 
 He had scarce spoken, when he perceived two dogs pur- 
 suing another of the human species, who, with equal 
 terror and haste, attempted to avoid them. " This," cried 
 Asem to his guide, " is truly surprising ; nor can I con- 
 ceive 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 ?" replied the 
 genius, smiling : " you seem to have forgot that branch of 
 
455 
 
 justice." " I must acknowledge my mistake," returned 
 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 connections with one another." 
 
 As they walked farther up the country, the more he 
 was surprised 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 too good to 
 build houses which could only increase their own pride, 
 and the envy of the spectator ; what they built was for 
 convenience, and not for show. "At least, then," said 
 Asem, " they have neither architects, painters, nor statu- 
 aries, in their society ; but these are idle arts, and may be 
 spared. However, before I spend much more time here, 
 you shall have my thanks for introducing me into the 
 society of some of their wisest men : there is scarce 
 any pleasure to me equal to a refined conversation; 
 there is nothing of which 1 am so much enamoured as 
 wisdom." " Wisdom !" replied his instructor : " how ridic- 
 ulous ! We have no wisdom here, for we have no occa- 
 sion 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, 
 
456 
 
 luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue them." 
 '"■ All this may be right," says Asem ; " 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 friendship ; 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 pur- 
 pose should either do this ? " says the genius : " flattery 
 or curiosity are vicious motives, 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 endeavors to heap up more than is necessary 
 for his own subsistence ; each has therefore leisure for 
 pitying those that stand in need of his compassion." He 
 had scarce 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 re- 
 lief, 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 
 
ESSAYS. 457 
 
 dying ; " would it not be the utmost injustice for beings, 
 who have only just sufficient to support themselves, and 
 are content with a bare subsistence, to take it from their 
 own mouths to put it into mine ? They never are posses- 
 sed 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 I 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 receive a favor. They have, however, another ex- 
 cellence yet behind ; the love of their country is still, I 
 hope, one of their darling virtues." " Peace, Asem," re- 
 plied the guardian, with a countenance not less severe 
 than beautiful, " nor forfeit all thy pretensions to wisdom ; 
 the same selfish motives by which we prefer our own in- 
 terest to that of others, induce us to regard our country 
 preferable to that of another. Nothing less than univer- 
 sal benevolence is free from vice, and that you see is prac- 
 tised here." " Strange," cries the disappointed pilgrim, 
 in an agony of distress ; " what sort of a world am I now 
 introduced to? There 'is scarce a single virtue, but that 
 of temperance, which they practise ; and in that they are 
 no way superior to the brute creation. There is scarce 
 an amusement which they enjoy; fortitude, liberality, 
 friendship, wisdom, conversation, and love of country, are 
 all virtues entirely unknown here ; thus it seems, that to 
 be unacquainted with vice is not to know virtue. Take 
 me, O 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 pro- 
 39 
 
458 
 
 jected by Mohammed. Ingratitude, contempt, and hatred, 
 I can now suffer, for perhaps I have deserved them. 
 When I 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 scarce 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 be- 
 gan 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 Segestan, his native city ; where he 
 diligently applied himself to commerce, and put in prac- 
 tice that wisdom he had learned in solitude. 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 dis- 
 dain ; and a youth of misery was concluded with an 
 old age of elegance, affluence, and ease. 
 
 ON THE ENGLISH CLERGY AND POPULAR 
 PREACHERS. 
 
 It is allowed on all hands, that our English divines re- 
 ceive a more liberal education, and improve that education 
 
459 
 
 by frequent study, more than any others of this reverend 
 profession in Europe. In general, also, it may be observ- 
 ed, 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 seeing 
 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 term- 
 ed the vulgar errors of the wise. 
 
 Yet, with all these advantages, it is very obvious, that 
 the clergy are no where so little thought of, by the popu- 
 lace, 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 general, appearing no 
 way impressed with a sense of religious duty. I am not 
 for whining at the depravity of the times, or for endeav- 
 oring to paint a prospect more gloomy than in nature ; 
 but certain it is, no person who has travelled will contra- 
 dict me, when I aver, that the lower orders of mankind, 
 in other countries, testify, on every occasion, the profound- 
 est awe of religion ; while in England they are scarcely 
 awakened into a sense of its duties, even in circumstan- 
 ces of the greatest distress. 
 
 This dissolute and fearless conduct foreigners are apt 
 to attribute to climate, and constitution ; may not the vul- 
 gar being pretty much neglected in our exhortations from 
 the pulpit, be a conspiring cause? Our divines seldom 
 stoop to their mean capacities ; and they who want in- 
 struction most, find least in our religious assemblies. 
 
 Whatever may become of the higher orders of man- 
 kind, who are generally possessed of collateral motives 
 
460 ESSAYS. 
 
 to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded, 
 whose behavior 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 regarded ; 
 for, in policy, as architecture, ruin is most fatal when 
 it begins from the bottom. 
 
 Men of real sense and understanding prefer a prudent 
 mediocrity to a precarious popularity, and, fearing to out- 
 do their duty, leave it half done. Their discourses from 
 the pulpit are generally dry, methodical, and unaifecting : 
 delivered with the most insipid calmness ; insomuch, that 
 should the peaceful preacher lift his head over the cush- 
 ion, which alone he seems to address, he might discover 
 his audience, instead of being awakened to remorse, ac- 
 tually sleeping over his methodical and labored com- 
 position. 
 
 This method of preaching is, however, by some called 
 an address 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 debauch- 
 eries till they are committed. Reason is but a weak an- 
 tagonist when headlong passion dictates; in all such cases 
 we should arm one passion against another : it is with the 
 human mind as in nature ; from the mixture .of two op- 
 posites, the result is most frequently neutral tranquillity. 
 Those who attempt to reason us out of 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 popu- 
 
ESSAYS. 461 
 
 lar preacher ; for the people are easily pleased, if they 
 perceive any endeavors in the orator to please them ; the 
 meanest qualifications 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 be- 
 coming sincerity is always certain of producing a becom- 
 ing assurance. " Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum 
 tibi ipsi," is so trite a quotation, that it almost demands 
 an apology to repeat it ; yet though all allow the justice 
 of the remark, 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 re- 
 spect 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 dig- 
 nity which becomes men who are ambassadors from 
 Christ ; the English divines, like erroneous envoys, seem 
 more solicitous not to offend the court to which they are 
 sent, than to drive home the interests of their employer. 
 The bishop of Massillon, in the first sermon he ever 
 preached, found the whole audience, upon his getting 
 into the pulpit, in a disposition no way favorable to his 
 intentions ; their nods, whispers, or drowsy behavior, 
 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 in par- 
 ticular ; if the eyes of the whole kingdom were fixed 
 39* 
 
462 ESSAYS. 
 
 upon the event; if the most eminent counsel were em- 
 ployed on both sides ; and if we hud heard from our in- 
 fancy of this yet-undetermined trial, — would you not all 
 sit with due attention, and warm expectation, to the plead- 
 ings on each side ? Would not all your hopes and fears 
 be hinged on the final decision ? and yet, let me tell you, 
 have this moment a cause of much greater importance 
 before you ; a cause where not one nation, but all the 
 world, are spectators ; tried not before a fallible tribunal, 
 but the awful throne of Heaven ; where not your tem- 
 poral 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 I am 
 speaking may fix the irrevocable decree that shall last 
 forever : and yet, notwithstanding all this, you can hardly 
 sit with patience to hear the tidings of your own salva- 
 tion ; I plead the cause of Heaven, and yet I am scarcely 
 attended to," etc. 
 
 The style, the abruptness of a beginning like this, in 
 the closet would appear absurd ; but in the pulpit it is at- 
 tended 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 observed, are easily acquired ; they are ac- 
 complishments which may be taken up by every candi- 
 date who will be at the pains of stooping. Impressed 
 with a sense of the truths he is about to deliver, a preach- 
 
463 
 
 er disregards the applause or the contempt of his audi- 
 ence, and he insensibly assumes a just and manly sincer- 
 ity. 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 Metho- 
 dists, who go their circuits, and preach prizes among the 
 populace. Even Whitefield may be placed as a model to 
 some of our young divines ; let them join to their own 
 good sense his earnest manner of delivery. 
 
 It will be perhaps objected, that by confining the excel- 
 lences 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, attitude, grace, elocution, may 
 be repeated as absolutely necessary to complete the char- 
 acter ; but let us not be deceived ; common sense is seldom 
 swayed by fine tones, musical periods, just attitudes, or 
 the display of a white handkerchief; oratorial behavior, 
 except in very able hands indeed, generally sinks into 
 awkward and paltry affectation. 
 
 It must be observed, however, that these rules are cal- 
 culated 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 useless, though more sought- 
 for character — requires a different method of proceeding. 
 All I shall observe on this head is, to entreat the polemic 
 divine, in his controversy with the deist, to act rather 
 offensively than to defend ; to push home the grounds of 
 
4G-J: ESSAYS. 
 
 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 them- 
 selves more to the benefit of society, by declining all 
 controversy, than by exhibiting even the profoundest skill 
 in polemic disputes ; their contests with each other often 
 turn on speculative trifles ; and their disputes with the 
 deist 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 continue 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 when undermost." 
 
 ON THE 
 
 ADVANTAGES TO BE DERIVED FROM SENDING A 
 
 JUDICIOUS TRAVELLER INTO ASIA. 
 
 I have frequently been amazed at the ignorance of 
 almost all the European travellers, who have penetrated 
 any considerable way eastward into Asia. They have all 
 been influenced either by motives of commerce or piety, 
 and their accounts are such as might reasonably be ex- 
 pected from men of a very narrow or very prejudiced 
 education — the dictates of superstition, or the result of 
 
465 
 
 ignorance. Is it not surprising, that, of such a variety of 
 adventurers, not one single philosopher should be found 
 among the number ? For, as to the travels of Gemelli, 
 the learned are long agreed that the whole is but an im- 
 posture. 
 
 There is scarce any country, how rude or uncultivated 
 soever, where the inhabitants are not possessed of some 
 peculiar secrets, either in nature or art, which might be 
 transplanted with success ; thus, for instance, in Siberian 
 Tartary, the natives extract a strong spirit from milk, 
 which is a secret probably unknown to the chemists in 
 Europe. In the most savage parts of India they are 
 possessed of the secret of dying vegetable substances 
 scarlet, and likewise that of refining lead into a metal, 
 which, for hardness and color, is little inferior to silver ; 
 not one of which secrets but would, in Europe, make a 
 man's fortune. The power of the Asiatics in producing 
 winds, or bringing down rain, the Europeans are apt to 
 treat as fabulous, because they have no instances of the 
 like nature among themselves: but they would have 
 treated the secrets of gunpowder, and the mariner's com- 
 pass, in the same manner, had they been told the Chinese 
 used such arts before the invention was common with 
 themselves at home. 
 
 Of all the English philosophers, I most reverence 
 Bacon, that great and hardy genius ; he it is, who, undaunt- 
 ed by the seeming difficulties that oppose, prompts human 
 curiosity to examine every part of nature ; and even ex- 
 horts man to try whether he cannot subject the tempest, 
 the thunder, and even earthquakes, to human control. 
 Oh ! had a man of his daring spirit, of his genius, pene- 
 
ACQ essays: 
 
 tration, and learning, travelled to those countries which 
 have been visited only by the superstitious and mercena- 
 ry, what might not mankind expect ! How would he 
 enlighten the regions to which he travelled ! and what a 
 variety of knowledge and useful improvement would he 
 not bring back in exchange ! 
 
 There is probably no country so barbarous, that would 
 not disclose all it knew, if it received equivalent informa- 
 tion ; and I am apt to think, that a person who was ready 
 to give more knowledge than he received, would be wel- 
 come wherever he came. All his care in travelling should 
 only be, to suit his intellectual banquet to the people with 
 whom he conversed ; he should not attempt to teach the 
 unlettered Tartar astronomy, nor yet instruct the polite 
 Chinese in the arts of subsistence ; he should endeavor 
 to improve the barbarian in the secrets of living comfort- 
 ably ; and the inhabitants of a more refined country, in 
 the speculative pleasures of science. How much more 
 nobly would a philosopher, thus employed, spend his time, 
 than by sitting at home, earnestly intent upon adding one 
 star more to his catalogue, or one monster more to his 
 collection ; or still, if possible, more triflingly sedulous, in 
 the incatenation of fleas, or the sculpture of cherry-stones. 
 
 I never consider this subject without being surprised 
 that none of those societies so laudably established in 
 England for the promotion of arts and learning, have ever 
 thought of sending one of their members into the most 
 eastern parts of Asia, to make what discoveries he was 
 able. To be convinced of the utility of such an under- 
 taking, let them but read the relations of their own trav- 
 ellers. It will there be found, that they are as often 
 
ESSAYS. 467 
 
 deceived themselves as they attempt to deceive others. 
 The merchants tell us, perhaps, the price of different 
 commodities, the methods of baling them up, and the 
 properest manner for a European to preserve his health 
 in the country. The missionary, on the other hand, in- 
 forms us with what pleasure the country to which he was 
 sent embraced Christianity, and the numbers he convert- 
 ed ; what methods he took to keep Lent in a region where 
 there were no fish, or the shifts he made to celebrate the 
 rites of his religion, in places where there was neither 
 bread nor wine ; such accounts, with the usual appendage 
 of marriages and funerals, inscriptions, rivers, and moun- 
 tains, make up the whole of a European traveller's diary : 
 but as to all the secrets of which the inhabitants are 
 possessed, those are universally attributed to magic ; and 
 when the traveller can give no other account of the won- 
 ders he sees performed, he very contentedly ascribes them 
 to the devil 
 
 It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English chem- 
 ist, that, if every artist would but discover what new 
 observations occurred to him in the exercise of his trade, 
 philosophy would thence gain innumerable improvements. 
 It may be observed with still greater justice, that, if the 
 useful knowledge of every country, howsoever barbarous, 
 was gleaned by a judicious observer, the advantages would 
 be inestimable. Are there not, even in Europe, many 
 useful inventions known or practised but in one place ? 
 Their instrument, as an example, for cutting down corn 
 in Germany, is much more handy and expeditious, in my 
 opinion, than the sickle used in England. The cheap and 
 expeditious manner of making- vinegar, without previous 
 
468 ESSAYS. 
 
 fermentation, is known only in a part of France. If such 
 discoveries therefore remain still to be known at home, 
 what funds of knowledge might not be collected in 
 countries yet unexplored, or only passed through by igno- 
 rant travellers in hasty caravans. 
 
 The caution with which foreigners are received in Asia, 
 may be alleged as an objection to such a design. But 
 how readily have several European merchants found ad- 
 mission into regions the most suspicious, under the char- 
 acter of sanjapins, or northern pilgrims ? To such not 
 even China itself denies access. 
 
 To send out a traveller properly qualified for these 
 purposes, might be an object of national concern ; it would, 
 in some measure, repair the breaches made by ambition ; 
 and might show that there were still some who boasted a 
 greater name than that of patriots, who professed them- 
 selves lovers of men. 
 
 The only difficulty would remain in choosing a proper 
 person for so arduous an enterprise. He should be a 
 man of philosophical turn ; one apt to deduce consequen- 
 ces of general utility from particular occurrences ; neither 
 swollen with pride, nor hardened by prejudice ; neither 
 wedded to one particular system, nor instructed only in 
 one particular science ; neither wholly a botanist, nor 
 quite an antiquarian, his mind should be tinctured with 
 miscellaneous knowledge; and his manners humanized 
 by an intercourse with men. He should be, in some 
 measure, an enthusiast to the design : fond of travelling, 
 from a rapid imagination, and an innate love of change : 
 furnished with a body capable of sustaining every fatigue, 
 and a heart not easily terrified at danger. 
 
469 
 
 A KEVERIE AT THE BOAR'S-HEAD TAVERN, IN 
 EASTCHEAP. 
 
 The improvements we make in mental acquirements 
 only render us each day more sensible of the defects of 
 our constitution : with this in view, therefore, let us often 
 recur to the amusements of youth ; endeavor to forget age 
 and wisdom, and, as far as innocence goes, be as much a 
 . boy as the best of them. 
 
 Let idle declaimers mourn over the degeneracy of the 
 age, but, in my opinion, every age is the same. This I 
 am sure of, that man, in every season, is a poor, fretful 
 being, with no other means to escape the calamities of 
 the times, but by endeavoring to forget them ; for, if he 
 attempts to resist, he is certainly undone. If I feel pov- 
 erty and pain, I am not so hardy as to quarrel with the 
 executioner, even while under correction ; I find myself 
 no way disposed to make fine speeches, while I am mak- 
 ing wry faces. In a word, let me drink when the fit is 
 on, to make me insensible ; and drink when it is over, for 
 joy that I feel pain no longer. 
 
 The character of old Falstaff, even with all his faults, 
 gives me more consolation than the most studied efforts 
 of wisdom : I here behold an agreeable old fellow, forget- % 
 ting age, and showing me the way to be young at sixty- j 
 five. Sure I am well able to be as merry, though not so 
 comical, as he. Is it not in my power to have, though \ 
 not so much wit, at least as much vivacity ? Age, care, 
 wisdom, reflection, begone ! — I give you to the winds. 
 Let 's have t' other bottle : here 's to the memory of 
 Shakspeare, Falstaff, and all the merry men of East- 
 cheap. 
 
 40 
 
«i70 ESSAYS. 
 
 Such were the reflections that naturally arose while I 
 sat at the Boar's-head tavern, still kept at Eastcheap. 
 Here, by a pleasant fire, in the very room where old 
 Falstaff cracked his jokes, in the very chair which was 
 sometimes honored by Prince Henry, and sometimes pol- 
 luted by his immoral, merry companions, I sat and rumi- 
 nated on the follies of youth ; wished to be young again ; 
 but was resolved to make the best of life while it lasted,, 
 and now and then compared past and present times to- 
 gether. I considered myself as the only living repre- 
 sentative of the old knight j and transported my imagina- 
 tion back to the times when the prince and he gave life 
 to the revel, and made even debauchery not disgusting. 
 The room also conspired to throw my reflection back into 
 antiquity : the oak floor, the Gothic windows, and the 
 ponderous chimney-piece, had long withstood the tooth 
 of time : the watchmen had gone twelve : my companions 
 had all stolen off, and none now remained with me but 
 the landlord. From him 1 could have wished to know 
 the history of a tavern that had such a long succession 
 of customers .; I could not help thinking that an account 
 of this kind would be a pleasing contrast of the manners 
 of different ages ; but my landlord could give me no in- 
 formation. He continued to doze, and sat, and tell a 
 tedious story, as most other landlords usually do ; and, 
 though he said nothing, yet was never silent ; one good 
 joke followed another good joke, and the best joke of all 
 was generally begun towards the end of a bottle. I 
 found at last, however, his wine and his conversation 
 operate by degrees : he insensibly began to alter his ap- 
 pearance. His cravat seemed quilled into a ruff, and his 
 
471 
 
 breeches swelled into a fardingale. I now fancied him 
 changing sexes ; and, as nay eyes began to close in slum- 
 ber, I imagined my fat landlord actually converted into 
 as fat a landlady. However, sleep made but few changes 
 in my situation : the tavern, the apartment, and the table, 
 continued as before; nothing suffered mutation but my 
 host, who was fairly altered into a gentlewoman, whom I 
 knew to be Dame Quickly, mistress of this tavern in the 
 days of Sir John; and the liquor we were drinking, which 
 seemed converted into sack and sugar. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Quickly," cried I, (for I knew her 
 perfectly well at first sight), " I am heartily glad to see 
 you. How have you left FalstafF, Pistol, and the rest of 
 our friends below stairs ? Brave and hearty, I hope ?" 
 " In good sooth," replied she, " he did deserve to live for 
 ever ; but he maketh foul work on't where he hath flitted. 
 Queen Proserpine and he have quarrelled, for his attempt- 
 ing a rape upon her divinity ; and were it not that she 
 still had bowels of compassion, it more than seems prob- 
 able he might have now been sprawling in Tartarus." 
 
 I now found that spirits still preserve the frailties of the 
 flesh ; and that, according to the laws of criticism and 
 dreaming, ghosts have been known to be guilty of even 
 more than Platonic affection : wherefore, as I found her 
 too much moved on such a topic to proceed, I was resolv- 
 ed to change the subject ; and, desiring she would pledge 
 me in a bumper, observed with a sigh, that our sack was 
 nothing now to what it was in former days. " Ah, Mrs. 
 Quickly, those were merry times when you drew sack for 
 Prince Henry : men were twice as strong, and twice as 
 wise, and much braver, and ten thousand times more 
 
472 ESSAYS. 
 
 charitable, than now. Those were the times ! The battle 
 of Agincourfc was a victory indeed ! Eyer since that, we 
 have only been degenerating ; and I have lived to see 
 the day when drinking is no longer fashionable. When 
 men wear clean shirts, and women show their necks and 
 arms, all are degenerated, Mrs. Quickly ; and we shall 
 probably, in another century, be frittered away into beaux 
 or monkeys. Had you been on earth to see what I have 
 seen, it would congeal all the blood in your body (your 
 soul, I mean). Why, our very nobility now have the in- 
 tolerable arrogance, in spite of what is every day remon- 
 strated from the press ; our very nobility, I say, have the 
 assurance to frequent assemblies, and presume to be as 
 merry as the vulgar. See, my very friends have scarce 
 manhood enough to sit till eleven ; and I only am left to 
 make a night on't. Pr'ythee do me the favor to console 
 me a little for their absence by the story of your own 
 adventures, or the history of the tavern where we are 
 now sitting. I fancy the narrative may have something 
 singular." 
 
 " Observe this apartment/' interrupted my companion, 
 of neat device and excellent workmanship. In this room 
 I have lived, child, woman, and ghost, more than three 
 hundred years ; I am ordered by Pluto to keep an annual 
 register of every transaction that passeth here : and I 
 have whilom compiled three hundred tomes, which eftsoons 
 may be submitted to thy regards." "None of your 
 whiloms nor eftsoons, Mrs. Quickly, if you please," I re- 
 plied ; k ' I know you can talk every whit as well as I can : 
 for, as you have lived here so long, it is but natural to 
 suppose you should learn the conversation of the company. 
 
473 
 
 Believe me, dame, at best, you have neither too much 
 sense, nor too much language, to spare ; so give me both 
 as well as you can : but first, my service to you ; old 
 women should water their clay a little now and then ; and 
 now to your story." 
 
 " The story of my own adventures," replied the vision, 
 " is but short and unsatisfactory ; for, believe me, Mr. 
 Rigmarole, believe me, a woman with a butt of sack at 
 her elbow is never long-lived. Sir John's death afflicted 
 me to such a degree, that I sincerely believe, to drown 
 sorrow, I drank more liquor myself than I drew for my 
 customers : my grief was sincere, and the sack was ex- 
 cellent. The prior of a neighboring convent (for our 
 priors then had as much power as a Middlesex justice 
 now), he, I say, it was who gave me license for keeping 
 a disorderly house ; upon condition that I should never 
 make hard bargains with the clergy : that he should have 
 a bottle of sack every morning, and the liberty of con- 
 fessing which of my girls he thought proper in private 
 every night. I had continued for several years to pay 
 this tribute ; and he, it must be confessed, continued as 
 rigorously to exact it. I grew old insensibly ; my cus- 
 tomers continued, however, to compliment my looks while 
 I was by, but I could hear them say I was wearing when 
 my back was turned. The prior, however, still was con- 
 stant, and so were half his convent ; but one fatal morning 
 he missed the usual beverage, for I had incautiously drunk 
 over-night the last bottle myself. What will you have 
 on 't ? The very next day Doll Tearsheet and I were 
 sent to the house of correction, and accused qf keeping a 
 40* 
 
474 ESSAYS. 
 
 low bawdy-house. In short, we were so well purified 
 there with stripes, mortification and penance, that we were 
 afterward utterly unfit for worldly conversation : though 
 sack would have killed me, had I stuck to it, yet I soon 
 died for want of a drop of something comfortable, and 
 fairly left my body to the care of the beadle. 
 
 " Such is my own history ; but that of the tavern, where 
 I have ever since been stationed, affords greater variety. 
 In the history of this, which is one of the oldest in Lon- 
 don, you may view the different manners, pleasures, and 
 follies of men, at different periods. You will find man- 
 kind neither better nor worse now than formerly ; the vices 
 of an uncivilized people are generally more detestable, 
 though not so frequent, as those in polite society. It is 
 the same luxury which formerly stuffed your alderman 
 with plum-porridge, and now crams him with turtle. It 
 is the same low ambition that formerly induced a courtier 
 to give up his religion to please his king, and now per- 
 suades him to give up his conscience to please his minis- 
 ter. It is the same vanity that formerly stained our 
 ladies' cheeks and necks with woad, and now paints them 
 with carmine. Your ancient Briton formerly powdered 
 his hair with red earth, like brick-dust, in order to appear 
 frightful ; your modern Briton cuts his hair on the crown, 
 and plasters it with hogs'-lard and flour ; and this to make 
 him look killing. It is the same vanity, the same folly, 
 and the same vice, only appearing different, as viewed - 
 through the glass of fashion. In a word, all mankind 
 are a " 
 
 " Sure the woman is dreaming," interrupted I — " None 
 
475 
 
 of your reflections, Mrs. Quickly, if you love me ; they 
 only give me the spleen. Tell me your history at once. 
 I love stories, but hate reasoning." 
 
 " If you please, then, sir," returned my companion, " I'll 
 read you an abstract, which I made, of the three hundred 
 volumes I mentioned just now : 
 
 " My body was no sooner laid in the dust, than the 
 prior and several of his convent came to purify the tavern 
 from the pollutions with which they said I had filled it. 
 Masses were said in every room, relics were exposed 
 upon every piece of furniture, and the whole house washed 
 with a deluge of holy water. My habitation was soon 
 converted into a monastery ; instead of customers now 
 applying for sack and sugar, my rooms were crowded with 
 images, relics, saints, whores, and friars. Instead of being 
 a scene of occasional debauchery, it was now filled with 
 continued lewdness. The prior led the fashion, and the 
 whole convent imitated his pious example. Matrons 
 came hither to confess their sins, and to commit new. 
 Virgins came hither who seldom went virgins away. Nor 
 was this a convent peculiarly wicked ; every convent at that 
 period was equally fond of pleasure, and gave a boundless 
 loose to appetite. The laws allowed it ; each priest had a 
 right to a favorite companion, and a power of discarding 
 her as often as he pleased. The laity grumbled, quar- 
 relled with their wives and daughters, hated their 
 confessors, and maintained them in opulence and ease. 
 These, these were happy times, Mr. Rigmarole : these were 
 times of piety, bravery, and simplicity ! " — " Not so very 
 happy, neither, good madam ; pretty much like the pie- 
 
476 ESSAYS. 
 
 sent : those that labor, starve ; and those that do nothing, 
 wear fine clothes and live in luxury." 
 
 " In this manner the fathers lived, for some years, with- 
 out molestation ; they transgressed, confessed themselves 
 to each other, and were forgiven. One evening, however, 
 our prior keeping a lady of distinction somewhat too long 
 at confession, her husband unexpectedly came upon them, 
 and testified all the indignation which was natural upon 
 such an occasion. The prior assured the gentleman that 
 it was the devil who had put it into his heart ; and the 
 lady was very certain, that she was under the influence of 
 magic, or she could never have behaved in so unfaithful a 
 manner. The husband, however, was not to be put off 
 by such evasions, but summoned both before the tribunal 
 of justice. His proofs were flagrant, and he expected 
 large damages. Such, indeed, he had a right to expect, 
 were the tribunals of those days constituted in the same 
 manner as they are now. The cause of the priest was 
 to be tried before an assembly of priests ; and a layman 
 was to expect redress only from their impartiality and 
 candor. What plea then do you think the prior made to 
 obviate this accusation ? He denied the fact, and chal- 
 lenged the plaintiff to try the merits of their cause by 
 single combat. It was a little hard, you may be sure, 
 upon the poor gentleman, not only to be made a cuckold, 
 but to be obliged to fight a duel into the bargain ; yet 
 such was the justice of the times. The prior threw down 
 his glove, and the injured husband was obliged to take it 
 up, in token of his accepting the challenge. Upon this, 
 the priest supplied his champion, for it was not lawful for 
 
ESSAYS. 477. 
 
 the clergy to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiff, ac- 
 cording to custom, were put in prison ; both ordered to 
 fast and pray, every method being previously used to 
 induce both to a confession of the truth. After a month's 
 imprisonment, the hair of each was cut, their bodies 
 anointed with oil, the field of battle appointed, and 
 guarded by soldiers, while his majesty presided over the 
 whole in person. Both the champions were sworn not to 
 seek victory either by fraud or magic. They prayed and 
 confessed upon their knees ; and, after these ceremonies, 
 the rest was left to the courage and conduct of the com- 
 batants. As the champion whom the prior had pitched 
 upon, had fought six or eight times upon similar occasions, 
 it was no way extraordinary to find him victorious in thfe 
 present combat. In short, the husband was discomfited ; 
 he was taken from the field of battle, stripped to his shirt, 
 and, after one of his legs was cut off, as justice ordained 
 in such cases, he was hanged as a terror to future offenders. 
 These, these were the times, Mr. Rigmarole ! you see how 
 much more just, and wise, and valiant, our ancestors were 
 than we." " I rather fancy, madam, that the times then 
 were pretty much like our own ; where a multiplicity of 
 laws give a judge as much power as a want of law ; since 
 he is ever sure to find among the number some to coun- 
 tenance his partiality/' 
 
 " Our convent, victorious over their enemies, now gave 
 a loose to every demonstration of joy. The lady became 
 a nun, the prior was made a bishop, and three Wickliffites 
 were burned in the illuminations and fireworks that were 
 made on the present occasion. Our convent now began 
 to enjoy a very high degree of reputation. There was not 
 
478 ESSAYS. 
 
 one in London that had the character of hating heretics 
 so much as ours. Ladies of the first distinction chose 
 from our convent their confessors ; in short, it flourished, 
 and might have flourished to this hour, but for a fatal 
 accident, which, terminated in its overthrow. The lady 
 whom the prior had placed in a nunnery, and whom he 
 continued to visit for some time with great punctuality, 
 began at last to perceive that she was quite forsaken. 
 Secluded from conversation, as usual, she now entertained 
 the visions of a devotee; found herself strangely dis- 
 turbed ; but hesitated in determining, whether she was 
 possessed by an angel or a demon. She was not long in 
 suspense : for, upon vomiting a large quantity of crooked 
 pins, and finding the palms of her hands turned outwards, 
 she quickly concluded that she was possessed by the devil. 
 She soon lost entirely the use of speech ; and when she 
 seemed to speak, every body that was present perceived 
 that her voice was not her own, but that of the devil 
 within her. In short, she was bewitched ; and all the 
 difficulty lay in determining who it could be that bewitched 
 her. The nuns and the monks all demanded the ma- 
 gician's name, but the devil made no reply ; for he knew 
 they had no authority to ask questions. By the rules of 
 witchcraft, when an evil spirit has taken possession, he 
 may refuse to answer any questions asked him, unless 
 they are put by a bishop, and to these he is obliged to 
 reply. A bishop, therefore, was sent for, and now the 
 whole secret came out : the devil reluctantly owned that 
 he was a servant of the prior ; that by his command he 
 resided in his present habitation ; and that, without his 
 command, he was resolved to keep in possession. The 
 
ESSAYS. 479 
 
 bishop was an able exorcist ; he drove the devil out by 
 force of mystical arms ; the prior was arraigned for witch- 
 craft ; the witnesses were strong and numerous against 
 him, not less than fourteen persons being by who heard 
 the devil speak Latin. There was no resisting such a 
 cloud of witnesses ; the prior was condemned ; and he 
 who had assisted at so many burnings, was burned him- 
 self in turn. These were times, Mr. Rigmarole ; the 
 people of those times were not infidels, as now, but sincere 
 believers ! " — " Equally faulty with ourselves, they be- 
 lieved what the devil was pleased to tell them ; and we 
 seem resolved, at last, to believe neither God nor devil.'" 
 " After such a stain upon the convent, it was not to be 
 supposed it could subsist any longer ; the fathers were 
 ordered to decamp, and the house was once again con- 
 verted into a tavern. The king conferred it on one of 
 his cast-off mistresses ; she was constituted landlady by 
 royal authority ; and, as the tavern was in the neighbor- 
 hood of the court, and the mistress a very polite woman, 
 it began to have more business than ever, and sometimes 
 took not less than four shillings a-day. 
 
 " But perhaps you are desirous of knowing what were 
 the peculiar qualifications of women of fashion at that 
 period ; and in a description of the present landlady, you 
 will have a tolerable idea of all the rest. This lady was 
 the daughter of a nobleman, and received such an educa- 
 tion in the country as became her quality, beauty, and 
 great expectations. She could make shifts and hose for 
 herself and all the servants of the family, when she was 
 twelve years old. She knew the names of the four-and- 
 twenty letters, so that it was impossible to bewitch her ; 
 
480 ESSAYS. 
 
 and this was a greater piece of learning than any lady in 
 the whole country could pretend to. She was always up 
 early, and saw breakfast served in the great hall by six 
 o'clock. At this scene of festivity she generally improved 
 good-humor, by telling her dreams, relating stories of 
 spirits, several of which she herself had seen, and one of 
 which she was reported to have killed with a black-hafted 
 knife. From hence she usually went to make pastry in 
 the larder, and here she was followed by her sweet-hearts, 
 who were much helped on in conversation by struggling 
 with her for kisses. About ten, miss generally went to 
 play at hot-cockles and blindman's buff in the parlor ; 
 and when the young folks (for they seldom played at hot- 
 cockles when grown old) were tired of such amusements, 
 the gentlemen entertained miss with the history of their 
 greyhounds, bear-baitings, and victories at cudgel-play- 
 ing. If the weather was fine, they ran at the ring, or 
 shot at butts, while miss held in her hand a riband, with 
 which she adorned the conqueror. Her mental qualifica- 
 tions were exactly fitted to her external accomplish- 
 ments. Before she was fifteen she could tell the story 
 of Jack the Giant Killer ; could name every mountain 
 that was inhabited by fairies ; knew a witch at first sight ; 
 and could repeat four Latin prayers without a prompter. 
 Her dress was perfectly fashionable ; her arms and her 
 hair were completely covered ; a monstrous muff was 
 put round her neck, so that her head seemed like that of 
 John the Baptist placed in a charger. In short, when 
 completely equipped, her appearance was so very modest, 
 that she discovered little more than her nose. These 
 were the times, Mr. Rigmarole, when every lady that had 
 
ESSAYS. 481 
 
 a good nose might set up for a beauty ; when every woman 
 that could tell stories might be cried up for a wit." " I 
 am as much displeased at those dresses which conceal too 
 much, as at those which discover too much : I am equally 
 an enemy to a female dunce, or a female pedant." 
 
 " You may be sure that miss chose a husband with qual- 
 ifications resembling her own; she pitched upon a courtier 
 equally remarkable for hunting and drinking, who had 
 given several proofs of his great virility among the 
 daughters of his tenants and domestics. They fell in 
 love at first sight (for such was the gallantry of the times), 
 were married, came to court, and madam appeared with 
 superior qualifications. The king was struck with her 
 beauty. All property was at the king's command ; the 
 husband was obliged to resign all pretensions in his wife 
 to the sovereign whom God anointed, to commit adultery 
 where he thought proper. The king loved her for some 
 time ; but, at length, repenting of his misdeeds, and insti- 
 gated by his father confessor, from a principle of con- 
 science, removed her from his levee to the bar of this 
 tavern, and took a new mistress in her stead. Let it not 
 surprise you to behold the mistress of a king degraded to 
 so humble an office. As the ladies had no mental accom- 
 plishments, a good face was enough to raise them to the 
 royal couch ; and she who was this day a royal mistress, 
 might the next, when her beauty palled upon enjoyment, 
 be doomed to infamy and want. 
 
 " Under the care of this lady, the tavern grew into 
 
 great reputation; the courtiers had not yet learned to 
 
 game, but they paid it off by drinking ; drunkenness is 
 
 ever the vice of a barbarous, and gaming of a luxurious 
 
 41 
 
482 
 
 age. They had not such frequent entertainments as the 
 moderns have, but were more expensive and more luxu- 
 rious in those they had. All their fooleries were more 
 elaborate, and more admired by the great and the vulgar, 
 than now. A courtier has been known to spend his whole 
 fortune at a single combat ; a king to mortgage his domin- 
 ions to furnish out the frippery of a tournament. There 
 were certain days appointed for riot and debauchery, and 
 to be sober at such times was reputed a crime. Kings 
 themselves set the example ; and I have seen monarchs 
 in this room drunk before the entertainment was half 
 concluded. These were the times, sir, when the kings 
 kept mistresses, and got drunk in public ; they were too 
 plain and simple in those happy times to hide their vices, 
 and act the hypocrite as now." " Lord, Mrs. Quickly !" 
 interrupting her, " I expected to hear a story, and here 
 you are going to tell me I know not what of times and 
 vices ; pr'ythee let me entreat thee once more to waive 
 reflections, and give thy history without deviation." 
 
 " No lady upon earth," continued my visionary corres- 
 pondent, " knew how to put off her damaged wine or 
 women with more art than she. When these grew flat, 
 or those paltry, it was but changing their names ; the 
 wine became excellent, and the girls agreeable. She was 
 also possessed of the engaging leer, the chuck under the 
 chin, winked at a double entendre, could nick the oppor- 
 tunity of calling for something comfortable, and perfectly 
 understood the distinct moments when to withdraw. The 
 gallants of those times pretty much resembled the bloods 
 of ours ; they were fond of pleasure, but quite ignorant 
 of the art of refining upon it : thus a court-bawd of those 
 
483 
 
 times resembled the common, low-lived harridan of a 
 modern bagnio. Witness, ye powers of debauchery ! how 
 often have I been present at the various appearances of 
 drunkenness, riot, guilt, and brutality. A tavern is a true 
 picture of human infirmity ; in history we find only one 
 side of the age exhibited to our view ; but in the accounts 
 of a tavern we see every age equally absurd and equally 
 vicious. 
 
 Upon this lady's decease, the tavern was successively 
 occupied by adventurers, bullies, pimps, and gamesters. 
 Towards the conclusion of the reign of Henry VII. gam- 
 ing was more universally practised in England than even 
 now. Kings themselves have been known to play off, 
 at primero, not only all the money and jewels they could 
 part with, but the very images in churches. The last 
 Henry played away, in this very room, not only the four 
 great bells of St. Paul's cathedral, but the fine image of 
 St. Paul, which stood upon the top of the spire, to Sir 
 Miles Partridge, who took them down the next day, and 
 sold them by auction. Have you then any cause to re- 
 gret being born in the times you now live in, or do you 
 still believe that human nature continues to run on de- 
 clining every age ? If we observe the actions of the 
 busy part of mankind, your ancestors will be found infi- 
 nitely more gross, servile, and even dishonest, than you. 
 If, forsaking history, we only trace them in their hours of 
 amusement and dissipation, we shall find them more sen- 
 sual, more entirely devoted to pleasure, and infinitely 
 more selfish. 
 
 " The last hostess of note I find upon record was Jane 
 Eouse. She was born among the lower ranks of the 
 
484 ESSAYS. 
 
 people ; and by frugality and extreme complaisance, con- 
 trived to acquire a moderate fortune : this she might have 
 enjoyed for many years, had she not unfortunately quar- 
 relled with one of her neighbors, a woman who was in 
 high repute for sanctity through the whole parish. In 
 the times of which I speak, two women seldom quarrelled 
 that one did not accuse the other of witchcraft, and she 
 who first contrived to vomit crooked pins was sure to come 
 off victorious. The scandal of a modern tea-table differs 
 widely from the scandal of former times ; the fascination 
 of a lady's eyes, at present, is regarded as a compliment ; 
 but if a lady formerly should be accused of having witch- 
 craft in her eyes, it were much better, both for her soul 
 and body, that she had no eyes at all. 
 
 " In short, Jane Rouse was accused of witchcraft, and 
 though she made the best defence she could, it was all to 
 no purpose ; she was taken from her own bar to the bar 
 of the Old Bailey, condemned, and executed accordingly. 
 These were times, indeed ! when even women could not 
 scold in safety. 
 
 " Since her time the tavern underwent several revolu- 
 tions, according to the spirit of the times, or the disposi- 
 tion of the reigning monarch. It was this day a brothel, 
 and the next a conventicle for enthusiasts. It was one 
 year noted for harboring whigs, and the next infamous 
 for a retreat to tories. Some years ago it was in high 
 vogue, but at present it seems declining. This only may 
 be remarked in general, that whenever taverns flourish 
 most, the times are then most extravagant and luxurious." 
 " Lord, Mrs. Quickly ! " interrupted I, " you have really 
 deceived me ; I expected a romance, and here you have 
 
ESSAYS. 485 
 
 been this half-hour giving me only a description of the 
 spirit of the times ; if you have nothing but tedious re- 
 marks to communicate, seek some other hearer ; I am 
 determined to hearken only to stories." 
 
 I had scarce concluded, when my eyes and ears seemed 
 opened to my landlord, who had been all this while giving 
 me an account of the repairs he had made in the house, 
 and was now got into the story of the cracked glass in 
 the dining-room. 
 
 ON QUACK DOCTORS. 
 
 Whatever may be the merits of the English in other 
 sciences, they seem peculiarly excellent in the art of 
 healing. There is scarcely a disorder incident to human- 
 ity, against which our advertising doctors are not possessed 
 with a most infallible antidote. The professors of other 
 arts confess the inevitable intricacy of things ; talk with 
 doubt, and decide with hesitation : but doubting is entire- 
 ly unknown in medicine : the advertising professors here 
 delight in cases of difficulty ; be the disorder ever so 
 desperate or radical, you will find numbers in every street, 
 who, by levelling a pill at the part affected, promise a 
 certain cure without loss of time, knowledge of a bedfel- 
 low, or hinderance of business. 
 
 When I consider the assiduity of this profession, their 
 benevolence amazes me. They not only, in general, give 
 their medicines for half value, but use the most persua- 
 sive remonstrances to induce the sick to come and be 
 cured. Sure there must be something strangely obstinate 
 41* 
 
486 ESSAYS. 
 
 in an English patient who refuses so much health upon 
 such easy terms ! Does he take a pride in being bloat- 
 ed with a dropsy ? does he find pleasure in the alterna- 
 tions of an intermittent fever ? or feel as much satisfaction 
 in nursing up his gout, as he found pleasure in acquiring 
 it ? He must ; otherwise he would never reject such re- 
 peated assurances of instant relief. What can be more 
 convincing than the manner in which the sick are invited 
 to be well ? The doctor first begs the most earnest atten- 
 tion of the public to what he is going to propose; he 
 solemnly affirms the pill was never found to want suc- 
 cess ; he produces a list of those who have been rescued 
 from the grave by taking it. Yet, notwithstanding all 
 this, there are many here who now and then think proper 
 to be sick : — only sick, did I say ? there are some who 
 even think proper to die ! Yes, by the head of Confucius, 
 they die ! though they might have purchased the health- 
 restoring specific for half-a-crown at every corner. 
 
 I can never enough admire the sagacity of this coun- 
 try for the encouragement given to the professors of this 
 art ; with what indulgence does she foster up those of her 
 own growth, and kindly cherish those that come from 
 abroad ! Like a skilful gardener, she invites them from 
 every foreign climate to herself. Here every great exotic 
 strikes root as soon as imported, and feels the genial 
 beam of favor; while the mighty metropolis, like one vast 
 munificent dunghill, receives them indiscriminately to 
 her breast, and supplies each with more than native nour- 
 ishment. 
 
 In other countries the physician pretends to cure disor- 
 ders in the lump ; the same doctor who combats the gout 
 
ESSAYS. 487 
 
 in the toe, shall pretend to prescribe for a pain in the 
 head ; and he who at one time cures a consumption, shall 
 at another give' drugs for a dropsy. How absurd and 
 ridiculous ! this is being a mere jack of all trades. Is 
 the animal machine less complicated than a brass pin ? 
 Not less than ten different hands are required to make a 
 brass pin ; and shall the body be set right by one single 
 operator ? 
 
 The English are sensible of the force of this reasoning ; 
 they have therefore one doctor for the eyes, another for 
 the toes ; they have their sciatica doctors, and inoculating 
 doctors ; they have one doctor, who is modestly content 
 with securing them from bug bites, and five hundred who 
 prescribe for the bite of mad dogs. 
 
 But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anecdotes 
 of the great, however minute or trifling, I must present 
 you, inadequate as my abilities are to the subject, with an 
 account of one or two of those personages who lead in 
 this honorable profession. 
 
 The first upon the list of glory is Doctor Richard Rock, 
 F. U. N. This great man is short of stature, is fat, and 
 waddles as he walks. He always wears a white three- 
 tailed wig, nicely combed, and frizzled upon each cheek. 
 Sometimes he carries a cane, but a hat never ; it is indeed 
 very remarkable that this extraordinary personage should 
 never wear a hat ; but so it is, a hat he never wears. He 
 is usually drawn, at the top of his own bills, sitting in his 
 arm-chair, holding a little bottle between his finger and 
 thumb, and surrounded with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, 
 packets, and gallipots. No man can promise fairer or 
 better than he ; for, as he observes, " Be your disorder 
 
488 ESSAYS. 
 
 never so far gone, be under no uneasiness, make yourself 
 quite easy, I can cure you." 
 
 The next in fame, though by some reckoned of equal 
 pretensions, is Dr. Timothy Franks, F. 0. G. H. living in 
 the Old Bailey. As Rock is remarkably squab, his great 
 rival Franks is as remarkably tall. He was born in the 
 year of the Christian era 1692, and is, while I now write, 
 exactly sixty-eight years three months and four days old. 
 Age, however, has no ways impaired his usual health and 
 vivacity ; I am told he generally walks with his breast 
 open. This gentleman, who is of a mixed reputation, is 
 particularly remarkable for a becoming assurance, which 
 carries him gently through life ; for, except Dr. Rock, 
 none are more blessed with the advantages of face than 
 Dr. Franks. 
 
 And yet the great have their foibles as well as the little. 
 I am almost ashamed to mention it. Let the foibles of 
 the great rest in peace. Yet I must impart the whole. 
 These two great men are actually now at variance ; like 
 mere men, mere common mortals. Rock advises the 
 world to beware of bog-trotting quacks : Franks retorts 
 the wit and sarcasm, by fixing on his rival the odious 
 appellation of Dumpling Dick. He calls the serious 
 Doctor Rock, Dumpling Dick! Head of Confucius, 
 what profanation ! Dumpling Dick ! What a pity, ye 
 powers, that the learned, who were born mutually to as- 
 sist in enlightening the world, should thus differ among 
 themselves, and make even the profession ridiculous ! 
 Sure the world is wide enough, at least, for two great 
 personages to figure in : men of science should leave con- 
 troversy to the little world below them ; and then we 
 
ESSAYS. 489 
 
 might see Rock and Franks walking together, hand in 
 hand, smiling onward to immortality. 
 
 ADVENTURES OE A STROLLING PLAYER. 
 
 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 conver- 
 sation. "I beg pardon, sir," cried I, "but I think I 
 have seen you before ; your face is familiar to me." 
 " Yes, sir," replied he, " I have a good familiar 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-andrew 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 Rose- 
 mary-lane, and I to starve in St. James's Park." 
 
 " I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appearance 
 should labor under any difficulties." " O, sir," returned 
 he, " my appearance is very much at your service : but, 
 though I cannot boast of eating much, yet there are few 
 
490 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 half- 
 pence ; and, if I have no money, I never scorn to be 
 treated by any that are kind enough to pay the 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 companion, we instantly adjourned to a neighbor- 
 ing 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 vivacity. " 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 w T as tough ; " and yet, sir," 
 returns he, " bad as it was, it seemed a rump-steak to me. 
 O the delights of poverty and a good appetite ! We beg- 
 gars 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 insupport- 
 ably tough ; dress it up with pickles, and even pickles 
 cannot procure them an appetite. But the whole creation 
 
ESSAYS. 491 
 
 is filled with good things for the beggar ; Calvert's butt 
 out-tastes champagne, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels 
 tokay. Joy, joy, my blood ; though our estates lie no 
 w T here, we have fortunes wherever we go. If an inunda- 
 tion sweeps away half the grounds in Cornwall, I am 
 content : I have no land 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 something of his life and circumstances ; and I 
 entreated that he would indulge my desire. " That I 
 will," said he, " and welcome ; only let us drink, to pre- 
 vent 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 ancestors 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 respectful 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 
 
492 ESSAYS. 
 
 was by nature fond of being a gentleman : besides, I was 
 obliged to obey my captain ; he lias his will, I have mine 
 and you have yours : now I very reasonably concluded, 
 that it was much more comfortable 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 the good 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, 
 I 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 dis- 
 charge. 
 
 " Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employment, 
 I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and, in order not 
 to be overtaken, took the most unfrequented roads possible. 
 One evening, as I was entering a village, I perceived a 
 man, whom I afterward found to be the curate of the 
 parish, thrown from his horse in a miry road, and almost 
 smothered in the mud. He desired 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 me at his own door. The curate asked a 
 
ESSAYS. 493 
 
 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 
 honor 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 servant, was ill-natured and ugly. As 
 they endeavored 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. 
 
 " While my money was getting ready, I employed my- 
 self in making preparations for my departure ; two hens 
 were hatching in an out-house ; 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 bid adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old bene- 
 factor. I had not gone far from the house, when I heard 
 behind me the cry of " Stop thief ! " but this only increas- 
 ed my despatch : it would have been foolish for me to 
 stop, as I knew the voice could not be levelled at me. 
 But hold, I think I passed those two months at the 
 42 
 
494 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 every thing of the vaga- 
 bond 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 sung, danced, drank, ate, and 
 travelled, all at the same time. By the blood of the 
 Mirabels, 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 see ; and, though I was poor, 
 I was not modest. 
 
 " I love a straggling life above all things in the world ; 
 sometimes good, sometimes bad ; to be warm to-day and 
 cold to-morrow ; to eat when one can get it, and drink 
 when (the tankard is out) it stands before me. "We 
 arrived that evening at Tenterden, 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 gentle- 
 man from the theatre royal in Drury-lane ; Juliet, by a 
 lady who had never appeared on any stage before ; and I 
 was to snuff 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 
 
ESSAYS. 495 
 
 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 neighboring apothe- 
 cary's, answered all the purposes of a bell : and our land- 
 lord'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 pro- 
 priety ; 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 rule 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 scarce leaves any 
 taste behind it : but being high in a part resembles vine- 
 gar, 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 labor like one in the falling sickness ; 
 that is the way to work for applause ; that is the way to 
 gain it. 
 
 " As we received much reputation for our skill on this 
 first exhibition, 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 
 
496 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 resolved to go, in a body, to 
 scold the man for falling sick at so 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 
 offer ; and I accordingly sat down with the part in my 
 hand, and a tankard before me (sir, your health), and 
 studied the character, which was to be rehearsed the next 
 day, and played soon after. 
 
 " I found my memory excessively helped by drinking : 
 I learned my part with astonishing rapidity, and bid adieu* 
 to snuffing candles ever after. I found that Nature had 
 designed me for more noble employments, and I was re- 
 solved to take her when in the humor. We got together 
 in order to rehearse, and I informed my companions, mas- 
 ters now no longer, of the surprising change I felt within 
 me. Let the sick man, said I, be under no uneasiness to 
 get well again ; I '11 fill his place to universal satisfaction : 
 he may even die, if he thinks proper ; I '11 engage that 
 he shall never be missed. I rehearsed before them, strut- 
 ted, ranted, and received applause. They soon gave out 
 that a new actor of eminence was to appear, and immedi- 
 ately 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 do n't pretend to direct you ; far be it 
 from me to treat you with so much ingratitude ; you have 
 
ESSAYS. 497 
 
 published my name in the bills with the utmost good-na- 
 ture ; 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 in king 
 Bajazet : my frowning brows bound with a stocking stuff- 
 ed into a turban, while on my captived arms I brandish- 
 ed 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 audi- 
 ence with a smile, and made a most low and graceful bow, 
 for that is the rule among us. As it was a very passion- 
 ate 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, be- 
 sides, 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 the whole 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 surloin of beef. The principal 
 gentlemen and ladies of the town came to me, after the 
 play was over, to compliment me on my success : one 
 praised my voice, another my person : Upon my word, 
 says the squire's lady, he will make one of the finest 
 42* 
 
498 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 favor ; 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 in- 
 ternally 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 
 some distance from thence. I shall never think of Ten- 
 terden 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 up- 
 on 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 compa- 
 ny ; however, we were resolved to take all we could get. 
 I played capital characters there too, and came off with 
 my usual brilliancy. I sincerely 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 
 
ESSAYS. 499 
 
 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. 
 
 " There was here a lady, who had received an educa- 
 tion of nine months in London, and this gave her preten- 
 sions to taste, which rendered her the indisputable mis- 
 tress of the ceremonies wherever she came. She was 
 informed of my merits : every body 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 exhibition : however, no way intimi- 
 dated, I came on in Sir Harry, one hand stuck in my 
 breeches, and the other in my bosom, as ususal at Drury- 
 lane ; but, instead of looking at me, I perceived the whole 
 audience had their eyes turned upon the lady who had 
 been nine months in London ; from her they expected the 
 decision which was to secure the general's truncheon in 
 my hands, 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 the devil 
 a cheek could I perceive wrinkled into sympathy. I 
 found it would not do ; all my good-humor now became 
 forced ; my laughter was converted into hysteric grin- 
 ning; and while I pretended spirits, my eyes showed the 
 
500 ESSAYS. 
 
 agony of my heart ! In short, the lady came with an in- 
 tention to be displeased, and displeased she was ; my 
 fame expired : — I am here, and the tankard is 
 
 RULES ENJOINED TO BE OBSERVED AT A RUSSIAN 
 ASSEMBLY. 
 
 When Catharina Alexowna was made empress of 
 Russia, the women were in an actual state of bondage ; 
 but she undertook to introduce mixed assemblies, as in 
 other parts of Europe ; she altered the women's dress by 
 substituting the fashions of England ; instead of furs, she 
 brought in the use of taffeta and damask ; and cornets 
 and commodes instead of caps of sable. The women now 
 found themselves no longer shut up in separate apart- 
 ments, but saw company, visited each other, and were 
 present at every entertainment. 
 
 But as the laws to this effect were directed to a savage 
 people, it is amusing enough to see the manner in which 
 the ordinances ran. Assemblies were quite unknown 
 among them : the czarina was satisfied with introducing 
 them, for she found it impossible to render them polite. 
 An ordinance was therefore published according to their 
 notions of breeding, which, as it is a curiosity, and has 
 never been before printed that we know of, we shall give 
 our readers. 
 
 I. The person at whose house the assembly is to be 
 kept, shall signify the same by hanging out a bill, or by 
 
501 
 
 giving some other public notice, by way of advertisment, 
 to persons of both sexes. 
 
 II. The assembly shall not be open sooner than four 
 or five o'clock in the afternoon, nor continue longer than 
 ten at night 
 
 III. The master of the house shall not be obliged to 
 meet his guests, or conduct them out, or keep them com- 
 pany ; but though he is exempt from all tins, he is to find 
 them chairs, candles, liquors, and all other necessaries 
 that company may ask for: he is likewise to provide them 
 with cards, dice, and every necessary for gaming. 
 
 IV. There shall be no fixed hour for coming or going 
 away ; it is enough for a person to appear in the as- 
 sembly. 
 
 - V. Every one shall be free to sit, walk, or game, as 
 he pleases ; nor shall any one go about to hinder him, or 
 take exception at what he does, upon pain of emptying 
 the great eagle (a pint bowl full of brandy) : it shall like- 
 wise be sufficient, at entering or retiring, to salute the 
 company. 
 
 VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, superior officers, 
 merchants, and tradesmen of note, head-workmen, es- 
 pecially carpenters, and persons employed in chancery, 
 are to have liberty to enter the assemblies ; as likewise 
 their wives and children. 
 
 VII. A particular place shall be assigned the footmen, 
 except those of the house, that there may be room enough 
 in the apartments designed for the assembly. 
 
 VIII. No ladies are to get drunk upon any pretence 
 whatsoever, nor shall gentlemen be drunk before nine. 
 
 IX. Ladies who play at forfeitures, questions and com- 
 
502 ESSAYS. 
 
 mands, etc. shall not be riotous : no gentleman shall at- 
 temp to force a kiss, and no person shall offer to strike a 
 woman in the assembly, under pain of future exclusion. 
 
 Such are the statutes upon this occasion, which, in their 
 very appearance carry an air of ridicule and satire. But 
 politeness must enter every country by degrees ; and 
 these rules resemble the breeding of a clow% awkward 
 but sincere. 
 
 THE GENIUS OF LOVE : 
 
 AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. 
 
 The formalities, delays, and disappointments, that pre- 
 cede a treaty of marriage here, are usually as numerous 
 as those previous to a treaty of peace. The laws of this 
 country are finely calculated to promote all commerce, 
 but the commerce between the sexes. Their encourage- 
 ments for propagating hemp, madder, and tobacco, are 
 indeed admirable ! Marriages are the only commodity 
 that meets with none. 
 
 Yet, from the vernal softness of the air, the verdure of 
 the fields, the transparency of the streams, and the beauty 
 of the women, I know few countries more proper to invite 
 to courtship. Here Love might sport among painted lawns 
 and warbling groves, and revel amidst gales, wafting at 
 once both fragrance and harmony. Yet it seems he 
 has forsaken the island ; and when a couple are now to 
 be married, mutual love, or a union of minds, is the last 
 and most trifling consideration. If their goods and chat- 
 tels can be brought to unite, their sympathetic souls are 
 
ESSAYS. 503 
 
 ever ready to guarantee the treaty. The gentleman's 
 mortgaged lawn becomes enamored of the lady's mar- 
 riageble grove ; the match is struck up, and both parties 
 are piously in love — according to act of parliament. 
 
 Thus they who have a fortune, are possessed at least 
 of something that is lovely ; but I actually pity those that 
 have none. I am told there was a time when ladies, with 
 no other merit but youth, virtue, and beauty, had a chance 
 for husbands, at least among the ministers of the church, 
 or the officers of the army. The blush and innocence of 
 sixteen was said to have a powerful influence over these 
 two professions ; but of late, all the little traffic of blush- 
 ing, ogling, dimpling, and smiling, has been forbidden by 
 an act in that case wisely made and provided. A lady's 
 whole cargo of smiles, sighs, and whispers, is declared 
 utterly contraband, till she arrives in the warm latitude 
 of twenty-two, where commodities of this nature are 
 found too often to decay. She is then permitted to dim- 
 ple and smile, when the dimples and smiles begin to for- 
 sake her ; and, when perhaps, grown ugly, is charitably 
 intrusted with an unlimited use of her charms. Her 
 lovers, however, by this time, have forsaken her ; the 
 captain has changed for another mistress ; the priest him- 
 self leaves her in solitude to bewail her virginity, and 
 she dies even without benefit of clergy. 
 
 Thus you find the Europeans discouraging love with as 
 much earnestness as the rudest savage of Sofala. The 
 Genius is surely now no more. In every region I find 
 enemies in arms to oppress him. Avarice in Europe, 
 jealousy in Persia, ceremony in China, poverty among 
 the Tartars, and lust in Circassia, are all prepared to op- 
 
504 ESSAYS. 
 
 pose his power. The Genius is certainly banished from 
 earth, though once adored under such a variety of forms. 
 He is no where to be found ; and all that the ladies of 
 each country can produce, are but a few trifling relics, as 
 instances of his former residence and favor. 
 
 "The Genius of Love," says the eastern apologue., 
 " had long resided in the happy plains of Abra, where 
 every breeze was health, and every sound produced tran- 
 quillity. His temple at first was crowded, but eveiy age 
 lessened the number of his votaries, or cooled their devo- 
 tion. Perceiving, therefore, his altars at length quite 
 deserted, he was resolved to remove to some more propi- 
 tious region ; and he apprized the fair sex of every coun- 
 try, where he could hope for a proper reception, to assert 
 their right to his presence among them. In return to 
 this proclamation, embassies were sent from the ladies of 
 every part of the world to invite him, and to display the 
 superiority of their claims. 
 
 " And, first, the beauties of China appeared. No coun- 
 try could compare with them for modesty, either of look, 
 'dress or behavior; their eyes were never lifted from the 
 ground ; their robes, of the most beautiful silk, hid their 
 hands, bosom, and neck, while their faces only were left 
 uncovered. They indulged no airs that might express 
 loose desire, and they seemed to study only the graces of 
 inanimate beauty. Their black teeth and plucked eye- 
 brows were, however, alleged by the genius against them % 
 but he set them entirely aside when he came to examine 
 their little feet. 
 
 " The beauties of Circassia next made their appear- 
 ance. They advanced, hand in hand,, singing the most 
 
ESSAYS. 505 
 
 immodest airs, and leading up a dance in the most luxu- 
 rious attitudes. Their dress was but half a covering; 
 the neck, the left breast, and all the limbs, were exposed 
 to view, which, after some time, seemed rather to satiate, 
 than inflame desire. The lily and the rose contended in 
 forming their complexions ; and a soft sleepiness of eye 
 added irresistible poignance to their charms ; but their 
 beauties were obtruded, not offered to their admirers ; 
 they seemed to give, rather than receive courtship ; and 
 the genius of love dismissed them, as unworthy his re- 
 gard, since they exchanged the duties of love, and made 
 themselves not the pursued, but the pursuing sex. 
 
 " The kingdom of Kashmire next produced its charm- 
 ing deputies. This happy region seemed peculiarly 
 sequestered by nature for his abode. Shady mountains 
 fenced it on one side from the scorching sun ; and sea- 
 borne breezes, on the other, gave peculiar luxuriance to 
 the air. Their complexions were of a bright yellow, 
 that appeared almost transparent, while the crimson tulip 
 seemed to blossom on their cheeks. Their features and 
 limbs were delicate beyond the statuary's power to ex- 
 press ; and their teeth whiter than their own ivory. He 
 was almost persuaded to reside among them, when unfor- 
 tunately one of the ladies talked of appointing his seraglio. 
 
 " In this procession the naked inhabitants of Southern 
 America would not be left behind; their charms were 
 found to surpass whatever the warmest imagination could 
 conceive ; and served to show, that beauty could be per- 
 fect, even with the seeming disadvantage of a brown 
 complexion. But their savage education rendered them 
 utterly unqualified to make the proper use of their pow- 
 
506 ESSAYS. 
 
 er, and they were rejected as being incapable of uniting 
 mental with sensual satisfaction. In this manner the 
 deputies of other kingdoms had their suits rejected : the 
 black beauties of Benin, and the tawny daughters of 
 Borneo; the women of Wida with scarred faces, and 
 the hideous virgins of CafFraria; the squab ladies of 
 Lapland, three feet high, and the giant fair ones of Pat- 
 agonia. 
 
 " The beauties of Europe at last appeared : grace was 
 in their steps, and sensibility sat smiling in every eye. 
 It was the universal opinion, while they were approach- 
 ing, that they would prevail : and the genius seemed to 
 lend them his most favorable attention. They opened 
 their pretensions with the utmost modesty ; but unfortu- 
 nately, as their orator proceeded, she happened to let fall 
 the words, house in town, settlement, and pin-money. 
 These seemingly harmless terms had instantly a surpris- 
 ing effect : the genius, with ungovernable rage, burst from 
 amidst the circle ; and, waving his youthful pinions, left 
 this earth, and flew back to those etherial mansions 
 from whence he descended. 
 
 " The whole assembly was struck with amazement ; 
 they now justly apprehended that female power would be 
 no more, since Love had now forsaken them. They con- 
 tinued some time thus in a state of torpid despair, when 
 it was proposed by one of the number, that, since the 
 real Genius of Love had left them, in order to continue 
 their power, they should set up an idol in his stead ; and 
 that the ladies of every country should furnish him with 
 what each liked best. This proposal was instantly rel- 
 ished and agreed to. An idol of gold was formed by 
 
507 
 
 uniting the capricious gifts of all the assembly, though no 
 way resembling the departed genius. The ladies of China 
 furnished the monster with wings; those of Kashmire 
 supplied him with horns ; the dames of Europe clapped 
 a purse in his hand ; and the virgins of Congo furnished 
 him with a tail. Since that time, all the vows addressed 
 to Love, are in reality paid to the idol ; and, as in other 
 false religions, the adoration seems more fervent where 
 the heart is least sincere." 
 
 HISTORY OF THE DISTRESSES OF AN ENGLISH 
 DISABLED SOLDIER. 
 
 No observation is more common, and at the same time 
 more true, than that " one half of the world is ignorant 
 how the other half lives." The misfortunes of the great 
 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 : the great, under the pressure 
 of calamity, are conscious of several others sympathizing 
 with their distress ; and have, at once, the comfort of 
 admiration and pity. 
 
 There is nothing magnanimous in bearing misfortunes 
 with fortitude when the whole world is looking on : men 
 in such circumstances will act bravely even from motives 
 of vanity : but he who, in the vale of obscurity, can brave 
 adversity : who, without friends to encourage, acquaintan- 
 ces to pity, or even without hope to alleviate his misfor- 
 tunes, can behave with tranquillity and indifference, is 
 truly great ; whether peasant or courtier, he deserves ad- 
 
508 ESSAYS. 
 
 miration, and should be held up for our imitation and 
 respect- 
 While the slightest inconveniences of the great are 
 magnified into calamities ; while tragedy mouths out their 
 sufferings in all the strains of eloquence — the miseries 
 of the poor are entirely disregarded ; and yet some of the 
 lower ranks of people undergo more real hardships in one 
 day, than those of a more exalted station suffer in their 
 whole lives. It is inconceivable what difficulties the 
 meanest of our common sailors and soldiers endure with- 
 out murmuring or regret ; without passionately declaiming 
 against Providence, or calling on their fellows to be gazers 
 on their intrepidity. Every day is to them a day of mis- 
 ery, and yet they entertain their hard fate without re- 
 pining. 
 
 With what indignation do I hear an Ovid, a Cicero, op 
 a Babutin, complain of their misfortunes and hardships, 
 whose greatest calamity was that of being unable to visit 
 a certain spot of earth, to which they had foolishly 
 attached an idea of happiness ! Their distresses were 
 pleasures compared to what many of the adventuring 
 poor every day endure without murmuring. They ate, 
 drank, and slept ; they had slaves to attend them, and 
 were sure of subsistence for life; while many of their 
 fellow-creatures are obliged to wander without a friend to 
 comfort or assist them, and even without a shelter from 
 the severity of the season. 
 
 . 1 have been led into these reflections from accidentally 
 meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow, whom I knew 
 when a boy, dressed in a sailor's jacket, and begging at 
 one of the outlets of the town, with a wooden leg. I 
 
509 
 
 knew him to be honest and industrious when in the 
 country, and was curious to learn what had reduced him 
 to his present situation. Wherefore, after giving him 
 what I thought proper, I 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, though dressed in a sailor's habit, scratching 
 his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself into an 
 attitude to comply with my request, and gave me his his- 
 tory as follows : — 
 
 " As for my misfortunes, master, I can't pretend to 
 have gone through any more than other folks : for 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 is Bill Tibbs, of our regiment, he has lost both his 
 legs, and an eye to boot ; but, thank Heaven, it is not so 
 bad with me yet. 
 
 " I was born in Shropshire ; my father was a laborer, 
 and died when I was five years old, so I was put upon 
 the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a man, 
 the parishioners were not able to tell to what parish I be- 
 longed, or where I was born, so they sent me to another 
 parish, and that parish sent me to a third. I thought, in 
 my heart, they kept sending me about so long, that they 
 would not let me be born in any parish at all ; but at last, 
 however, they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a 
 scholar, and was resolved at least to know my letters ; 
 but the master of the workhouse put me to business as 
 soon as I was able to handle a mallet ; and 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 provided 
 43* 
 
510 ESSAYS. 
 
 for my labor. It is true, I was not suffered to stir out of 
 the house, for fear, as they said, 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 then 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, when I was obliged 
 to provide for myself; so I was resolved to go and seek 
 my fortune. 
 
 " In this manner I went from town to town, worked 
 when I could get employment, and starved when I could 
 get none ; when happening one day to go through a field 
 belonging to a justice of the peace, I spied a hare crossing 
 the path just before me ; and I believe the devil put it 
 into my head to fling my stick at it : — well, what will 
 you have on 't ? I killed the hare, and was bringing it 
 away in triumph, when the justice himself met me : he 
 called me a poacher and a villain ; and, collaring me, de- 
 sired I would give an account of myself, I fell upon my 
 knees,, begged his worship's pardon, and began to give a 
 full account of all that I knew of my breed, seed, and 
 generation ; but though I gave a very good account, the 
 justice would not believe a syllable I had to say ; so I 
 was indicted at sessions, found guilty of being poor, and 
 sent up to London to Newgate, in order to be transported 
 as a vagabond. 
 
 " 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 in all my life. I had my bellyfull to eafc 
 and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of life was 
 too good to last for ever; so I was taken out of prison, 
 
511 
 
 after five months, put on board a ship, and sent off, with 
 two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an 
 indifferent passage ; for, being all confined in the hold, 
 more than a hundred of our people died for want of sweet 
 air; and those that remained were sickly enough, God 
 knows. When we came ashore we were sold to the 
 planters, and I was bound for seven years more. As I 
 was no scholar, for I did not know my letters, I was 
 obliged to work among the negroes ; and I 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. I was afraid, however, that I should 
 be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did not much 
 care to go down into the country, but kept about the town, 
 and did little jobs when I could get them, 
 
 " I was very happy in this manner for some time, till 
 one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked 
 me down, and then desired me to stand. They belonged 
 to a press-gang : I was carried before the justice, and as 
 I could give no account of myself, I had my choice left, 
 whether to go on board a man of war, or list for a soldier. 
 I chose the latter ; and, in this post of a gentleman, I 
 served two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battles of 
 Val and Fontenoy, and received but one wound through 
 the breast here; but the doctor of our regiment soon 
 made me well again. 
 
 " When the peace came on I was discharged, and as I 
 could not work, because my wound was sometimes trouble- 
 some, I listed for a landman in the East-India company's 
 
512 ESSAYS. 
 
 service. I here fought the French in six pitched battles ; 
 and I verily believe, that if I could read or write, our 
 captain would have made me a corporal. But it was not 
 my good fortune to have any promotion, for I soon fell 
 sick, and so got leave to return home again, with forty 
 pounds in my pocket. This was at the beginning of the 
 present war, and I hoped to be set on shore, and to have 
 the pleasure of spending my money; but the government 
 wanted men, and so I was pressed for a sailor before ever 
 I could set foot on shore. 
 
 " The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate fel- 
 low : he swore he knew that I understood my business 
 well, but that I shammed Abraham, merely to be idle ; 
 but God knows, I knew nothing of sea-business, and he 
 beat me without considering what he was about. I had 
 still, however, my forty pounds, and that was some com- 
 fort to me under every beating ; and the money I might 
 have had to this day, but that our ship was taken by the 
 French, and so I lost all. 
 
 " Our crew was carried into Brest, and many of them 
 died because they were not used to live in a jail ; but 
 for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. 
 One night as I was sleeping on the bed of boards, with a 
 warm blanket about me, for I always loved to lie well, I 
 was awakened by the boatswain, who had a dark lantern 
 in his hand. Jack, says he to me, will you knock out the 
 French sentries' 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, 
 
ESSAYS. 513 
 
 about my middle, and went with him to fight the French- 
 man. I hate the French because they are all slaves, and 
 wear wooden shoes. 
 
 " Though we had no arms, 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 har- 
 bor and put to sea. We had not been here three days 
 before we were taken up by the Dorset privateer, who 
 were glad of so many good hands ; and we consented to 
 run our chance. However, we had not so much good 
 luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the 
 Pompadour privateer, of forty guns, while we had but 
 twenty-three ; so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. 
 The fight lasted for three hours, and I verily believe we 
 should have taken the Frenchman, had we but had some 
 more men left behind ; but unfortunately we lost 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 Brest : but, by good fortune we were re- 
 taken by the Viper. I had almost forgot to tell you, that 
 in that engagement I was wounded in two places ; I lost 
 four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot off. If 
 I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg and use 
 of my hand on board a king's ship, and not aboard a pri- 
 vateer, I should have been entitled to clothing and main- 
 tenance during the rest of my life ; but that was not my 
 chance : one man is born with a silver spoon in his mouth, 
 
514 ESSAYS. 
 
 and another with a wooden ladle. However, blessed be 
 God ! I enjoy good health, and will forever love liberty 
 and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England 
 forever, — huzza ! " 
 
 Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admiration 
 at his intrepidity and content; nor could I avoid ac- 
 knowledging, that an habitual acquaintance with misery, 
 serves better than philosophy to teach us to despise it. 
 
 ON THE FRAILTY OF MAN. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE ORDINARY OF NEWGATE. 
 
 Man is a most frail being, incapable of directing his 
 steps, unacquainted 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. The. Cibber, just now gone 
 out of the world. Such a variety of turns of fortune, 
 yet such a persevering uniformity of conduct, 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 inclination ; he 
 played at cards on the Sundays, called himself a gentle- 
 man, fell out with his mother and laundress ; and, even in 
 
515 
 
 these early days, his father was frequently heard to ob- 
 serve, that young The. — would be hanged. 
 
 As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of pleas- 
 ure ; 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 col- 
 lected over-night as charity for a friend in distress ; he 
 ran into debt with every body 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 
 means but impudence for subsistence, is a thing that 
 every reader is not acquainted with, I must explain that 
 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. Lustring, send me 
 home six yards of that paduasoy, damme ; — but hark'ye, 
 do n't think I ever intend to pay you for it — damme." 
 At this, the mercer laughs heartily, cuts off the paduasoy, 
 and sends it home ; nor is he, till too late, surprised to 
 find the gentleman had said nothing but 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 upon credit, then 
 threaten to leave them upon his hands. 
 
 But the third and best method is called, " Being the 
 good customer." The gentleman first buys some trifle, 
 and pays for it in ready money ; he comes a few days 
 
516 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 return 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 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 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 in 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 of his wife and children ; you expect an 
 account of his coffin and white gloves, his pious ejacula- 
 tions, and the papers he left behind him. In this I can- 
 not indulge your curiosity : for, oh, the mysteries of fate ! 
 The. — was drowned. 
 
517 
 
 " Reader," as Hervey saith, " pause and ponder, and 
 ponder and pause ;'■ who knows what thy own end may- 
 be ? 
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 There are few subjects which have been more written 
 upon and less understood, than that of friendship. To fol- 
 low the dictates of some, this virtue, instead of being the 
 assuager of pain, becomes the source of every incon- 
 venience. Such speculatists, by expecting too much from 
 friendship, dissolve the connection, and by drawing the 
 bands too closely, at length break them. Almost all our 
 romance and novel writers are of this kind; they per- 
 suade us to friendship, which we find it impossible to sus- 
 tain to the last ; so that this sweetener of life, under 
 proper regulations, is, by their means, rendered inaccessi- 
 ble or uneasy. It is certain, the best method to cultivate 
 this virtue is by letting it, in some measure, make itself; 
 a similitude of minds or studies, and even sometimes a 
 diversity of pursuits, will produce all the pleasures that 
 arise from it. The current of tenderness widens as it 
 proceeds ; and two men imperceptibly find their hearts 
 filled with good-nature for each other, when they were at 
 first only in pursuit of mirth or relaxation. 
 
 Friendship is like a debt of honor ; the moment it is 
 talked of, it loses its real name, and assumes the more 
 ungrateful form of obligation. From hence we find, that 
 those who regularly undertake to cultivate friendship, 
 find ingratitude generally repays their endeavors. That 
 44 
 
518 ESSAYS. 
 
 circle of beings, which dependance gathers round us, is 
 almost ever unfriendly ; they secretly wish the terms of 
 their connections more nearly equal; and, where they 
 even have the most virtue, are prepared to reserve all 
 their affections for their patron only in the hour of his 
 decline. Increasing the obligations which are laid upon 
 such minds, only increases their burden ; they feel them- 
 selves unable to repay the immensity of their debt, and 
 their bankrupt hearts are taught a latent resentment 
 at the hand that is stretched out with offers of service 
 and relief. 
 
 Plautinus was a man who thought that every good was 
 to be brought from riches ; and, as he was possessed of 
 great wealth, and had a mind naturally formed for virtue, 
 he resolved to gather a circle of the best men round him. 
 Among the number of his dependants was Musidorus, 
 with a mind just as fond of virtue, yet not less proud 
 than his patron. His circumstances, however, were such 
 as forced him to stoop to the good offices of his superior, 
 and he saw himself daily among a number of others 
 loaded with benefits and protestations of friendship. 
 These, in the usual course of the world, he thought it 
 prudent to accept : but, while he gave his esteem, he 
 could not give his heart. A want of affection breaks out 
 in the most trifling instances, and Plautinus had skill 
 enough to observe the minutest actions of the man he 
 wished to make his friend. In these he even found his 
 aim disappointed; Musidorus claimed an exchange of 
 hearts, which Plautinus, solicited by a variety of claims, 
 could never think of bestowing. 
 
 It may be easily supposed that the reserve of our poor 
 
ESSAYS. 519 
 
 proud man was soon construed into ingratitude ; and such 
 indeed, in the common acceptation of the world, it was. 
 Wherever Musidorus appeared, he was remarked as the 
 ungrateful man ; he had accepted favors, it was said ; and 
 still had the insolence to pretend to independence. The 
 event, however, justified his conduct. Plautinus, by mis- 
 placed liberality, at length became poor, and it was then 
 that Musidorus first thought of making a friend of him. 
 He flew to the man of fallen fortune, with an offer of all 
 he had ; wrought under his direction with assiduity ; and, 
 by uniting their talents, both were at length placed in 
 that state of life from which one of them had formerly 
 fallen. 
 
 To this story, taken from modern life, I shall add one 
 more, taken from a Greek writer of antiquity: — Two 
 Jewish soldiers, in the time of Vespasian, had fought 
 many campaigns together, and a participation of danger 
 at length bred a union of hearts. They were remarked 
 through the whole army, as the two friendly brothers ; 
 they felt and fought for each other. Their friendship 
 might have continued, without interruption, till death, had 
 not the good fortune of the one alarmed the pride of the 
 other, which was in his promotion to be a centurion under 
 the famous John, who headed a particular part of the 
 Jewish malcontents. 
 
 From this moment, their former love was converted 
 into the most inveterate enmity. They attached them- 
 selves to opposite factions, and sought each other's lives 
 in the conflict of adverse party. In this manner they 
 continued for more than two years, vowing mutual re- 
 venge, and animated with an unconquerable spirit of 
 
520 ESSAYS. 
 
 aversion. At length, however, that party of the Jews, 
 to which the mean soldier belonged, joining with the 
 Romans, it became victorious, and drove John with all 
 his adherents into the temple. History has given us 
 more than one picture of the dreadful conflagration of 
 that superb edifice. The Roman soldiers were gathered 
 round it ; the whole temple was in flames : and thousands 
 were seen amidst them within its sacred circuit. It was 
 in this situation of things, that the now successful soldier 
 saw his former friend, upon the battlements of the high- 
 est tower, looking round with horror, and just ready to 
 be consumed with flames. All his former tenderness now 
 returned ; he saw the man of his bosom just going to 
 perish ; and unable to withstand the impulse, he ran, 
 spreading his arms, and cried out to his friend to leap 
 down from the top, and find safety with him. The cen- 
 turion from above heard and obeyed ; and, casting him- 
 self from the top of the tower into his fellow-soldier's 
 arms, both fell a sacrifice on the spot ; one being crushed 
 to death by the weight of his companion, and the other 
 dashed to pieces by the greatness of his fall. 
 
 FOLLY OF ATTEMPTING TO LEARN WISDOM IN 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 Books, while they teach us to respect the interests of 
 others, often make us unmindful of our own ; while they 
 instruct the youthful reader to grasp at social happiness, 
 he grows miserable in detail ; and, attentive to universal 
 harmony, often forgets that he himself has a part to sus- 
 
521 
 
 tain in the concert. I dislike, therefore, the philosopher 
 who describes the inconveniences of life in such pleasing 
 colors, that the pupil grows enamored of distress, longs to 
 try the charms of poverty, meets it without dread, nor 
 fears its inconveniences till he severely feels them. 
 
 A youth who has thus spent his life among books, new 
 to the world, and unacquainted with man but by philo- 
 sophic information, may be considered as a being whose 
 mind is filled with the vulgar errors of the wise ; utterly 
 unqualified for a journey through life, yet confident of 
 his own skill in the direction, he sets out with confidence, 
 blunders on with vanity, and finds himself at last un- 
 done. 
 
 He first has learned from books, and then lays it down 
 as a maxim, that all mankind are virtuous or vicious in 
 excess : and he has been long taught to detest vice and 
 love virtue. Warm, therefore, in attachments, and stead- 
 fast in enmity, he treats every creature as a friend or foe ; 
 expects from those he loves unerring integrity ; and con- 
 signs his enemies to the reproach of wanting every virtue. 
 On this principle he proceeds ; and here begin his disap- 
 pointments : upon a closer inspection of human nature, 
 he perceives that he should have moderated his friend- 
 ship, and softened his severity ; for he often finds the ex- 
 cellences of one part of mankind clouded with vice, and 
 the faults of the other brightened with virtue ; he finds 
 no character so sanctified that has not its failings, none so 
 infamous, but has somewhat to attract our esteem ; he 
 beholds impiety in lawn, and fidelity in fetters. 
 
 He noAV, therefore, but too late, perceives that his re- 
 gards should have been more cool, and his hatred less vio- 
 44* 
 
522 ESSAYS. 
 
 lent ; that the trulj wise seldom court romantic friend- 
 ship with the good, and avoid, if possible, the resentment 
 even of the wicked ; every moment gives him fresh in- 
 stances that the bonds of friendship are broken if drawn 
 too closely ; and that those whom he has treated with dis- 
 respect, more than retaliate the injury : at length, there- 
 fore, he is obliged to confess, that he has declared war 
 upon the vicious half of mankind, without being able to 
 form an alliance among the virtuous to espouse his 
 quarrel. 
 
 Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now too far 
 advanced to recede ; and though poverty be the just con- 
 sequence of the many enemies his conduct has created, 
 yet he is resolved to meet it without shrinking ; philoso- 
 phers have described poverty in most charming colors ; 
 and even his vanity is touched in thinking he shall show 
 the world in himself one more example of patience, forti- 
 tude and resignation : " Come, then, O Poverty ! for 
 what is there in thee dreadful to the wise ? Temperance, 
 health, and frugality, walk in thy train ; cheerfulness and 
 liberty are ever thy companions. Shall any be ashamed 
 of thee of whom Cincinnatus was not ashamed ? The 
 running brook, the herbs of the field, can amply satisfy 
 nature ; man wants but little, nor that little long. Come, 
 then, O Poverty ! while kings stand by, and gaze with ad- 
 miration at the true philosopher's resignation." 
 
 The goddess appears ; for Poverty ever comes at the 
 call ; but, alas ! he finds her by no means the charming 
 figure books and his own imagination had painted. As 
 when an eastern bride, whom her friends and relations 
 had long described as a model of perfection, pays her first 
 
523 
 
 visit, the longing bridegroom lifts the veil to see a face he 
 had never seen before ; but instead of a countenance 
 blazing with beauty like the sun, he beholds deformity 
 shooting icicles to his heart ; such appears Poverty to 
 her new entertainer : all the fabric of enthusiasm is at 
 once demolished, and a, thousand miseries rise upon its 
 ruins ; while Contempt, with pointing finger, is foremost 
 in the hideous procession. 
 
 The poor man now finds that he can get no kings to 
 look at him while he is eating : he finds that in proportion 
 as he grows poor, the world turns its back upon him, and 
 gives him leave to act the philosopher in all the majesty 
 of solitude. It might be agreeable enough to play the 
 philosopher, while we are conscious that - mankind are 
 spectators ; but what signifies wearing the mask of sturdy 
 contentment, and mounting the stage of restraint, when 
 not one creature will assist at the exhibition ? Thus is 
 he forsaken of men, while his fortitude wants the satis- 
 faction even- of self-applause ; for either he does not feel 
 his present calamities, and that is natural insensibility; 
 or he disguises his feelings, and that is dissimulation. 
 
 Spleen now begins to take up the man ; not dis- 
 tinguishing in his resentment, he regards all mankind 
 with detestation : and commencing man-hater, seeks soli- 
 tude to be at liberty to rail. 
 
 It has-been said, that he who retires to solitude is 
 either a beast or an angel : the censure is too severe, and 
 the praise unmerited ; the discontented being, who retires 
 from society, is generally some good-natured man who 
 has begun life without experience, and knew not how to 
 gain it in his intercourse with mankind. 
 
524 
 
 LETTER, 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN, AT 
 THE TIME OP THE CORONATION. 
 
 Sik — I nave the honor of being a common-council- 
 man, and am greatly pleased with a paragraph from 
 Southampton in yours of yesterday. There we learn 
 that the mayor and aldermen of that loyal borough had 
 the particular satisfaction of celebrating the royal nup- 
 tials 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 presenting bis majesty 
 (God bless him) on every occasion with our formal ad- 
 dresses, we might thus sit comfortably down to dinner, 
 and wish him prosperity in a surloin of beef; upon our 
 army levelling the walls of a town, or besieging a fortifi- 
 cation, 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 oc- 
 casion ; 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 do n't see 
 what is got by these processions and addresses, except an 
 appetite ; and that, thank Heaven, we all have in a pretty 
 good degree, without ever leaving our own houses for it. 
 It is true, our gowns of mazarine blue, edged with fur, cut 
 
ESSAYS. 525 
 
 a pretty figure enough, parading it 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 never fill the belly. 
 
 But even though all this bustling, parading, and pow- 
 dering, 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 
 the other fine things there, may, I grant, be a perfect show 
 to us that view it but seldom ; but it may be a trouble- 
 some business enough to those who are to settle such 
 ceremonies as these every day. To use an instance 
 adapted to all our apprehensions ; suppose my family and 
 I should go to Bartholomew 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 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, drink- 
 ing 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 disaffected 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 hundred thousand pounds, and are possessed of several 
 
526 ESSAYS. 
 
 other inestimable advantages. For the preservation of 
 this money and those advantages we are chiefly indebted 
 to your m y. We are, therefore, once more assem- 
 bled, 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 never 
 shall do any thing to deprive you of one loyal subject, or 
 any one of ourselves of one hundred thousand pounds." 
 Should we not, upon reading such an address, think that 
 people a little silly, who thus made such unmeaning pro- 
 fessions ? Excuse me, Mr. Printer : no man upon earth 
 hath a more profound respect for the abilities of the alder- 
 men 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 will probably 
 be followed by every other community in the British em- 
 pire. 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 fill- 
 ed with gratitude, " laying the vows of a loyal people at 
 the foot of the throne." Death ! Mr. Printer, they will 
 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 designed. If we are thus exclaiming in 
 
ESSAYS. 527 
 
 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 : " 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 unneces- 
 sary cavalcade 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, etc. 
 
 A SECOND LETTER, 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN, 
 DESCRIBING THE CORONATION. 
 
 Sir, — I am the same common-council-man who troub- 
 led 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 
 
528 ESSAYS. 
 
 eyes about them, on this side and that, perfectly like clock- 
 work. O ! 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 scaffold- 
 ing, like sheep upon a market-day in Smithfield j but the 
 devil a thing I could get to eat (God pardon me for swear- 
 ing) 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 genteelly, and that all my family might be 
 amused at the same time, my wife, my daughter, and I, 
 took two-guinea places for the coronation, and I gave my 
 two eldest boys (who by the by are twins, fine children) 
 eighteen-pence a-piece 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 insisted upon going at seven o'clock in the evening 
 before the coronation, for she said she would not lose a 
 full prospect for the world. This resolution, I own, 
 shocked me. " Grizzle," said I to her, " Grizzle, my 
 dear, consider that you are but weakly, always ailing, and 
 will never bear sitting all night upon the scaffolding. 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, considering her 
 fortune is but small." " Mr. Grogan," replied my wife, 
 " Mr. Grogan, this is always the case,, when you find me 
 
ESSAYS. 529 
 
 in spirits ; I do n't want to go, not I, nor I do n'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 lamentation upon this, 
 with the adventures of a crumbled plum-cake ; relate all 
 these ; we suffered this and ten times more before we got 
 to our places. 
 
 At last, however, we were seated. My wife is certain- 
 ly 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 " the noon-ticle air," towards one o'clock 
 in the morning. However, with all their endeavors, I was 
 as cold and as dismal as ever I remember. If this be 
 the pleasures of a coronation, cried I to 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 a table 
 
 45 
 
530 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 venison-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 des- 
 sert 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 sweet-meats. According- 
 ly I grasped a whole pyramid ; the rest of the guests see- 
 ing me with so much, one gave me a snap, the other gave 
 me a snap ; I was pulled this way by my neighbor on 
 my right hand, and that way by my neighbor on the 
 left, but still kept my ground without flinching, and con- 
 tinued 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 upon this occasion is inexpressible; in 
 fact, it broke my dream; when awaking I found my 
 wife and daughter applying a smelling-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 pro- 
 cession 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 comfort, when I see this inserted, 
 
 to find that 1 write for it too. 
 
 I am, sir, Your distressed humble servant, 
 L. Grogan. 
 
 NOV 
 
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