Tainted iy SirJRtyiirMs 
 
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 'W^a^^p^^U'/^y 
 
POEMS, 
 
 PLAYS AND ESSAYS, 
 
 oLr^ER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE AND WEITINaSi 
 
 TO WHICH IB ADDED 
 
 A CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON HIS POETRY. 
 
 BY JOHN AIKIN, M. D. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, 
 
 110 Washington Street. 
 
 1853. 
 

 
 7/6/2 1 
 
 ^^'-^ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 P^ 
 
 Dr. Aikin's Memoirs of the Author 
 Remarks on the Poetry of Dr. Goldsmith 
 
 Dr. Aikin 
 
 Verses on the death of Dr. Goldsmith . 
 
 vij 
 
 by 
 
 . XXXIV 
 
 I 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society 9 
 
 The Deserted Village 23 
 
 The Hermit, a Ballad 37 
 
 The Haunch of Venison, to Lord Clare . . 43 
 
 Retaliation 47 
 
 Postscript . .... 52 
 
 The Double Transformation, a Tale . • 53 
 The Gift : to Iris, in Bow-street, Covent- 
 
 garden . . . • . • .56 
 
 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . . 56 
 The Logicians Refuted: Imitation of Deai 
 
 Swift 57 
 
 A new Simile in the Manner of Swift . . 59 
 
J- — , . — . — , , — 
 
 «v CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 
 Description of an Author's Bed-chamber 
 
 . 61 
 
 
 A Prologue by the Poet Laberius, whom 
 
 
 Caesar forced upon the Stage 
 
 . 61 
 
 
 An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 
 
 . 62 
 
 
 On a ueautiful Youth struck blind by Lightnii 
 
 ,g 63 
 
 
 The Clown's Reply . . . 
 
 . 63 
 
 
 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 
 
 . 63 
 
 
 Epitaph on Edward Pardon 
 
 . 64 
 
 
 Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 
 
 64 
 
 
 Stanzas on Woman .... 
 
 64 
 
 
 Sonnet ...... 
 
 05 
 
 
 Songs 
 
 65 
 
 
 Song, intended to have been sung in the Co- 
 
 
 
 medy of She Stoops to Conquer 
 
 66 
 
 
 Prologue to Zobeide, a Tragedy 
 
 66 
 
 
 Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters . 
 
 67 
 
 
 Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Buikley and Miss 
 
 
 
 Catley . . "... 
 
 69 
 
 
 Epilogue intended for Mrs. Buikley 
 
 71 
 
 
 Epilogue, spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes 
 
 73 
 
 
 Threnodia Auguotalis ..... 
 
 75 
 
 
 The Captivity : an Oratorio 
 
 84 
 
 
 Lines attributed to Dr. Goldsmith 
 
 95 
 
 
 PLAYS. 
 
 
 
 The Good-natured Man, a Comedy 
 
 96 
 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mistakes of a 
 
 
 
 Night 
 
 I ? 
 
 171 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 
 Pa2:e 
 Introduction . •- . . . .251 
 
 Love and Friendship, or the Story of Alcander 
 and Septimus, taken from a Byzantine 
 
 Historian ...... 254 
 
 On Happiness of Temper .... 258 
 
 Description of various Clubs .... 262 
 
 On the Policy of concealing our Wants, or 
 
 Poverty 270 
 
 On Generosity and Justice ... - 275 
 
 On the Educatioa of k outh . . . 279 
 
 On the Versatility of popular Favour . . 289 
 
 Specimen of a Blagazine in Miniature . . 293 
 
 Beau Tibbs ; a Character .... 296 
 
 Beau Tibbs — continued .... 299 
 
 On the Irresolution of Youth . . . 303 
 
 On Mad Dogs 306 
 
 On the increased Love of Life with Age . 310 
 
 Ladies' Passion for levelling Distinction of 
 
 Dress 313 
 
 Asem, an Eastern Tale; or, the Wisdom of 
 Providence in the moral Government of 
 
 the World 318 
 
 On the English Clergy, and popular Preachei^ 326 
 On the Advantages to be derived from sending 
 
 a judicious Traveller into Asia . . 330 
 Reverie at the Boar's-head Tavern, in East- 
 cheap . , . . . 334 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 On Quack Doctors ... . 347 
 
 Adventures of a Strolling Player . • . 350 
 
 Rules to be observed at a Russian Assembly . 360 
 
 The Genius of Love, an Eastern Apologue . 361 
 
 Distresses of an English disabled Soldier . 365 
 On the Frailty of Man . . . .371 
 
 On Friendship ...... 373 
 
 Follv of attempting to learn Wisdom in Re- 
 tirement ...... 376 
 
 Letter, by a Common Council-man at the time 
 
 of the Coronation ..... 379 
 
 A secona Letter, describing the Coronation . 3fl2 
 
MEMOIRS 
 
 or 
 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 me- 
 moirs of his life comprise little more than a history of 
 his writings. Goldsmith's life was full of adventure ; 
 and a due consideration of his conduct from the out- 
 set to his death will furnish many useful lessons to 
 those who live after him. 
 
 Our Author, the third son of Mr. Charles Gold- 
 smith, was born at Elphin, in the county of Roscom- 
 mon, 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 Kil- 
 kenny West, lent the young couple the house in 
 which our author was born ; and at his death Mr. 
 Green was succeeded in his benefice by his clerical 
 vrotegee. 
 
 Mr. Charles Goldsmith had five sons and two 
 daughters. 
 
 Henry, the eldest son (to whom the poem of ' The 
 Traveller' is dedicated), distinguished himself greatly 
 both at school and at college ; but his marriage at 
 nineteen years of age appears to have been a bar to 
 his preferment in the church ; and v/e believe that he 
 never ascended above a curacy. 
 
nii AlKIN'S MEMOIiiS OF 
 
 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 
 schoolmaster in the village, who had served in Queen 
 Anne's w&r-s as a quarter-master in that detachment 
 of the army which was sent to Spain. Being of a 
 communicative turn, and finding a ready hearer in 
 young Oliver, this man used frequently to entertain 
 him vi'ith what he called his ad-ventures ; nor is it 
 without probability supposed, that these laid the foun- 
 dation of that wandering disposition which became 
 afterward S9 conspicuous in his pupil. 
 
 At a very early age Oliver began to exhibit indica- 
 tions of genius ; for when only seven or eight years 
 old he would often amuse his father and mother v.'ith 
 poetical attempts which attracted much notice frora 
 them and th«r friends ; but his infant mind does not 
 appear to have been much elated by their approba- 
 tion ; for after his verses had been admired 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 Catliarine (afterwards 
 married to Daniel Hodson, Esq. of Lishoy, near 
 Ballymahon) relates, 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 smalUpox, which had much dis- 
 figured his countenance, and his bodily proportions 
 being short and thick, the young musician thought to 
 shew his wit by comparing our hero to /Esop dancing; 
 
and having harped a little too long, as the caperer 
 thought, on this bright idua, tlje latter suddenly 
 stopped, and said, 
 
 Our herald hath proclaim'd this sayjng-, 
 
 ' See jEsop dancing',' — and his Monkey playing'. 
 
 This instance of early wit, we are told, decided his 
 fortune ; for, frc.n that time, it was determined to sen<i 
 him to the university ; and some of his relations, who 
 were in the church, ofFered to contribute towards the 
 expense, particularly the Rev. Thomas Contarine, 
 rector of Kilmore, near Carrick-upon-Shannon, wiio 
 had married an aunt of Oliver's. The Rev. Mr. 
 Green also, whom we have before mentioned, liberal- 
 ly assisted in this friendly design. 
 
 To further the purpose intended, he was now re- 
 moved to Athlone, where he continued about two 
 years under the Rev. Mr. Campbell ; who being then 
 obliged by ill health to resign the charge, Oliver was 
 sent to the school of the Rev. Patrick Hughes, at 
 Edgeworthstown, in the county of Longford.* 
 
 Under this gentleman he was prepared for the uni- 
 versity ; and on the 11th of June, 1744, was ad- 
 mitted a Sizer of Trinity college, Dublin,! under the 
 tuition of the Rev. Mr. Wilder, one of the fellows, 
 
 * We are told, tliat in his last journey to this school, he had an ad- 
 A'entiire wliich is thoiiglit to have sussested ilie plot of liis coniedj 
 of * She Stoops to Conquer.* — Some friend h:id i^iven him a j^uinea ; 
 and in his way to Edgeworthstown, which was about twenty miles 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 Lest house in 
 the place, meaning the best inn; but his informant, taking the ques- 
 tion in its literal sense, shewed him to the house of a private gentle- 
 man ; where, calling for somebody to take his horse to tbe stable, our 
 hero alighted, and was shewn into the parlour, being supposed to have 
 come on a visit to the master, whom he found sittiuir by the fire. This 
 gentleman soon discovered Oliver's mistake; but being a man of 
 humour, and learning from him the name of his father (wlioni he 
 knew), he favoured the deception. Oliver ordered a good supper, aud 
 invited his landlord and landlady, with their daughters, to part;ike of 
 it; he treated them with a bottle or two of wine, and, at going t" in d, 
 ordered a hot cake to be prepared for his breakfast: nor was it till he 
 v,a« about to depart, and called for his bill, that he discovered liia 
 mistake. 
 
 + The celebrated Edmund Burke was at the same time a coUcsjan 
 tbere. 
 
 a2 
 
X. AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 
 
 who was a man of harsh temper and violent passions ; 
 and Oliver being of a thoughtless and gay turn, :t 
 cannot be surprising that they should soon be dis- 
 satisfied 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 coming to the ears of his tutor, the 
 latter entered the place in the midst of their jollity, 
 abused the whole company, and inflicted manual cor- 
 rection 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, considering of a destina- 
 tion, till his money was exhausted. With a solitary 
 shilling in his pocket he at last left Dublin ; by ab- 
 stinence he made this sum last him three days, and 
 then was obliged to part, by degrees, with the clothes 
 oflP 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 merciless tutor ; by whom he was again 
 exposed to so many mortifications, as induced an ha- 
 bitual despondence of mind, and a total carelessness 
 about his studies ; the consequence of which was, that 
 he neither obtained a scholarship, nor became a can- 
 didate for the premiums. On the 25th of May, 1747, 
 he received a public admonition, for having assisted 
 other collegians in a riot occasioned by a scholar 
 having been arrested, quod seditionifuvisset, et tumuL- 
 tuantibas opem tulisset ; in this case, however, he ap- 
 pears to have fared better tlian some of his com- 
 panions, who were expelled the university. On the 
 15th of June following he was elected one of the ex- 
 hibitioners on the foundation of Erasmus Smyth ; but 
 vras not admitted to the degree of Baclielor of Arts till 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xl 
 
 February, 1749, which was two years after the usual 
 period. 
 
 Oliver's father being now dead, his uncle Contarine 
 undertook to supply his place, and wished him to 
 prepare for holy orders. This proposal not meeting 
 with the young man's inclination, Mr. Contarine next 
 resolved on sending him to London, that he might 
 study law in the Temple. Whilst at Dublin, how- 
 ever, on his way to England, he fell in with a sharper, 
 who cheated him at play of 501. which had been pro- 
 vided for his carriage, &c. He returned, and received 
 his uncle's forgiveness : it was now finally settled that 
 he should make physic his profession ; and he de- 
 parted 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 pro- 
 fessors ; 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, ho\ve\er, gone through the usual courses 
 . of physic and anatomy in the Scottish university. Gold- 
 smith 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 becoming 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 acquired at the college. 
 
 He now embarked for Bourdeaux on board a Scotch 
 vessel called the St. Andrew's, Capt. John Wall, 
 master. The ship made a tolerable appearance ; and, 
 as another inducement to our hero, he was informed 
 that six agreeable passengers were to be his company. 
 They had been but two days at sea, however, when 
 a storm drove them into Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and 
 the passengers went ashore to refresh after the fatigue 
 of their voyage. ' Seven men and I (says Gold- 
 
xii AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 
 
 smith) were on shore the following evening; but as 
 we were all very merry, the room door burst open, 
 and there entered a Serjeant and twelve grenadiers, 
 with their bayonets screwed, who put us all under the 
 King's arrest. It seems, my company were Scotch- 
 men in the French service, and had been in Scotland 
 to enlist soldiers for Louis XV. I endeavoured 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 inter- 
 posed in my favour : 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 em- 
 barked, and in nine days reached Rotterdam; whence 
 he travelled by land to Leyden. 
 
 Here he resided about a year, studying anatomy 
 under 'Albinus, and chymistry under Gambius ; but 
 here, as formerly, his little property vvas destroyed by 
 play and dissipation ; and he is actually believed to 
 have set out on his travels Vi-ith only one clean shirt, 
 and not a guilder in his purse, trusting wholly to Pro- 
 vidence for a subsistence. 
 
 It is generally understood, that m the history of his 
 Philosophic Vagabond (Vicar of Wakefield, chap. 
 XX.) he has related many of his own adventures ; and 
 that when on his pedestrian tour through Flanders and 
 France, as he had some knowledge of music, he turned 
 what had formerly been bis 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 1 ever found them sprightly in proportion to their 
 wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house 
 towards nightfall, I played on the German flute one 
 of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not 
 only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day. 1 
 once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion ; 
 but they always- thought my performance odious, anJ 
 
OLIVJiR GOLDSMITH. xih 
 
 never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to 
 me the more extraordinary ; as whenever I used in 
 better days to play for company, when playing was 
 my amusement, my music naver 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 under-rate those ta- 
 lents by which a man is supported 1' At the different 
 monasteries in his tour, especially those of his own na- 
 tion, his learning generally procured him temporary 
 entertainment ; and thus he made his way to Switzer- 
 land, in which country he first cultivated his poetical 
 talents with any particular 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 situation of the author of 
 that history. From Switzerland, Goldsmith proceeded 
 to Padua, where he stayed six m.onths, and is by some 
 supposed to have there taken his degree of Bachelor 
 of Physic ; though others are of opinion, that if ever 
 he really took any medical degree abroad, it was at 
 Louvain.* 
 
 After visiting all the northern part of Italy, he tra- 
 velled, still on foot, through France; and, embarking 
 at Calais, landed at Dover in the summer of 1756, 
 unknown, as he supposed, to a single individual, and 
 with not a guinea in his pocket. 
 
 His first endeavours were, to procure employment ■ 
 as an usher in some school ; but the want of a recom- 
 mendation as to character and ability rendered his ef- 
 forts for some time fruitless ; 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, 
 
 * In .769, it is certain, he was admitteii M.B. at Oxford, wliich 
 university be visited in February, in con;pany wiUi Dr. Joliuson. 
 
itiv AlKIN'S MEMOISS OF 
 
 we do not learn ; though we may form some idea of 
 the uncongeniality of the place to his mind, from the 
 following passage in the Philosophic Vagabond : ' I 
 have been an usher at a boarding'-school ; and may I 
 die but I would rather be an under-turnkey in New- 
 gate. 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 permitted 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 re- 
 lieve which he applied to several apothecaries and 
 chymists for employment, as a journeyman ; but here 
 his threadbare appearance, awkward manners, and the 
 want of a recommendation, operated sorely to his pre- 
 judice ;* till at last a chymist 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 com- 
 mence medical practice at Bankside, in Southwark, 
 whence he afterward removed to the neighbourhood 
 of the Temple; hissuccess 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 his pen ; and it appears 
 that he was for a while Avith the celebrated Samuel 
 R.ichardson as corrector of the press. 
 
 About this time he renewed his acquaintance with 
 
 » In a letter, dated Dec. 1757, he writes thus : ' At London, yoti 
 may easily imagine what difiiculties I had to encounter ; witliout friends, 
 recommendatioiiR, money, or impudence ; and that in a country wliere 
 bein!^ born an Irisliman was sufficient to tteep me unemployed. 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.' 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XV 
 
 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. Mil- 
 ner, observing Goldsmith's 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 medical establishment in the Company's 
 service. This promise he faithfully performed, and 
 Goldsmith was actually appointed physician to one of 
 the factories iii India in 1758. It appears, 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 gui- 
 neas, 'The Memoirs of a Protestant condemned to the 
 Galleys of France for his Religion. Written by Him- 
 self. Translated from the Original, just publisned at 
 the Hague, by James V/illington,' 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 Towards the latter end of 1758, Goldsmith happened 
 to dine at Dr. Milner's table with Mr. Ralph Griffiths, 
 the proprietor of The Monthly Review, who invited 
 him to write articles of criticism for that respectable 
 publication, on the terms of a liberal salary, besides 
 board and lodging. By a written agreeieent this en- 
 gagement was to last for a year ; but at the end of 
 seven' or eight months it was dissolved by mutual 
 consent, and Goldsmith took a miserable apartment 
 in Green-Arbour-court, Little Old Bailey. t In this 
 wretched hovel our author completed his ' Inquiry 
 into the Present State of Polite Literature in Europe,' 
 which was published in 1759, by Dodsley, and was 
 well received. In October of the same year he be- 
 gan 'The Bee,' a weekly publication, which termi- 
 
 * Thong-h it is certain, that, in contemplation of g-oin;? to India, hs 
 circulated Proposals lo print by Subscription ' An i ssay on tlie Pre- 
 sent State of Taste and Literature in Europe,' as a means of defraying 
 the expenses of liis fittinu: out for the voja^e. 
 
 t An enprraving- of the house, illustrated by a description, was given 
 m ' The European Magazine,' vol. xliii. pp. 7, 8. 
 
xvi AIKIN'S MKMOUIS OP 
 
 Dated at the eighth number. About tliis time, also, 
 he contributed some articles to The Critical Review, 
 one of which (we believe a revievv of ' Ovid's Epistles 
 translated into English verse by a Mr. Barrett, Master 
 of the Grammar Scliool at Ashford, in Kent') intro- 
 duced him to the acquaintance of Dr. Smollett, who 
 was then editor of The British JMagazine ; 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 IMr. 
 John Newbery, who vvell deserved the eulogium be^ 
 stowed by Warburton on the trade in general, as one 
 of ' the best judges and most liberal rewarders of 
 literary merit.' By Mr. Newbery Goldsmith wao 
 engaged at a salary of lOOZ. a-year to write for The 
 Public Ledger a series of periodical papers. Tliese 
 he called ' Chinese Letters ;' and they were after- 
 wards collected in two volumes, under the title cf 
 ' The Citizen of the World.' It was soon after this 
 that he commenced his acquaintance with Dr. 
 Johnson. 
 
 The important engagement with Newbery for a 
 hundred pounds a-year encouraged Goldsmith to de- 
 scend Break-neck-steps,* and to hire a decent apart 
 ment in Wjne-Office-court, Fleet-street. Here hn 
 dropped the humble Mister, and dubbed himself Docfsr 
 Goldsmith. Here also he put the finishing hand to 
 his excellent novel called ' The Vicar of V/akefie'd ;' 
 but was, when he had done, extremely embarr?.s,sed 
 in his circumstances, dunned by his landlady fo^' arr'^ars 
 of rent, and not daring to stir abroad for fear of aryest : 
 ill fact, she herself at length had him arrested ; he 
 then summoned resolution to send a message to Dr. 
 Johnson ; stating that he was in great distress, and 
 begging that lie would come to him as soon as possi- 
 ble. Johnson sent him a guinea, and promised to fol- 
 low almost immediately. When he arrived, he found 
 
 * A steep fli°:hJ of stairs fcommoiily so termed) leading from tha 
 door of his lodj^inj-liouse in Ureoii- Arbour-court to Fleet-market. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xvii 
 
 Goldsmith in a violent passion with the woman of tlie 
 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 60/. for it; 
 with this sum he returned to Goldsmith, who, with 
 many invectives, paid his landlady her rent. New- 
 bery, however, seems not to have been very sanguine 
 in his hopes of this novel ; for he kept the JMS. by hini 
 near three years unprinted: his ready purchase of it, 
 probably, was in the way of a benefaction to its dis- 
 tressed 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 INIr. Newbery ; amonof 
 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 So- 
 ciety,' which had obtained high commendation from 
 Dr. Johnson, who declared, ' that there had not been 
 so fine a poem since the time of Pope;' yet such was 
 Golds.Tiith's diffidence, that, though he had com. 
 pleted it some years before, he had not courage enough 
 to publish, till urged to it by Johnson's suggestions. 
 This poem heightened his literary character with the 
 booksellers, and introduced him to several persons of 
 superior rank and talents, as Lord Nugent (afterwards 
 
sviii AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 
 
 earr of Clare), Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 Dr. Nugent, Mr. Bennet Langton, Mr. Topham 
 Beauclerc, &c. 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, every 
 Friday evening. 
 
 His pathetic ballad of ' The Hermit,' which v/as 
 also published in 1765, recommended him to the 
 Countess (afterwards Duchess) of Northumberland, 
 who was a generous patroness of merit. In the fol- 
 lowing 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 drama, and set about his comedy 
 called ' The Good-natured Man.' This he first offered 
 to Garrick, who, after a long fluctuation between 
 doubt aud encouragement, at length declined bringing 
 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 acted nine times ; and by the profits of 
 the author's three third-nights, with the sale of the 
 copyright, a clear 500/. was produced. 
 
 Witli 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 400/. and furnish elegantly, a spacious set of 
 chambers on the first floor, at No. 2, Brick-court, 
 Middle Temple. 
 
 On the establishment of the Royal Academy, in 
 1759, Sir Joshua Reynolds recommended Goldsmith 
 - to his Majesty for the Honorary Professorship of His- 
 tory, which was graciously conferred on him. In the 
 following year he produced that highly-finished poem 
 called ' The Deserted Village.' Previous to its pub- 
 lication, we are told, the bookseller (Mr. Griffin, of 
 Catherine-street, Strand) had given bim a note of a 
 
 d= 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xix 
 
 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 per- 
 formance. ' In truth,' replied Goldsmith, ' I think so 
 too ; it is near five shillings a couplet, which is much 
 more than the honest man can afford, 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 hundred guineas, with proper acknow- 
 ledgments for the generosity 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. 8yo. ; for which 
 Mr. Thomas Davies, the bookseller, paid him 50QI. 
 
 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 our 
 author, ' in courting the muses I should starve ; but 
 by my other labours I eat, drink, wear good clothes, 
 and enjoy the luxuries of life.' 
 
 Goldsmith had, besides his regular works, much of 
 the other business of an author by profession ; such as 
 penning Prefaces and Introductions to the books of 
 other writers ; some of these have been published 
 among his prose works ; but, no doubt, many femaia 
 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 received with an applause fully adequate to 
 the author's sanguine hopes, and contrary to the ex- 
 pectations of Mr. Colman, who had not consented to 
 receive the piece but at the earnest and reiterated in- 
 
s.:i AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 
 
 Stances of many friends. What was called sentimental 
 comedy had at that time got an unaccountable hold oi 
 the public taste ; Kelly was subserving this un-British 
 propensity by his ' False Delicacy,' &c. and Gold- 
 smith's piece (which was designed by him to bring 
 back the town to a relish of humour) being certainly 
 in the opposite extreme, and hardly any thing else 
 than a farce of five acts instead of two, Colman, and 
 his actors from him, had predestined the play to con- 
 demnation: when, therefore, towards the conclusion of 
 the first performance, the author expressed some appre- 
 hension 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. Doctor, 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. Jonnson said of it, ' That he knew of 
 no comedy for many years that had so much exhila- 
 rated an audience, that had answered so much the 
 great end of comedy — the mating 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 
 malignity 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 representa- 
 tion) ; — 
 
 ' TO DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 • Vous vous noyez en vaniti. 
 
 ' Sir, — The happy knack which you have learnt of 
 puffing your own compositions, provokes me to come 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xii 
 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 sur- 
 veying his grotesque Oranhotan's figure in a pier- 
 glass? Was but the lovely H k as much en- 
 amoured, 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 diametrically 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, 
 without fancy, dignity, genius, or fire"! And pray 
 what may be the last speaking pantomime,* so praised 
 by the Doctor himself, but an incoherent piece of 
 stuff, the figure of a woman with a fisli's tail, without 
 plot, incident, or intrigue? We are made to lauoh at 
 stale, dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleasantry for 
 wit, and grimace for humour: wherein every scene is 
 unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules, the laws of 
 nature, and of the drama ; viz. Two gentlemen come 
 to a man of fortune's house, eat, drink, sleep, &c. and 
 take it for an 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 roaster 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 bein? of 
 the piece ; and he makes out a whole act by biddini^ 
 his mother lie close behind a bush, persuading hei° 
 that his father, her own husband, is a highwayman 
 
 « Meaning ' She Sloops to Conquer.' 
 
ssii AIKiNS MEMOIRS OF 
 
 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, J 
 honestly allow ; that he told all his friends it would 
 be damned, I positively aver; and from such unge- 
 nerous insinuations, without a dramatic 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 
 Homes tragedy of Aionzo. Mr. Goldsmith, correct 
 your arrogance, reduce your vanity, and endeavour to 
 believe, as a man, you are of the plainest sort ; and 
 as an author, but a mortal piece of mediocrity. 
 ' Brisez le miroir infidele. 
 Qui vous cache la veriti. 
 
 ' Tom Tickle.' 
 
 By one of those ' d d good-natured friends' 
 
 who are described by Sir Fretful Plagiary, the news- 
 paper containing the foregoing offensive letter was 
 eagerly brought to Goldsmith, who otherwise perhaps 
 had never seen or heard of it. Our hero went to the 
 shop brimful of ire, and finding Evans behirfd his 
 counter, thus addressed him : ' You have published 
 a thing in your paper (my name is Goldsmith) re- 
 flecting upon a young lady. As for myself, I do not 
 mind it' — Evans at this moment stooped down, in- 
 tending 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 de- 
 fended 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, parted the combatants, 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxiii 
 
 and sent iJoIdsmith home in a coach grievously 
 bruised. 
 
 This attack upon a man in his own house furnished 
 matter 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 tiie 
 affair was compromised ; and on Wednesday the 31st 
 of March, Goldsmith inserted the. folio wing Address 
 in the Daily Advertiser ; 
 
 ' TO THE rUELIC. 
 
 ' Lest it should be supposed that I have been will- 
 ing to correct in others an abuie of which 1 have been 
 g-uilty myself, I beg leave to d«iclare, that in all my 
 life i never wrote, or dictated, a single paragraph, 
 letter, or essay, in a newspaper, except a few moral 
 essays, under the character of a Chinese, about ten 
 years ago, in the Ledger ; and a letter, to which 1 
 signed my name, in the St. James's Chronicle. If 
 the liberty of the press therefore has been abused, 1 
 have had no hand in it. 
 
 ■ ' ] have always considered the press as the protec- 
 tor of our freedom, as a watchful guardian, capable 
 of uniting- t!ie weak against the encroachments of 
 power. What concerns the public most properly ad- 
 mits of a public discussion. But, of l;:te, 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 beginning to sow the seeds of its own dis- 
 solution ; 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 vvitn 
 Security from its insults. 
 
 ' How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which 
 all are mdiscriminately abused, and by which vice 
 consequently escapes in the general censure, I am 
 
sxi7 AlKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 
 
 unable to tell ; all I could wish is, that, as the law 
 gives us no protection against the injury, so it should 
 give calumniators no shelter after having provoked 
 correction. The insults which we receive before the 
 public, by being more open, are the more distressing. 
 By treating them witii silent contempt, we do not pay 
 a sufficient deference to the opinion of the world. By 
 recurring to legal 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 himself as a guar- 
 dian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his in- 
 fluence can extend, should endeavour to prevent its 
 licentiousness becoming at last the grave of its 
 freedom. 
 
 ' Oliver Goldsmith.' 
 
 Mr. Boswell having intimated to Dr. Johnson his 
 suspicions 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 asked me to feed him 
 with a spoon, or to do any thing 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 pub- 
 lish it. lie 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 every thing that concerns him must 
 be of importance to the public' 
 
 About a month after this, to oblige Mr. Quick, the 
 comedian, who had very successfully exerted himself 
 in the character of Tony Lurnpkin, Goldsmith, we 
 believe, reduced Sedley's ' Grumbler' to a farce; 
 and it was performed for Mr. Quick's benefit on the 
 8th of JMay, but was never printed : indeed, some 
 persons doubt whether Goldsmith did more than re- 
 vise an alteration vvhich had been made by some other 
 person. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxt 
 
 Our author now, oddly enough, took it into hia 
 head to reject the title of Doctor (witli which he had 
 been self-invested), and to assume the pJain address 
 of Mr. Goldsmith ; but whatever his motive M this 
 might be, he could not effect it with the public, who 
 to the day of his death called him Doctor; and the 
 same title is usually annexed to his nunsc even now, 
 though the degree of Baclielor of Physic was the 
 highest ever actually conferred upon hiiri. 
 
 After havinu compiled a History of Rome, and two 
 Hi-(ories of England, he undertook, and completed in 
 1773, 'A His ory of the Earth und Animated Mature,' 
 in 8 vols. 8vo. winch was printed in 1774, and he re- 
 ceived for it 850/. 
 
 The emoluments which he had derived from liis 
 writings for some few years past were, indeed, very 
 considerable ; but were rendered useless in eft'ect, by 
 an incautious liberality, which prevented his distin- 
 guishing proper from improper objects 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, ' lietaliation,' was wiiiten 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, how- 
 ever, is nearly perfect in its kind ; with wonderful art 
 he has traced al! the leading features of his several 
 portraits, and given with truth the characteristic p'j- 
 culiaiities of each : no man is lampooned, and no mrin 
 is flattered. The occasion of the poe'n was a circum- 
 stance of festivity. A literary party with which he 
 occasionally dined at the St. James's coffee-house one 
 day proposed to write epitaphs on him. In these, his 
 person, dialect, &c. were good-humouredly 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 j 
 but this, with his ' Haunch of Venison,'' and some 
 
 z;:zdA 
 
xxvi AlKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 
 
 other short poems, were not printed till after his 
 death. 
 
 He had at this time ready for the press, ' The 
 Grecian History, 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 com- 
 piling 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 iiim 
 with articles on different subjects. The booksellers, 
 however, though they had a high opinion of his abili- 
 ties, were startled at the bulk, importance, and ex- 
 pense of so great an undertaking, the execution of 
 v;hich was to depend upon a man with whose indo- 
 lence of temper, and method of procrastination, they 
 liad long been acquainted : the coldness with which 
 they met his proposals was lamented by Goldsmith to 
 the hour of his death ; which seems to have been ac- 
 celerated by a neglect of his health, occasioned by 
 continual vexation of mind on account of his fre- 
 quently involved circumstances, although the la>;t 
 year's produce of his labour is generally believed to 
 have amounted to 18001. 
 
 In the spring of 1774 he was attacked in a very se- 
 vere manner by the strangury, a disease of which he 
 had often experienced slight symptoms. It now in- 
 duced a nervous fever, which required medical assist- 
 ance; 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 ipeca- 
 cuanha wine as an emetic, and that it was his inten- 
 tion to take Dr. James's fever powders, which he 
 desired he wouliJ send him. Mr. Hawes represented 
 to his patient the impropriety of taking the medicine 
 at that time ; but no argument could induce him to 
 relinquish his intention. Finding this, and justly ap- 
 prehensive of the fatal consequences of his putting 
 
OLIVElt GOLDSMITH. isvii 
 
 this rash resolve in execution, he requested permis- 
 sion to s-end for Dr. Fordyce, of whose medical abi- 
 lities 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 pre- 
 sent 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 inquiring of him how he did, Goldsmith .sighed 
 deeply, and in a dejected tone said, ' I wish Thad 
 taken your friendly advice last night.' Dr. Fordyce 
 came, and, finding the alarming symptoms increase, 
 desired fllr. Hawes to propose sending for Dr. Tur- 
 ton : to this Goldsmith readily consented. The two 
 physicians met, and held consultations twice a day 
 till Monday, April 4, when their patient died. 
 
 Warmth of affection induced Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 and other friends of Goldsmith to lay a plan for a 
 sumptuous public funeral ; according to which he was 
 to have been interred in Westminster Abbey, and his 
 pall to have been supported by Lord Shelburne (after- 
 wards Marquisof Lansdowne), Lord Louth, Sir j oshua 
 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 hav- 
 ing left property to justify so expensive a proceeding, 
 he was about 2000Z. in debt. The original inten- 
 tion, therefore,, was abandoned ; and he was privately 
 interred in the Temple burial-ground at five o'clock 
 on Saturday evening, April 9, attended bv the llev. 
 Joseph Palmer (nephew of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and 
 afterwards Dean of Cashel in Ireland ),' Mr. Huo-h 
 Kelly, air. (afterwards Dr.) Hawes, Messrs. John 
 and Robert Day, and Mr. Etherington. 
 
 A subscription, however, was speedilv raised amono- 
 Goldsmith's friends, but chiefly by the Literary Club"; 
 and a marble monumental stone,"' executed by Nolle- 
 kens, consisting of a large medallion exhibiting a good 
 
xxviii AlKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 
 
 resemblance of our author in profile, embellished with 
 appropriate ornaments, was placed in Weftminster 
 Abbey, between those of Gaj' the poet and the Duke 
 of Ar^jyle, in Poets' Corner ; having underneath, on 
 a tablet of white marble, the following inscription, 
 from the pen of his friend Dr. Johnson : 
 
 OliVARII GoLIlSMlTH, 
 
 PoetK, Pbysici, Historici, 
 Qui nullum fere scribendi genus 
 
 Non tetigit ; 
 
 Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit: 
 
 Sive risus esseiit naoveudi 
 
 Sive lacrym.e, 
 
 Affectuum potens et leiiis doniiiiator: 
 
 Ingenio subiimis, yividus, versatilis, 
 
 Oratione g-vandis, nitidus, veiiustus ; 
 
 Hoc roonumeiito meinoriam coluit 
 
 Sodalium amor, 
 
 Aiuicorum tides, 
 
 Lectorura veiieratio. 
 
 Natua in Hibeniia, Forneias LougfordiensiSj 
 
 Id loco cui nomen I'allas, 
 
 Nov. XXIX. MUOCXXXI.* 
 
 Eblana; Uteris institutus, 
 
 Obiit Londiu'i, 
 
 Apr. IV. MDCCLXXiv. 
 
 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 
 
 To the meniorv of 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 A poet, a natural philosopher, and an historian. 
 
 Who left no species of writina^ untouched by his pen; 
 
 Nor touched any that he did not erabellish : 
 
 Whether smiles or tears were to he excited. 
 
 He was a powerful yet gentle master 
 
 Over the affections; 
 
 * Johnson liad been misinformed in tliesc particulars : It has ^eu 
 •ince ascertaiiifci llrat he was bojn at Elphin, iu the county of Rm- 
 common, Nov, S9, 1728. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSiMITH. xiix 
 
 Of a genius at on.ie sublime, lively, and 
 equal to every subject; 
 In expression at once lofty, elegant, and graceful. 
 
 He was bom in the kingdom of Ireland, 
 
 At a place called Pallas, in the parish of Fomey» 
 
 And county of Longford, 
 
 23th Nov. 1731.* 
 
 Educated at Dublin, 
 
 And died in London, 
 
 4th April, 1774. 
 
 Besiile this Latin epitapii. Dr. Johnson honoured 
 the memory of Goldsmith with the following short 
 one in Greek : — 
 
 Tcv rafov utro^da.; rov Okifia^idio, Kov'inv 
 
 1 In [ii/inXi (fufft;, fitrpcoM ^cipis, epya TCikaiov* 
 KXa/sTE trajJiTJiv, urTcpmov, puinx/iy. 
 
 Mr. Boswell, who was vfiy i'ltimately acquainted 
 with Goldsmith, thus speaks of his person and cha- 
 racter : — 
 
 ' The person of Goldsmith was short; his counte- 
 nance coarse and vulo;ar; his deportment that of a 
 scholar, awkwardly affecting the complete gentleman. 
 No man had the art of displaying, with more ad- 
 vantage, 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 
 to be thrown upon it. No deep root could be struck. 
 The oak of the forest did not grow there ; but the 
 elegant shrubbery, 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, Blr. Horatio Walpole, who admired 
 his writings, said, he was "an inspired idiot;" and 
 Garrick describes him as one, — 
 
 • for shortness call'd Noll, 
 
 Who wrote like an angel, and talk'd like poor Poll." 
 *■ See the Note in the preceding^ pa^^c 
 
XKX AIKIN'S M la; U Ills OF 
 
 But, in reality, these*clescriptions aie greatly exacce. 
 rated. He had, no doubt, a more lljan common share 
 of that hurry of ideas, whicli we often find in liis 
 countrymen, and which sometimes introduces a lauoh- 
 al)le confusion in expressing them. lie was very much 
 what the Fiench call tin itourdi: and from vanity, 
 and an eager desire of being conspicuous wherever he 
 was, he frequently talked carelessly, without any 
 knowledge of the subject, or even without thought. 
 Those who were any ways distinguished, excited envy 
 in him to so ridiculous an excess, tiiat the instances of 
 it are hardly credible. He, I am fold, had no settled 
 system of any sort, so that his conduct must not be 
 too strictly criticised ; but his afftciions were social 
 and generous ; and when he had money, he bestowed 
 it liberally. His desires of imaginary consequence 
 frequently predominated over his attention to truth. 
 
 ' His prose has been admitted as tlie mudel of per- 
 fection, 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 without tedious- 
 ness, and generally without confusion ; whose lan- 
 guage was capacious without exuberance ; exact with, 
 out restraint; and easy without weakness." 
 
 ' His merit as a poet is universally acknowledged. 
 His writings partake rather of the elegance and har- 
 mony of Pope, than the grandeur and sublimity of 
 Milton ; and it is to be lamented, that his poetical 
 productions are not more numerous ; for though l)is 
 ideas flowed rapidly, he arranged them with great 
 caution, and occupied much time in polishing his 
 periods, and harmoniiing his numbers. 
 
 ' His most favourite poems are, "The Traveller," 
 " Deserted Village," " Hermit," and '• I'etaliation." 
 These productions may justly be ranked with llie most 
 admired works in English poetry. 
 
 ' " The Traveller" delights us writh a display of 
 charming imagery, refined ideas, and happy expres- 
 
OLI\ER GOLDSMITH. xxxt 
 
 sions. The characteristics of the different naiions are 
 stro!igly marked, and the predilection of each inha 
 bitant in favour of his own ingeniously described. 
 
 ' " The Deserted Yi!!as;e" is generally admirtd ; 
 the characters are drawn from the life. The descrip- 
 tions are livelv and picturesque; and the "hole appears 
 so easy and natural, as to bear the semblance of his- 
 torical truth more than poetical fiction. The descrip- 
 tion of the parish priest (probably intended for a 
 charac'er of his brother Henry) would have done 
 honour to any poet of any age. In this description, 
 the simile of the bird teaching her young to fly, and of 
 the mountain that rises above the storm, are not easily 
 to be paralleled. The rest of the poem consists of ihe 
 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 pleasures ; 
 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 
 humour, free from spleen, and forcibly exhibits the 
 prominent features of the several characters to which 
 it alludes. Dr. Johnson sums up his literary cha- 
 racter in the following concise manner: " Take him 
 [Goldsmith] as a poet, his ' Traveller' is a very fine 
 performance ; and so is his ' Deserted \'ill3ge,' were 
 it not sometimes too much the echo of his ' J'raveller.' 
 Whether we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or 
 as an historian, he stands in the first class." ' 
 . We have before observed, that his poem of ' Rkta- 
 liation' was provoked bv several jocular epitaphs 
 written upon him by the different members of a dinner 
 club to which he belonged. Of these we subjoin a 
 part of that which was produced by Garrick : — 
 
 ' Here, Hermes, says Jove, wbo with nectar was ruellow, 
 do, fetoh me some clay — 1 will make an odd fellow. 
 
ixxii AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 
 
 Right and wroii^ shalJ be jumbled; much gold, aud 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 turn'd to fictions. 
 Now mix these ingredients, v/hich, warm'd in the baking. 
 Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking; 
 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; 
 For thf; joy of each sex on the world I'll bestow it, 
 This scholar, rake. Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet. 
 Thougli a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame. 
 And among brother 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 3 friend as soon as 
 he heard of his death : — 
 
 ' 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 ; 
 When Genius, with traffic too commonly train'd. 
 Recounted her merits by what she had gaiu'd. 
 Yet spurn'd at those walks of debasement and pelf. 
 And ill 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; 
 And such was the prevalent force of his song. 
 Sex, ages, and parties, he drew in a throng. 
 
 • The lovers — 'twas 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 school 'd in grammatical sense, 
 ■Who look'd in the glow of description tor tense, 
 Reform'd as he read, fell a dupe to his art. 
 And confess'd by his eyes what he felt at his heart. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxxiii 
 
 « Yet, We^s'd with original powers like, these. 
 His principal forte was on paper to please ; 
 Like a fieet-footed hunter, though first in the chase, 
 On the road of plain sense he oft slacken'd his pace; 
 Whil.-t Dulness and Cunning, by whipping and goring. 
 Their liard-footed hackneys paraded before him. 
 Compounded likewise of such primitive parts, 
 Tliathis manners alone would havegain'd him our hearts. 
 So simple iii 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. 
 And rail'd at those talents he ought not to fear. 
 
 ' 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 Icvi-., 
 
 If e'er thy regards were bestov/'d on mankind. 
 
 Thy muse as\ legacy leave us dehinl. 
 
 I ask it by proxy for letters and fame. 
 
 As the pride of our heart and the old English name. 
 
 1 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— 111 
 
 Consider what K— ys enervate the stage ; 
 
 Consider what K cks may jioison the age ; 
 
 O ! protect us from such, nor let it be said. 
 
 That in Goldsmith the la^t British poet lies dead I' 
 
ON THE 
 
 POETRY OF DR. GOLDSMITH; 
 
 BY DR. AIKIN. 
 
 Among those false opinions which, having once ob- 
 tained currency, have been adopted without examina- 
 tion, may be reckoned the prevalent notion, that, 
 notwithstanding the improvement of this country in 
 many species of literary composition, its poetical 
 character has been on the decline ever since tlie sup- 
 posed Augustan age of the beginning of this [the 18th] 
 century. No one poet, it is true, has fully succeeded 
 to the laurel of Dryden or Pope ; but if without pre- 
 judice we compare t!ie minor poets of the present age 
 (^minor, I mean, with respect to tlie quantity, not the 
 quality, of their productions), with those of any former 
 period, we shall, I am convinced, find tiiem 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 
 appealed 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 hesi- 
 tate to place the name of Goldsmith, as a poet, above 
 that of Addison, ParneU, Tickell, Congreve, Lansdown, 
 or any of those who fill the greater part of the vo- 
 luminous collection of the EngtiJt Poets. Of tbese^ 
 the main body Ivas obtained a prescripii\e right to the 
 honour of classical writers ; while their works, ranged 
 on the shelves as necessary appendages to a modern 
 library, are rarely taken down, and contribute very 
 
ON DR. GtJLDiMll HS roKTRY. xxxv 
 
 little to the stock of literary amusement. Whereas 
 the pieces of Goldsmith are our familiar companions; 
 and supply passages for recollection, when our minds 
 are eitlier composed to moral reflection, or warmed by 
 strong emotions and elevated conceptions. There is, 
 I aclinowledge, much of habit and accident in the 
 attachments we form to particular writers ; yet 1 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 favourite list of a great 
 majority. And it is, I think, with much justice that 
 a great modern critic has ever regarded this concur- 
 rence of publ-ic favour, as one of the least equivocal 
 te.-ts of uncommon merit. Some kinds of excellence, 
 it is true, will more readily be recognized than others ; 
 and this will not always be in p''oportion to the degree 
 of mental power employed in the respective produc 
 tions : but he who obtains general and lasting ap- 
 plause in any work of art, must have happily executed 
 a design judiciously formed. This remark is of funda- 
 mental consequence in estimating the poetry of Gold- 
 smith ; because it will enable us to hold the balance 
 steady, when it might be disposed to incline to the 
 superior cltiims of a style of loftier pretension, and 
 more brilliant reputation. 
 
 Compared with many poets of deserved eminence. 
 Goldsmith will appear characterized by his simp iicity. 
 In his language will be found few of t'hose figures 
 which are supposed of themselves to constitute poetry ; 
 — no violent transpositions ; 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 
 prosopopoeia, or audacious metaphor: — it scarcely 
 contains an expression 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 nevv and unexpected ones. It rejects not 
 
xsKvi ON THK rOETRY 
 
 • common wordti 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 numerous passage:; 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 im- 
 press strongly on the henrt moral and political senti- 
 ments ; and to fill the imagination with a variety of 
 pleasing or affecting objects selected fiom the stores of 
 nature. If this be not the highest department of 
 poetry, it has the advantage of being the most univer- 
 sally agreeable. To receive delight from the sublime 
 fictions of Milton, the allegories of Spenser, the learn- 
 ing 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 forartificiai 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 voung ; we recur to them 
 when old ; and they charm us till nothing lonijercan 
 charm. Farther, in forming a scale of excellefice for 
 artists, we are not only to consider who works ujwu the 
 noblest design, but who fills liis desiu;n best. It i.-, ia 
 reality, but a poor excuse for a slovenly performer ti 
 say ' magnis tamen excidit aiisis ;' and the addition of 
 ona master-piece of any kind to the stock of art, is a 
 greater benefit, than that of a thousand abortive and 
 mis-shapen wonders. 
 
 If Goldsmith then be referred to the class of de- 
 scriptive 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 \vi 
 
OF DR. GOLDSMIfH. xxxvii 
 
 has selected, combined, and contrasted his objects, 
 with what truth and strength of colouring he has ex- 
 pressed thera, and to what end and purpose. 
 
 As poetry and eloquence do not describe by an 
 exact enumeration of every circumstance, it is neces- 
 sary to select certain particulars which may excite a 
 sufficiently distinct image of the thing to be repre- 
 sented. In this selection, the great art is to give cha- 
 racteristic 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 description : 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 colouring, in which all the di- 
 versity 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 to the meaning of his figures, nor 
 does it lasHguish over the survey of trivial and unap- 
 propriated circumstances. All is alive — all is filled — 
 yet all is clear. 
 
 The proper combination of objects refers to the im- 
 pression they are calculated to make on the mind ; 
 and requires that they should harmonize, and recipro- 
 cally enforce and sustain each other's effect. They 
 should unite in giving one leading tone to the imagi- 
 nation; 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 combined them into the most harmonious 
 and impressive groups. Nor has any descriptive poei 
 better u-nderstood the great force of contrast, in set- 
 
xxsviii ON THE POETRY 
 
 ting off his scenes, ana preventing any approach 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 effect. Of all these excellencies, examples 
 v/ill 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 Gold- 
 smith's language is remarkable for its general sim- 
 plicity, and the direct and proper use of words. It 
 has ornaments, but these are not far-fetched. The 
 epithets employed are usually qualities strictly be- 
 longing to the subject, and the true colouring of the 
 simple figure. They are frequently contrived to ex- 
 press a necessary circumstance 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 ;' 
 ' matted woods ;' ' ventrous ploughshare ;' ' equinoctial, 
 fervours.' The examples are not few of that indis- 
 putable mark of true poetic language, where a single 
 word conveys an image ; as in these instances : ' re- 
 signation gently slopes the way ;' ' scoops out an em- 
 pire ;' ' the vessel idly waiting flaps with every gale ;' 
 ' to winnow fragrance ;' ' murmurs fluctuate in the 
 gale.' All metaglior, indeed, does this in sorne de- 
 gree ; but where the accessory idea is either indistinct 
 or incongruous, as frequently happens when it is in- 
 troduced 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 perfor- 
 mance prove flat and tiresome. But this is a want 
 which cannot be charged on Goldsmith ; for both 
 
OF DR. GOLDSMITH. ikxix 
 
 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 legi. 
 timacy of the conclusions he has drawn from his pre- 
 mises ; 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 refine- 
 ment of English poetry, and especially since the time 
 of Pope. To manage rhyme couplets so as to pro- 
 duce a pleasing effect on the ear, has since that period 
 been so common an attainment, that it merits no par- 
 ticular 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, al- 
 most always to avoid defect, and very often to pro- 
 duce excellence. It is no censure of this poet to say 
 that his versification presses less on the attetition than 
 his matter. In fact, he has none of those peculiari- 
 ties of versifying, whether improvements or not, that 
 some who aim at distinction in this point have adopted. 
 He generally 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 cadence of sound and 
 meaning. He also studiously rejects triplets and 
 alexandrines. But allowing for the want of these 
 sources of variety, he has sufficiently avoided mono- ■ 
 tony ; and in the usual flow of his measure, he has 
 gratified the ear with as much change, as judiciously 
 shifting the line-pauses can produce. 
 
 Having made these general observations on the 
 nature of Goldsmith's poetry, I proceed to a- s,urvey 
 of his principal pieces. 
 
 The Traveller, or Prospect of Socieiy, was first 
 sketched out by the author during a tour in Europe, 
 great part of which he ferformed on foot, and in cir- 
 
Jd ON THK PUEiUY 
 
 cumstances which afforded him the fullest means of 
 becoming acquainted with the most 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 expres- 
 sions of self-pity, the Poet sits down amid Alpine 
 solitudes to spend a pensive hour in meditating on 
 the state of mankind. He finds that 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 coun- 
 tries, 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 ; vvlience this 
 favourite kind, pushed to an extreme, becomes a source 
 of peculiar evils. To exemplify this by instances, ia 
 the business of the subsequent descriptive part of the 
 piece. 
 
 Italy is the first country that comes under review- 
 Its general landscape is painted by a few characteristic 
 strokes, and the felicity of its climate is displayed i; 
 appropriate imagery. The revival of arts and co/ti- 
 merce in Italy, and their subsequent decline, are next 
 touched upon ; and hence is derived the present dis 
 position of the people — easily pleased with splendid 
 trifles, the wrecks of their former grandeur ; and sunk 
 into an enfeebled moral and ijitellectual character, re- 
 ducing them to the level of children. 
 
 From these he turns with a sort of disdain, to view 
 a nobler race, hardened by a rigorous climate, and by 
 the necessity 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 
 
 J 
 
or ;.;j. goldsmith. xa 
 
 tannot be a more delightful picture than the poet has 
 IravTn of the Swiss peasant, going forth to his morn- 
 ino-'s labour, and returning at night to the bosom of 
 domestic happmess. It sufficiently accounts for that 
 -patriot passion for which they have ever been so cele- 
 brated, and which is here described in hnes that reach 
 the heart, aud is illustrated by a beautiful simile. But 
 this -tate of life has also its disadvantages. 1 he sources 
 of enioyment being few, a vacant listlessness is apt tt 
 creeo 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 ot a 
 coarse texture. Some sterner virtues hold high domi- 
 nion in their breast, but all the gentler and more re- 
 fined qualities of the heart, which soften and sweeten 
 life, are exiled to milder climates. 
 
 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 
 villao-e party of dancers beside the murmuring Loire. 
 The leading feature of this nation he represents as be- 
 incr the love of praise ; which passion, while it inspires 
 sentiments of honour, and a desire of pleasing, also 
 affords a free course to folly, and nourishes vatiity and 
 ostentation. The soul, accustomed to depend tor its 
 happiness on foreign applause, shifts its principles 
 with the change of fashion, and is a stranger to the 
 value of self-approbation. . . 
 
 The strong contrast to this national character is 
 soucrht in Holland; a most graphical description of 
 the°scenery presented by that singular country in- 
 troduces the moral portrait of the people. Irom the 
 necessity of unceasing labour, induced by their pecu- 
 liar circumstances, a habit of industry has been formed, 
 of which the natural consequence is a love ot gain. 
 The possession of exuberant wealth has given rise to 
 the arts and conveniences of life ; but at the same 
 time has introduced a crafty, cold, and mercenary 
 temper, which sets every thing, even liberty itselt, a 
 
aiii ON THE rOETllY 
 
 a price. How different, exclaims the 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 creation 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, 
 un fashioned by the common forms of life, and loose 
 from all its ties; — and this he gives as the representa- 
 tive of the English character. A society 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 fic- 
 titious bonds of wealth and law must be employed to 
 hold together such a reluctant association ; whence 
 the time may come, that valour, learning, and pa- 
 triotism, 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 in- 
 dignation at the oppressions the poor suffer from their 
 petty tyrants. This leads him to a kind of anticipa- 
 tion 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 depo- 
 pulated fields, the ruined village, and the poor forlorn 
 inhabitants driven from their beloved home, and ex- 
 posed to all the perils of the trans-atl antic wilderness. 
 It is by no means my intention to enter into a discus- 
 sion of GoLDSMrxn's political opinions, which bear 
 evident marks of confused notions and a heated imagi- 
 nation. 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 
 
OF DR. GOLDSMITH xliii 
 
 This country has long been in the possession of 
 more unrestrained freedom of thinking and acting than 
 any other perhaps that ever existed ; a consequence 
 of which has been, that all those peculiarities of cha- 
 racter, which in other nations remain concealed in 
 the general mass, have here stood forth prominent and 
 conspicuous ; and these being from their nature cal- 
 culated to draw attention, have by superficial obser- 
 vers been mistaken for the general character of tlie 
 people. This has been particularly the case with 
 political distinction. From the publicity of all pro- 
 ceedings in the legislative part of our constitution, and 
 the independence with which many act, all party dif- 
 ferences are strongly marked, and public men take 
 their side with openness and confidence. Public to- 
 pics, too, are discussed 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, 
 characterized by circumstances of its situation ; and a 
 rich commercial people, long trained to society, in- 
 habiting a climate where many things are necessary 
 to ftie comfort of life, and under a government abound- 
 ing with splendid distinctions, cannot possibly be a 
 knot of philosophers and patriots. 
 
 To return from this digression. Though it is pro- 
 bable that few of Goldsmith's readers will be con- 
 vinced, even from the instances he has himself pro- 
 duced, that the happiness of mankind is every where 
 equal ; yet all will feel the force of the truly philoso- 
 phical 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 
 governments can either bestow or withhold. 
 
 The Deserted Village, first printed in 1769, is the 
 companion-piece of the Traveller, formed, like it, 
 upon a plan which unites description with sentiment, 
 .3 A 
 
siiy OM THE POETRY 
 
 and employs both in inculcating a political moral. It 
 is a view of the prosperous and ruined state of a coun- 
 try village, vyith reflections on the causes of both. 
 Such it may be defined in prose ; but the disposition, 
 management, and colouring of the piece, are all cal- 
 culated for poetical effect. It begins with a delightful 
 picture of Auburn when inhabited by a happy peo- 
 ple. The view of the village itself, and the rural 
 occupations and pastimes of its simple natives, is in 
 the best style of painting, by a selection of charac- 
 teristic circumstances. It is immediately contrasted 
 by a similar bold sketch of its ruined and desolated 
 condition. Then succeeds an imaginary state of Eng- 
 land, in a kind of golden age of equality ; with its 
 contrast likewise. The apostrophe that follows, the 
 personal complaint of the poet, and the portrait of a 
 sage in retirement, are sweetly sentimental touches, 
 that break the continuity of description. 
 
 He returns to Auburn, and having premised another 
 masterly 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 or di- 
 gressive thought and imagery that stamps his, style. 
 The subject of the draught, too, is considerably dif- 
 ferent 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 fami- 
 liarity with vicious characters, which goes beyond the 
 purpose of mere reformation. The descript.on of him 
 in his professional character is truly admirable ; and 
 the similes of the bird instructing his young to fly, 
 and the tall cliflT rising above the storm, have been 
 universally applauded. The first, I believe, is ori- 
 
OF DR. GOLDSMITH. xlv 
 
 ginal ; — tlie second is not so, though it has probably 
 never been so well drawn and applied. The subse- 
 quent sketches of the village schoolmaster and ale- 
 house, 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 plea- 
 sures 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 lieai't distrusting asts, if this he joy V 
 
 The writer then falls into a strain of reasoning 
 against luxury and superfluous wealth, in which the 
 sober inquirer will find much serious tru-th, though 
 mixed with poetical exaggeration. The description of 
 the contrasted scenes of magnificence 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 single lines, might tire ; but where is the 
 reader who can avoid being hurried along by the swift 
 current of imagery, vifhen to such a passage as the last 
 succeeds a landscape fraught with all the sublime 
 terrors of the torrid zone; — and then, an exquisitely 
 tender history-piece of the departure of the villagers ; 
 concluded wi'ch a group (slightly touched indeed) ot 
 allegorical personages'! A noble address to the Genius 
 of Poetry, in which is compressed the moral of the 
 whole, gives a dignified finishing to the work. 
 
 If we compare these two principal poems of Gold- 
 smith, we may say, that the ' Traveller' is formed 
 upon a more regular plan, has a higher p-urpose in 
 view, more abounds in thought, and in the sxpressioa 
 of moral and philosophical ideas ; the ' Deserted 
 Village' has more imagery, more variety, more pathos, 
 more of the peculiar character of poetry. In t.he firsi, 
 the moral and natural descriptions are more general 
 
xlvi ON DR. GOLDSMirH'S POETRY. 
 
 and elevated ; in the second, tliey are more particular 
 and interesting. Both are trulj' original productions; 
 but the ' Deserted Village' has less peculia'rity, and 
 indeed has given rise to imitations which may stand ia 
 some parallel with it ; while the ' Traveller' remains 
 an unique. 
 
 With regard to Goldsmith's other poems, a few 
 remarks will sufBce. The ' Hermit,' printed in the 
 same year with the ' Traveller,' has been a very popu- 
 lar 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 naturally or affectedly 
 rude and simple. It has been a sort of 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 proportion as they approached more finished 
 compositions. In Goldsmith's ' Hermit,' the lan- 
 guage is always polished, and often ornamented. The 
 best things in it are some neat turns of moral and 
 pathetic sentiment, given witii a simple conciseness 
 that fits them for being retained in the memory. As 
 to the story, it has little fancy or contrivance to re- 
 commend it. 
 
 We have already seen that Goldsmith possessed 
 humour ; and, exclusively of his comedies, pieces pro- 
 fessedly humorous form a part of his poetical remains. 
 His imitations of Swift are happy, but they are imi- 
 tations. His tale of the ' Double Transformation' may 
 rie with those of Prior. His own natural vein of easy 
 humour flows freely in his ' Haunch of Venison' and 
 ' Retaliation ;' the first, an admirable specimen of a 
 very ludicrous stoiy made out of a common incident 
 by the help of conversation and character ; the other, 
 an original thought, in which his talent at drawing 
 portraits, with a mixture of the serious and the coinic, 
 is most happily displayed. 
 
^m 
 
VERSES 
 
 OH THE 
 
 DEATH OF Dr. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 EXTEACT FROM A POEM 
 
 WRITTEN BY COURTNEY MELMOTH, ESQ. 
 
 ON THK DEATH OF EMINENT ENGLISH POKTS. 
 
 THE TEARS OP GENIUS. 
 
 The village bell tolls out the note of death. 
 And through the echoing air the length'ning soundj 
 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 neighb'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. 
 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 briar-bound graves shadowing with funeral gloom, 
 Forlorn she hied ; and there the crowding wo 
 B 
 
2 COMMENDATORY VERSES, 
 
 (Sweil'd by the parent) press'd on bleeding thought, 
 Big ran tlie 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 1 
 Falls his shafts only on the wise 1 
 Can no fit marks on earth be found. 
 From useless thousands swarming round? 
 What crowding cyphers cram the land. 
 What hosts of victims, at command ! 
 Yet shall the ingenious drop alone? 
 Shall Science grace the tyrant's throne? 
 '1 hou murd'ier of the tuneful train, 
 I chaige thee with my children slain ! 
 Scarce lias ti)e sun thrice urged his annual tour. 
 Since half rny race have felt thy barbarous pow« ; 
 Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art. 
 And struck a muse with every dart : 
 Bard after bard obey'd thy slaughtering call. 
 Tin scarce a poet lives to sing a brothe°r's fall. 
 Then let a widow'd mother pay 
 The tribute of a parting lay ; 
 Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain. 
 And speak aloud her feelings and her pain ! 
 
 ' And f.rst, farewell to thee, my son,' she cried, 
 • Thou pride of Auburn's dale— sweet bard, farewell I 
 Long for thy sake the peasant's tear shall flow. 
 And many a virgin bosom heave with wo ; 
 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, 
 
COMMK.NDATUUY VERSES. 3 
 
 But groups of villngers (each joy forgot) 
 
 Shall form a sad assembly round the cot. 
 
 Sweet bard, farewell '.—and farewell, Auburn's bliss, 
 
 The bashful lover, and the yieWed kiss : 
 
 The evening warble Philomeia 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 plou-^hmau's care. 
 
 But sighs shall fill the pauses of despair. 
 
 « 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 ;hy tomb shall bond. 
 And conscious weep for their and virtue's friend ^ 
 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'J away , 
 And even the matron of the cressy lake, 
 In piteous plight, her palsied head shall shake, 
 While all adown the furrows of lier 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'sbreast ; 
 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 blessings 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 bad 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, 
 
 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, — 
 
 I'he 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, 
 Atnd 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 honour'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, — 
 There will I fly to seek that soft repose. 
 Which solitude contemplative bestows. 
 
COMMKNI'Al'OUY VKRSE.S. 5 
 
 Yet, oh, fond hope ! perchance there sUil remaios 
 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 labours 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 rebsll 
 Why falters out my tongue the word farewell ? 
 Ye 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, vvlieresoe'er 1 rove. 
 The plain, or secret covert of the grove. 
 Imagination shall supply her store 
 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 Mberty and Rome, 
 
6 COMMKNDATOHY VERSES. 
 
 In Attic eloquence shall thunder laws. 
 
 And uneorrupted senates shout applause. 
 
 Not more ecstatic visions rapt the soul 
 
 Of Numa, 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'nte stream. 
 
 Of beauty and enchantment will I dream ; 
 
 Elysium, seats of arts, and laurels won, 
 
 The Graces th-ree, and Japhet's* fabled sonj 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 1 hus, as adown the slope of life I bend, 
 4nd move, resign'd, to meet my latter end 
 
 * Prometheus. 
 
com.mknjJATory verses. J 
 
 Each worldly wish, each worldly care repress'd, 
 
 A self-approving- heart alone possess'd, 
 
 Content, to bounteous Heaven I'll 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 wo. 
 Already portion'd, unrelenting fate 
 Had made a pause upon the number'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, 
 Wliich late they fann'd. Now other scenes tban dala 
 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 poised aloft the dart. 
 And plunged tlie steel in Virtue's bleeding heart ; 
 Abhorrent, back the springs of life rebound. 
 And ieat'e on Nature's face a grisly wound, 
 A wound euroH'd among Britannia's woes. 
 That ages yet to follow cannot close. 
 
8 
 
 COMMENDATORY VCKSliS. 
 
 O Goldsmith ! how shall Sorrow now essay 
 To murmur out her slow incondite lay 1 
 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-honour'd 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 ; honours 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, 
 \V"e 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 1 
 
 LINES BY W. WOTTY. 
 
 Adieu, ^vveet Bard ! to each fine feeling true, 
 Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few, — 
 Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds, and tliesa 
 With harmless mirth the social soul to please. 
 Another's wo thy heart could ahvays 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 filuse'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; 
 
 A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSJllTH. 
 
 Dear Sie^— I am sensible that the friendship be- 
 tween us can acquire no new force from the ceremo- 
 nies of a dedication ; and perhaps it dem.ands an excuse 
 thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you 
 decline giving with your own. But as a part of this 
 poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the 
 whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to 
 you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of 
 it, when the reader 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 
 humble choice. You have entered upon a'*sacred 
 office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are 
 but few ; while you have left the field of ambition, 
 where the labourers are many, and the harvest not 
 worth cari-ying away. But of all kinds of ambition — 
 what from, the refinement of the times, from different 
 systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party — 
 that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. 
 
 Poetry makes a principal amusement among un- 
 polished nations ; but in a country verging to the ex- 
 tremes of refinement, painting and music come in for 
 a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less labori- 
 ous entertainment, they at first rival poetry, and at 
 length supplant her ; they engross all that favour 
 B 2 
 
10 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 once shewn to her, and though but younger sisters, 
 seize upon the elder's birthright. 
 
 Yet, however this art may be neglected by the power- 
 ful, it is still iu greater danger from the mistaken efforti 
 of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have 
 we not heard of late in favour of blank verse and Pin- 
 daric 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 j for error 
 is ever talkative. 
 
 But there is an enemy to this art still more danger- 
 ous, — I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judg- 
 ment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once 
 infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in 
 what contributes to increase 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 calumny, makes 
 ever after the most agreeable feast upon murdered 
 reputation. Such readers generally admire some half- 
 witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, 
 having lost the character of a wise one. Him they 
 dignify with the name of poet : his tawdry lampoons 
 are called satires; his turbulence is said to be force 
 and his frenzy fire. 
 
 W hat reception a poem may find, which has neither 
 abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, 1 cannot 
 tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. 
 Without espousing the cause of any party, I have at- 
 tempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endea- 
 voured 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 happiness, and 
 that this principle in each may be carried to a mis- 
 chievous excess. There are few can judge better than 
 yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this 
 poem. I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, 
 Oliver Goldsmith, 
 
11 
 
 THS fRAVELLER. 
 
 Remote, unfriendecf, jsaelancholy, slow. 
 Or by the lazy ScheW, or wandering Po ; 
 Or onward, where the rude Cariathian boor 
 Against the houseless stranger ehuts the door , 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaien. 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 chaiti. 
 
 Eternal blessmgs crown my earliest friend. 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints attersd'. 
 Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire 1 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair. 
 And every stranger finds a ready chair ! 
 Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowijv<j<, 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
 And learn the luxury of doing good ! ? 
 
 But me, not destined such delights to share» 
 My prime of life in wandering spent, and cai* ; 
 Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
 Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view, 
 That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies : 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone. 
 And find no spot of all the world my own. 
 
12 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 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. 
 
 VVhen thus Creation's charms around combine. 
 Amidst the store should thankless pride repine 1 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
 That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour 
 
 crown 'd ; 
 Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round' 
 Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
 Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; 
 For me your tributary stores combine. 
 Creation's heir, the world — the world is mine ! 
 
 As some lone miser, visiting his store. 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er. 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
 Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise. 
 Pleased with each good that Heaven to mail 
 
 supplies; 
 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 rea» 
 May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
 But where to find that happiest spot below 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know 1 
 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 TRAVELLER. IS 
 
 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 labour's earnest call: 
 With food as well the peasant is supplied 
 On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
 And though the rocky crested summits frown. 
 These rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
 From art more various are the blessings sent,— 
 Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. 
 Yet these each other's power so strong contest. 
 That either seems destructive of the rest. 
 Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails 
 And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
 Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone 
 Conforms and models life to that alone. 
 Each to the favourite happiness attends, 
 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; 
 Till carried to excess in each domain. 
 This favourite 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 ra-idom 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 • 
 
 6 
 
14 THE TRAVELLUK. 
 
 While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
 
 Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
 The sons of Italy were surely blest : 
 Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
 That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied year; 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
 These "here disporting own the kindred soil. 
 Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
 To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 
 
 But small the bliss that sense alone bestows. 
 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 I 
 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 canvass glow'd beyond e'en nature warm. 
 The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
 Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
 While nought remain'd, of all that riches gave, 
 But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : 
 And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
 Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
 
 Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride • 
 From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n raind 
 An easy compensation seem to find. 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 15 
 
 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'dj 
 The sports of children satisfy the child : 
 Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, 
 Novc 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 Cffisars once bore sv^ay. 
 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 a nay. 
 But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm. 
 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small, 
 He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
 But calm, and bred in ignoralice and toil. 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to tne soil. 
 Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose. 
 Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes j 
 With patient angle trolls the finny deep. 
 Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep; 
 
16 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. 
 At night returning, every labour sped. 
 He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
 Smiles by a cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 His children's looks that brighten at the blaze. 
 While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 
 And haply too some pilgrim, thither led. 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
 
 Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
 And e'en those 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 which lifts him to the storms; 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. 
 So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar. 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 
 Such are the charms to barren states assign'd . 
 Their wants but few, their wishes all confined : 
 Yet let them only share the praises due, — 
 If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
 For every want that stimulates the breast. 
 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; 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 17 
 
 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 [vi^ay, — 
 
 Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the 
 
 These, far dispersed, on timorous .pinions fly. 
 
 To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 
 
 To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
 I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
 Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease. 
 Pleased with thyself, wnom 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, fresheu'd from the wave, the zephyr flew; 
 And haply, tiiough my harsh touch falt'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 honour forms the social temper here : 
 Honour, that praise which real merit gains. 
 Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
 Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
 It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; 
 From courts to camps, to cottages it strays. 
 And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
 They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem ; 
 Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 
 
 But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
 [t gives their follies also room to rise ; 
 
18 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 For praise too dearly loved, or warmly £oaght. 
 Enfeebles all internal strength of thought : 
 And the weak soul, within itself unblest. 
 Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
 Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
 Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; 
 Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
 Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer. 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a-year : 
 The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 
 
 To men of other raiuds 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 j 
 While the pent Ocean, rising o'er the pile. 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; 
 The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail. 
 The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
 A new creation rescued from his reign. 
 
 Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
 Impels the native to repeated toil, 
 Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
 And industry begets a love of gain. 
 Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
 With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
 Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth 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, 
 Tha needy sell it, and the rich man buys. 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 19 
 
 A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
 Here wretches seek dishonourable graves. 
 And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
 Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
 
 Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
 Hough, poor, content, ungovernably bold. 
 War in each breast, and freedom on each brow; 
 Bow 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 s.corn 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'd, fresh from nature's hand. 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
 True to imagined right above control, — 
 While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
 And learns to venerate himself as man. 
 
 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here 
 T hine are those charms that dazzle and endear ! 
 Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
 B ut, foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy : 
 T hat independence B-ritons prize too high, 
 K eeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
 T he self-dependent lordlings stand alone. 
 An 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, 
 R eprest ambition struggles round her shore ; 
 Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
 Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the tvheels. 
 
20 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 I'loT this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, 
 As duty, love, and honour fail to sway. 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law. 
 Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
 And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : 
 Till time may come, when stript of all her charms; 
 The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
 Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. 
 Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie. 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 
 
 Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
 I mean to flatter kings, or court the great : 
 Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
 Far from my bosom drive tli£ low desire ! 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel j 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun- 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure i 
 I only would repress them to secure : 
 For just experience tells, in every soil. 
 That those that think must govern those that toil; 
 And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach. 
 Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
 Hence, should one order 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 danger 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, — 
 
fr— 
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 21 
 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start. 
 Tear otF 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 j 
 And thus, polluting honour in its source. 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore. 
 Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore 1 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction hasce. 
 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 1 
 Have we not seen, at Pleasure's lordly call. 
 The smiling, long-frequented village fall 1 
 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 1 
 
 E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
 Through tangled forests, and through dangerous waySj 
 Where beasts with man divided empire claim. 
 And the brown Indian maiks with murderous aim ; 
 Theue, while above the giddy tempest flies. 
 And all around distressfu-l yells arise. 
 The pensive exile, bending with his wo. 
 To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
 Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
 And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 
 
 Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
 Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose. 
 To seek a good each government bestows 1 
 In every government, though terrors reign. 
 Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain. 
 
22 THE TRAVELLfia. 
 
 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 fJicity we make or find : 
 
 With secret course which no loud storms annoVj 
 
 Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
 
 The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
 
 Lukes iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 
 
 To men remote from power but rarely known, 
 
 Leave reason faith and conifcieiice, all our owb. 
 
DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 
 
 Deah Sir, — I can have no expectations, in an ad- 
 dress 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. Settmg 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 orother, be- 
 cause 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 versifica- 
 tion and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I 
 do not pretend to inquire : but I know you will ob- 
 ject (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 disorders 
 it laments are only to be found in the poet's own ima- 
 gination. 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 live years past, 
 to be certain of what I allege ; and that all my views 
 and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries 
 re»i, which I here attempt to display. But this is. 
 not the place to enter into an inquiry v.'hether the 
 
24 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 country be depopulating or not : the discussion would 
 take up much room, and I should prove myself, at 
 best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with 
 a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention 
 to a long poera. 
 
 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 na- 
 tional 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 undone. Indeed, so much has 
 been poured out of late on the other side of the ques- 
 tion, 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, 
 
 Olives Goldsmith, 
 
2i 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE.* 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain. 
 
 Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swam, 
 
 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 1 loiter'd o'er thy green, 
 
 Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
 
 How often have 1 paused on every charm, 
 
 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 
 The decent church that topt the neighbouring bill, 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
 
 How often have 1 blest the coming day, 
 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 
 
 And all the village tiain, from labour free. 
 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree | 
 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 
 The young contending as the old survey 'd ; 
 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground. 
 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; 
 
 And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 
 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown 
 
 liy holding out to tire each other dovv-n ; 
 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 
 While secret laughter titter'd round the place; 
 
 * The locality of this popin is supposed to be Lisioy, near Eallvma- 
 han, wiiere tlie pott's brollitr Heury had his living;. As usiidl in 
 Biich cast's, tile place afterwards becanie the fasliionuble resort o. 
 poetical piluTinis, and paid tlie customary penalty of fiirnishinpf relic* 
 for the curious. Tlie hawthorn bush has been converted into suuti- 
 iKtxrs, and now adorns the cabinets of poetical virtuosi. 
 
 c 
 
SG THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 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 iiU these charms are fled. 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn I 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen 
 And Desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain. 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
 No more thy 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 • 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made;- 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 When once 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 Labour spread her wholesome store. 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more; 
 His best companions, innocence and health. 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 But times are alter'd : trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 27 
 
 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, 
 
 'J'hose healthful sports that graced the peaceful scenef 
 
 Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green, — 
 
 Tliese, 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. 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
 Ilemembrance 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 ; 
 'J'o husband out life's taper at the close. 
 And keep the flame from wasting, by repose : 
 I still had hopes — for pride attends ns still — 
 Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill. 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
 And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
 And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. 
 Pants to the place from whence at first 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 ! 
 How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deepj 
 No surly porter stands in guilty state. 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
 
28 ■niE DESERTED VILlAOB. 
 
 But on he moves to meet iiis latter end. 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
 Sinks to tliegr^ve with unperceived decay, 
 While resignation gentlv slopes the way ; 
 And, all liis 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 nightinijale had iridde. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread. 
 But all the bloomy flush of life is fled : 
 All but yon widow'd, solitary thing-, 
 l"hat feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 
 She, wretched matron, forced in age, for biead. 
 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 tlie garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
 'Jhere, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a-vear; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wisb'd to change, his place j 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power. 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
 
THE UESEIITED VILLAGE. 29 
 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'il to prize, 
 More bent to raise tlie wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train. 
 He chid tlieir 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 sta\'. 
 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 shew'd how fields were 
 
 won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. 
 And quite forgot their vices in their wo : 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
 His pity gave ere charity be.gan. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to \ iriue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt at ever\ 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. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns disinay'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 wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile ; 
 
so THE liESKKTEI) VH.liAUIS. 
 
 ilis 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 thou2;lits 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, skiUM to rule. 
 The village master taught his little school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declared how much he knew, 
 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and iid,es presage. 
 And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge: 
 In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
 For e'en itiough 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, tetired. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 81 
 
 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound. 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Tmagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlour splendours 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 drawers by day ; 
 The pictures phiced for ornament and use. 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
 The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gays 
 While broken tea cups, wisely kept for show. 
 Hanged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
 Vain transitory splendours I Could not all 
 Reprieve tlie 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 bis 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 sliall clear. 
 Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear. 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be 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 ; 
 
32 THE DESERTED ViLLAGE. 
 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts detoy, 
 The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy ? 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
 Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
 Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound. 
 And rich men flock from all the world around. 
 Yet count our gainis : 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 neighbouring fieldsof half their growth; 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
 Around the world each needful product flies. 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies :— 
 While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all. 
 In barren splendour feebly waits 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 : 
 Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd ; 
 In Nature's simplest charms at first array 'd : 
 But verging to decfine, its splendours rise, 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 While, scourged by famine from the smiling land. 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
 I'he country blooms — a garden and a grave. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 33 
 
 Where, then, ah! where shall poverty reside. 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous priJe? 
 If to some common's fenceless li[nits stray 'd. 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
 Tho>e fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
 And e'en the bare-worn comiTion is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped, whnt waits him there? 
 To see profuMon 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, 
 I'here the pale artist plies his sickly trade ; 
 Here while the prond their long-drawn pomps display, 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 'I'he dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
 Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
 'J'uinultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
 'i'he rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies: 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest . 
 Her inodest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: 
 Wow 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 lint luckless hoar, 
 W hen idly first, ambitious of tlie 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 1 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread 1 
 
 Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
 Where half the convex world intrudes betweeo, 
 C2 
 
34 THE DliSEarKD VILLAGE. 
 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting- steps they go, 
 
 Wiiere wild Altania* 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 darlc scorpion gathers death around; 
 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 
 Where crouching tigers wait tlieir hapless prey. 
 
 And savage men, more murdVous still than they; 
 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape witli 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 ! whatsorrowsgloom'dthat partingday 
 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 Tast, 
 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 retum'd to weep ! ' 
 The good old sire the first prepared to go 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' wo ; 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
 He only wish'd for worlds bevond 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, 
 
 * The Altama (or Altamaha) is a -ivcr in the province of Georgia* 
 United States. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 35 
 
 And kiss'd her tlioughtless babes witli many a tear. 
 And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O liixury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree. 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo ; 
 Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsouaij 
 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 1 stand, 
 1 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, 
 Tc catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary prido ; 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my wo. 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ', 
 Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell ; and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried. 
 On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side. 
 Whether where equinoctial fervours glow. 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. 
 
SC THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
 Redress the rigours 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 labour'd mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy. 
 As iocks resist the- billows and the sky. 
 
S7 
 
 THE HERMIT; 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 The following letter, addressed to the printer of the St. James'. Chrc 
 "^ nicle, 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 concise as possible in informing a cor- 
 respondent of yours, that I recommended BlainviUe s 
 Travels, because I thought the book was a good one, 
 and 1 think so still. 1 said I was told by the book- 
 seller that it was then first published ; but m that, it 
 seems, I was misinformed, and my readmg 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 between the two 
 pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is 
 taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years 
 ao-o • and he (as we both considered these things as 
 trifle's at best) told me with his usual good humour, 
 the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan 
 to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of 
 his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may 
 so call it, and I highly approved it. ^ Such petty 
 anecdotes as these are scarcely worth pnnimg ; 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 friendship and learning for communica- 
 tions of a much more important nature. — I am, Sir, 
 yours, &c. Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 • The Friar of Orders Gray. Reliquei of Annent Poetry, wU ». 
 book 2, No. 17. 
 
3» 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 *TuEN, 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. 
 
 'Here to the houseless child of want 
 
 My door is open still ; 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 
 I give it with good will. 
 
 'Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare. 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 ' No flocks that range the valley free 
 
 To slaughter 1 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 %ares are wrong : 
 
 Man wants but little here below. 
 Nor wants that little long.' 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 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 hia little fire, 
 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest : 
 
 And spread his vegetable store," 
 And gaily press'd and smiled ; 
 
 And, skiU'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 sooth the stranger's wo ; 
 Tor 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, 
 ♦The sorrows of thy breast 1 
 
 ' From better habitations spurn'd. 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
40 THE HERMIT. 
 
 • Alas! the joys that fortune brings 
 
 Are trifling', and decay ; 
 And those who prize the paltry things. 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 'And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame. 
 
 But leaves the wretch to weep 1 
 
 'And love is still an emptier sound. 
 
 The modern fair one's jest ; 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 'For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 And spurn the sex,' he said ; 
 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 His love-lorn guest betray'd. 
 
 Surprised he sees new beauties rise. 
 
 Swift mantling to the view ; 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast. 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confess'd 
 
 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. 
 
 • But let a maid thy pity share, 
 
 Whom love has taught to strayj 
 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 roe. 
 
THE HERMIT. 41 
 
 • To win me from his tender arms, 
 
 Unuumber'd suitors came. 
 Who praised me for impaled 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. 
 *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 bioiisjiu oii 4ft6 Um-. 
 
 With charms mconstacl shme: 
 Their charms were his, but, wo to me. 
 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 ' For still I tried each fickle art. 
 
 Importunate and vain; 
 And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 
 I triumph'd in his pain : 
 '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, 
 
 An-d well my life shall pay ; 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 • Tliis stanza vi3s preserved by Richard Arehdale, Esq. a member of 
 the Irish Parliament, to whcim it was given by Goldsmith, aad w» 
 Sxst inserted af'er the author's death. 
 
43 THE HERMIT. 
 
 '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 chid©— 
 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd ! 
 
 'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here. 
 
 Restored to love and thee. 
 
 •Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 And every care resign : 
 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 My life — my all that's mine 
 
 ' No, never from this hour to part. 
 We'll live and love so true. 
 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart- 
 Shall r^vak xuy Edwin a too. 
 
4U 
 
 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 virtft ; 
 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 1 
 Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
 
 But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest, in my turn. 
 It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.t 
 To go on with my tale : as I gazed on the haunch, 
 I thought of a friend that was trustj' and stanch. 
 So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest. 
 To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — 
 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's . 
 But in parting v/ith 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; 
 
 * The description of the dinner party in tLis poem is imitated from 
 Boileau's fdiirtli Safire. Boileau himself toolt the hint from Horace, 
 I.ib. ii. Sat. 8. which has also beea imitated by Kegnier, Sat. 10. 
 
 t Lord Clare's nephew. 
 
44 THE HAUWC.l OF VEiSlSON. 
 
 There's my countryman, Higgins — oh, let him alone 
 For marking a blunder, or picking a bone : 
 But, hang it I tc 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 look'd at the venison and me,— 
 ' What have we got here 1 — Why, this is good eating! 
 Your own, I suppose^ — or is it in waiting?' 
 • Why, whose should it heV cried I, with a flounce, 
 ' I get these tilings often' — but that was a bounce : 
 ' Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
 Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation.' 
 
 * If that be the case, then,' cried he, very gay, 
 ' I'm glad I have taken this house in my way : 
 To-moiTow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
 No words — I insist on't — precisely at three ; 
 We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be 
 
 there : 
 IMy acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. 
 And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
 W^e 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. 
 
 * See the letters that pnssed between his Royal Hig)mes3 Heniv 
 Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Groevenor. 12mo. 176!>. 
 
THE HAUNCH- Ol> VENISOxN. 45 
 
 So next dav, in clue 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-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine), 
 My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
 With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
 ' For I kne°w it,' he cried, ' both eternally fail, 
 The one with his speeches, and t'other with 'I'hrale :* 
 But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
 With two full 3S 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 swingmg tureen ; 
 At the sides, there was spinage, and pudding made hot j 
 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 eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' 
 ' 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 ; 
 But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.' 
 * O ho !' quoth my friend, ' he'll come on in a trice. 
 He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 
 
 • An eminent London brewer, M.P. for the borough of Southwark, 
 at whose table Dr. Johnson was a frequent guest. . 
 
 .2D ** 
 
46 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 There's a pasty.' — ' A pasty !' repeated the Jew, 
 
 • I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' 
 
 • What the deil mon, a pasty !' re-echo'd 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 labour 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. 
 
4f 
 
 RETALIATION. 
 
 Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St 
 James's Coffeehouse. One day, it was proposed to write epitaplison 
 him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. 
 He was called on for Retaliation, and, at their next meeting, pro- 
 duced 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 Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; 
 Our Burket shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; 
 Our Win§ shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour. 
 And Dick|l with his pepper shall heighten the savour ; 
 Our Cumberland's^ sweetbread its place shall obtain. 
 And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
 Our Garrick'stt a salad, for in him we see 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
 To make out the dinner, full certain 1 am. 
 That RidgeJJ is anchovy, and Reynolds§§ is lamb ; 
 That Hickey'sllll a capon, and, by the same rule, 
 Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
 
 * The master of the St. James's Coffeehouse, where the Doctor, and 
 tlie friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined. 
 
 + Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland, afterwards Bishop of 
 Kilialoe. 
 
 I The Risrht Hon. Edmund Burke. 
 
 S Mr. William Burke, formerly secretary to General Conway, and 
 member for Bedwin. 
 li Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada, 
 
 II Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of The West Indian, The Jew, 
 and other dramatic works. 
 
 ** Dr. Doujrias, Canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop of Salis- 
 bury, was himself a native of Scotland, and obtained considerable re- 
 putation by his detection of the forgeries of his countrymen, Lauder 
 and Bower. 
 
 ■ft David Garrick, Esq. 
 
 \X Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. 
 
 5^ Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 
 :iii An eminent attorney* 
 
48 RETALIATION. 
 
 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, ami tell what I think of the dead. 
 
 Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, 
 Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 
 
 mirth : 
 If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt — 
 At least, in six weeks I ceuld not find 'em out; 
 Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em. 
 That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such. 
 We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
 Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind: 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his 
 
 throat. 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote ; 
 V\ ho, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
 And thought of convincing, while they thought of 
 
 dining :t 
 Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 
 Too nice for a state*Sman, 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 ; 
 
 » Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch, afterwards LorJ 
 Sydney. 
 
 t Mr. Burke's speeches in Parliament, thoujh distinguished by all 
 the force of reasoning and eloquence of thfir lii2;lily-i;ifted aiitlior, 
 were not always listened to with patience by Ins brother members, 
 who notunfrequcntly tool; the opportunity of n-tirina: to dinner when 
 he rose to sneak, 'lo this circumstance, wliiih procured for Uie ors 
 tor the sobngucl of the Dimitr Lett, alUisicjn ia hei ■? made. 
 
RETALIATION. 49 
 
 Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam. 
 The coachman was tipsy, the cha'riot drove home . 
 Would you ask for his merits 1 alas ! he had none ; 
 What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his 
 own. 
 Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; 
 Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
 What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
 Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb !* 
 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 j 
 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 grov-fs 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 1 
 Say, was it, that vainly directing his view 
 To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
 He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 
 
 Here Douglas retires from his tolls 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 : 
 
 • Mr. Rirliard Burke having Bliglitly fractured an arm and a leg at 
 different times, the Doctor has rallied him on tliese ai'cidents, au a 
 kiod of retributi\e justice, for breaking justs upon otlier people. 
 
 D 
 
 h 
 
60 RETALIATION. 
 
 When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
 J 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 Kenrickst shall 
 
 lecture ; 
 MacpliersonJ 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. 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
 As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine. 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
 Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
 The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
 Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
 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. 
 
 * 1 lie 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. Jolinson observed of hiin, 
 'He is one of the many who have made themselves public, without 
 makinj? themselves known.* 
 
 X James Macpherson, Esq. who from the mere force of his style, 
 wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 
 
 § Williajn Lauder, who, by interjolating certain passages from the 
 Adaraus Exul of Grotiiis, with translations from Paradise Lost, en- 
 deavoured to fix on Milton a charg-e of plasriarism from the modern 
 Latin poets. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this imposture, and 
 extorted from the author a confession and apology. 
 
 il Archibald Bower, a Scottish Jesuit, and author of a History of the 
 Popes from St. Peter to Lambertiui. Dr. Douglas convicted Bower 
 if gross imposture, and totally destroyed the credit of his history. 
 
RETALIATION. 5J 
 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came. 
 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame j 
 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 Woodfallst so grave, 
 What a commerce was yours, while you got and you 
 
 gave ! 
 How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you 
 
 raised. 
 While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised ! 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. 
 To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 
 Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill. 
 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
 Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
 Here Plickey 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. 
 Pel haps he confided in men as they go. 
 And so was too foolishly honest 1 Ah, no ! 
 Then what was his failing 1 come tell it, and burn ye 
 He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 
 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand, 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 
 Still born to improve us in every part. 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
 
 • Mr. Hugh Kelly, ori;'nally a staymaker, afterwards a aewepaper 
 editor and dramatist, and latterly a barrister. 
 t Mr, William Wocxlfall, printer of ttie Morning Chroniclt. 
 
52 RETALIATION. 
 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steer.ng, 
 When they judged without skill, he was still hard of 
 
 hearing' : 
 When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and 
 
 stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 After the fourth clition of this Poem was printed, tlie publisher re 
 ceived the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,t fro'u a friend o/ 
 the late Dr. Goldsmith. 
 
 Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can. 
 Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man -J 
 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 humour at will ; 
 Whose daily hon mots half a column might fill : 
 A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
 A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 
 
 "What pity, alas ! that so 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-echo'd his jokes ; 
 Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come. 
 Still follow your master, and visit his tomb 
 To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 
 And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
 
 * Sir Joshna Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity ol 
 usiiiar an ear-trumpet in company. 
 
 t Mr. Caleb \\hitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 
 
 J Mr. Whitefoord was so notorions a punster, thai! Dr. Goldsmith 
 used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being 
 infected ivith the itch of punning-. 
 
 § Mr. H. S. Woodl'all, printer of the Public Advertiser. 
 
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 53 
 
 Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
 Cross Readings, Ship News, and Mistakes of the Press.* 
 Merry VVhitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit 
 That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit. 
 This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 
 * Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'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 crack'd his joke. 
 
 And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 
 
 Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care. 
 Could any accident impair 1 
 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 
 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 banish'd 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 1 
 Need we intrude on hallow'd ground. 
 Or draw the curtains closed around? 
 
 « Mr. Whitefoovd had frequently indulged the town with liumoroiu 
 pieces under those atles in the public Adverliier 
 
64 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 Let it suffice that each had charms : 
 He clasp'd 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 mix'd with bliss: 
 But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, 
 Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 
 Found half the charms that deck'd her face 
 Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
 But still the worst remain'd behind,— 
 That very face had robb'd her mind. 
 
 Skill'd in no other arts was she. 
 But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
 And, just as humour rose or fell. 
 By turns a slattern or a belle. 
 'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace. 
 Half naked, at a ball or race ; 
 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 took their stations. 
 And twenty other near relations : 
 Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 
 A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 
 While all their hours were pass'd between 
 Insulting repartee and spleen. 
 
 Thus, as her faults each day were knownt. 
 He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
 He fancies every vice she shews. 
 Or thins her lip, or points her nose : 
 
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 Whenever rage or envy rise. 
 
 How wide her mouth, how wild 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 
 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. 
 
 55 
 
b6 
 
 THE GIFT* 
 
 TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDaN. 
 
 Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake. 
 Dear mercenary beauty, 
 What annual oifering shall I make 
 ^ Expressive of my duty 1 
 
 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, 
 
 N'ot less sincere tlian civil, — 
 I'll give thee — ah ! too charming maid f— 
 
 I'll give thee — to the Devil I 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOO 
 
 Good people all, of every sort. 
 
 Give ear unto my song. 
 And if you find it wondrous short. 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 In Islington there was a man. 
 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 That still a godly race he ran. 
 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
 •Imitated from Greco'irt, a wiUy French poet. 
 
fF- 
 
 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED, 67 
 
 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 low 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 neighbouring street3 
 
 The wond'ring neighbours ran, 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits. 
 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seeni'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 shew'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, 
 
 • Tliis happy imitation was adopted by liis Dublin publislier, as a 
 genuine potin of Swift, and as sueli it lias been reprinted in almost 
 every edition of tile Dean's works. Even Sir Vlalier Scott lias interlad 
 it without iny reniaili in liis edition of Swift's Worlis. 
 
 D 2 
 
S8 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 
 
 Have strove to prove with great precision. 
 With definition and division, 
 Homo est ratione predtum ; 
 But for my sou! 1 cannot c-redit '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 ; 
 Tha-t instinct is a surer guide 
 Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; 
 And that brute beasts are far before 'em— 
 Deus est anima hrutoruni. 
 Who ever knew an iionest brute 
 At law his neighbour prosecute. 
 Bring action for assault and battery f 
 s Or friend beguile v;ith 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 Wee 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 fellows 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. 
 And malice is his ruling passion : 
 
 • Sir Robert Walpolc. 
 
A NEW SIMILE. 69 
 
 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 forget what day on — 
 A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
 I think I met with something there 
 To suit my purpose to a hair. 
 But let us not proceed too furious, — 
 First please to turn to god Mercurius; 
 You'll find him pictured at full length, 
 In book the second, page the tenth 
 The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 
 And now proceed we to our simile. 
 
 Imprimis, pray observe his hat. 
 Wings upon either side — mark that. 
 Well ! what is it from thence we gather 1 
 Why, these denote a brain of feather. 
 A brain of feather ! very right. 
 With wit that's flighty, learning light ; 
 
so A NEW SIMILE. 
 
 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. 
 
 Now, to apply, begin we then : — 
 His wand's a modern author's penj 
 The serpents round about it twin'd 
 Denote him of the reptile kind, 
 Denote the rage with which he writeSj 
 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 postscript. 
 Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing ; 
 Well ! what of that 1 out with it — stealing ) 
 In which all modern bards agree. 
 Being each as great a thief as he. 
 
DESCRIPTION OF A BED-CHAMBER. 61 
 
 But e'en this deity's existence 
 Shal] lend my simile assistance : 
 Our modem bards ! why, what a pox, 
 Are they but senseless stones and blocks ? 
 
 DESCRIPTION 
 
 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. 
 
 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 shew'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 WilHam shew'd his lamp-black face. 
 
 The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 
 
 The rusty grate unconscious of a lire : 
 
 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 ROMAM 
 
 KNIGHT, WHOM C^SAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. 
 
 [Preserved by Macrobius.] 
 
 What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, 
 And save from infamy my sinking age ! 
 
 • The author ha* fiven, with a very slin-ht alti-ration, a Fimilar dp- 
 iCription of Uie alehouse, in the Deserted Village. 
 • 2E 
 
62 STANZAS. 
 
 Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year. 
 What in the name of dotage drives me here ? 
 A time there was, when glory was my guide. 
 Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; 
 Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear. 
 With honest thrift I held my honour dear : 
 But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
 And all my hoard of honour is no more ; 
 For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
 Csesar persuades, submission must be mine; 
 Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys. 
 Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. 
 Here then at once 1 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 honour 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. 
 
 She strove the neighbourhood to please 
 With manners wondrous winning ; 
 
 And never follow'd wicked ways — 
 Unless when she was sinning. 
 
 At church, in silks and satins new, 
 
 With hoop of monstrous size. 
 She never slumber'd in her pew — 
 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
STANZAS. 63 
 
 Her love was sought, I do aver 
 
 By twenty beaux and more ; 
 The king himself has foUow'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. 
 
 THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 
 
 John Trott was desired by two witty peers 
 To tell them the reason why asses had ears ; 
 ' An't please you,' quoth John, ' I'm not given to 
 
 letters. 
 Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters 
 Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces— 
 As I hope to be saved ! — without thinking on asses.' 
 
 EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. 
 
 This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnf.ll'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 waj ] 
 Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 
 And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 
 
64 Sr4NZAS. 
 
 Needless to hiir i!ie tribute we bestow. 
 The transitory hreatn of fame below : 
 Move lasting rapture from his works shall rise. 
 While converts thank, their poet in the skies. 
 
 EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* 
 
 Here lies poor 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. 
 
 STANZAS ON THE TAKING OP QUEBEC 
 
 Amidst the clamour 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 ! t to thee a streaming flood of wo 
 Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; 
 
 Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
 Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 
 
 Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled. 
 
 And saw thee fall with joy -pronouncing eyes: 
 
 Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! 
 Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 
 
 STANZAS ON WOMAN. 
 
 When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
 And finds too late that men betray. 
 
 What charm can sooth her melancholy 1 
 What art can wash her guilt away 1 
 
 * This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; bill 
 having wasted his patrimony, lie iiilisted as a foot soldier. Growing 
 tired of tliat employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a 
 Dcribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Ilenriade. 
 
 t Goldsmith claimed relationship with this gallant soldier, whose 
 charactur he greatly admired. 
 
6S 
 
 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. 
 
 A SONNET.* 
 
 Weeping, murmuring, complaining, 
 
 Lost to every gay delight, 
 Myra, too sincere for feigning. 
 
 Fears th' approaching bridal night. 
 
 Yet vphy impair thy bright perfection, 
 Or dim thy beauty with a tearl 
 
 Had Myrk follow'd my direction, 
 She long had wanted cause of fear. 
 
 SONG. 
 From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 
 
 The wretch condemn'd with life to party 
 
 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 eonnet id imitated from a Frencli madri^l of St. VvtitT- 
 
66 iniOLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. 
 
 Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing. 
 Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo ; 
 
 And he who wants each other blessing. 
 In thee must ever find a fee. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Intended to have been sung in the comedy of She Sloops to Conquer, 
 but omitted, because Mrs. Bulkley, wlio acted tlie part of Miss Hard 
 castle, could not sing. 
 
 Ah me ! when shall I marry me 1 
 
 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 miner : 
 
 Not a look, nor a smile, shall my passion discover. 
 
 She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
 Slakes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY ; 
 
 WR.TTEN BY JOSEPH CRADOCK, ESQ., ACTED AT THB 
 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. 
 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. 
 
EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS 67 
 
 Where are we driven 1 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. 
 
 [Balconies. 
 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 Honour is no mercenary trader. 
 This is his first adventure : lend him aid. 
 And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 
 His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far. 
 Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
 What! no reply to promises so ample? 
 I *d best step back — and order up a sample. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 TO THE COMEDY OP THE SISTERS.* 
 
 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. 
 
 * By Mrs. Cliarlotte Lennox, author of the Female Quixote, ShaJt- 
 speare Illustrated, Sic. It wa« performed one night only at CovenJ 
 Garden, in 17S9. Tliis lady was praised by Dr. Johnson, as the clc 
 ^£.rest fenj;ile writer of her a^e. 
 
68 EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS. 
 
 Weil, since she thus has shewn her want of skill, 
 
 What if I give a masquerade 1 — I will. 
 
 But how'! ay, there's the rub! [^pausing'] I've got 
 
 my cue : 
 The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, you, 
 
 you. [_To Boxes, Pit, and 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-colour'd suits that ride 'em : 
 There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
 To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore ; 
 These in their turn, with appetites as keen. 
 Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen : 
 Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
 Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; 
 The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure. 
 And tries to kill, ere she 's got power to cure. 
 Thus 'tis with all: their chief and constant care 
 Is to seem every thing — but what they are. 
 Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on. 
 Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion; 
 Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round 
 
 parade, 
 Looking, as who should say. Damme ! whose afraid 1 
 
 [^Mimicking. 
 Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am, 
 You'll find his lionship a very lamb: 
 Yon politician, famous in debate. 
 Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state; 
 Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume. 
 He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. 
 Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight. 
 And seems, to every gazer, all in white, 
 If with a bribe his candour you attack. 
 He bows, turns round, and whip — the man's in black! 
 Yon critic, too — but whither do I run 1 
 If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! 
 Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too : 
 Do you spare her, and I'll for oace spare you. 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY 
 
 MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Enter Mrs, Bulkley, who curtsies very low, ms begin 
 ning to speak- Then enter Miss Catley, who stands 
 full before her, and curtsies to the audience. 
 
 Mrs. Bulkley. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's 
 
 your business here 1 
 Miss Catley. The Epilogue. 
 Mrs. B. The Epilogue 1 
 Miss C. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. 
 Mrs. B. Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue! 
 
 I 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 ! aa 
 Epilogue of singing 1 
 A hopeful end, indeed, to such a blest beginning. 
 Besides, a singer in a comic set — 
 Excuse me. Ma'am, 1 know the etiquette. 
 ■ Miss C. What if we leave it to the house ] 
 
 Mrs. B. The house ! — Agreed. 
 
 Miss C. Agreed. 
 
 Mrs. B. And she whose party's largest shall 
 proceed. 
 And first, I hope you'll readily agree 
 I've all the critics and the wits for me. 
 They, I am sure, will answer my commands : 
 Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. 
 What ! no return 1 I find too late, I fear. 
 That modern judges seldom enter here. 
 
70 EPILOCUE. 
 
 Miss C. I'm for a diffeTent 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 
 StrephoQ 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 j 
 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. 
 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 bonnie 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, 
 W^ith Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit. 
 Make but of all your fortune one va toute: 
 
JiPli.OGi;E. 71 
 
 Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, 
 
 ' 1 hold the odds — Done, done, with you, with you!' 
 
 Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 
 
 ' My Lord, your Lordship miaconceives the case :' 
 
 Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, 
 
 ' I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner :' 
 
 Assist ray cause with hands and voices hearty, 
 
 Come, end the contest here, and aid my party. 
 
 Air. — BalUnamony. 
 Misi C. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack. 
 Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack ; 
 For — sure I don't wrong you — you seldom are slack. 
 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 your voices for me. 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, Madam, what if, after all this spar- 
 ring, 
 We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? 
 
 Miss C. And that our friendship may remain un- 
 broken, 
 W^hat if we leave the Epilogue unspoken 1 
 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. 
 
 u 
 
72 EPILOGUE. 
 
 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 agr^e : 
 Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone. 
 We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down ; 
 Both prone to change, no settled limits fix. 
 And sure the folks of both are lunatics. 
 But in this parallel my best pretence is. 
 That mortals visit both to find their senses : 
 To this strange spot. Rakes, Macaronies, Cits, 
 Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 
 The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
 Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
 Hither 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 — 
 A.S, ' 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 come the sons of scandal and of news, - 
 But find no sense — for they had none to lose. 
 Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, 
 Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser ; 
 Has he not seen how you your favour place 
 On sentimental queens and lords in lace 1 
 Without a star, a coronet, or garter, 
 How can the piece expect or hope for quarter 1 
 No high-life scenes, no sentiment : the creature 
 Still stoops among the low to copy Nature. 
 Yes, he's far gone : and yet some p'ty fix. 
 The English laws forbid to punish J unatics. 
 
EPILOGUE, 
 
 8P0KEN 01 MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OP 
 HARLEQUIN AT HIS BENEFIT. 
 
 Hold ! Prompter, bold ! a word before your nonsense 
 I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. 
 My pride forbids it ever should be said 
 My heels eclipsed the honours of my head ; 
 That I found humour in a piebald vest. 
 Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 
 
 *' [Takes off hu maSK 
 
 Whence, and what art thou,, visionary birth 1 
 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 fil^d the scene with all thy brood 
 Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued 1 . 
 Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses. 
 Whose only plot it 19 to break our noses ;_ 
 Whilst from below the txap-door demons rise, 
 And from above the dangling deities : 
 And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crewl 
 May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do ! 
 No — I will act — I '11 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 vems. 
 Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme, — 
 ' Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds !— soft— 
 
 'twas but a dream.' 
 Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating. 
 If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 
 'Twas thus that ^sop'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 : 
 E 
 
74 EPILOGUE. 
 
 ' The deuce confound/ he cries, ' these drumstick 
 
 shanks, 
 They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; 
 They're perfectly disgraceful ! rtrike me dead ! 
 But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head : 
 How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! 
 JMy horns ! — I'm told horns are the fashion now,* 
 
 Whilst thus he spoke, astonish 'd, to his view. 
 Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmea 
 
 drew ; 
 ' Hoicks ! hark forward !' came thund'ring from 
 
 behind • 
 He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wiad ; 
 He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 
 fie starts, he pants, he takes the circling male : 
 At length, his silly head, so prized before. 
 Is taught liis former folly to deplore ; 
 Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 
 And at one bound hs saves himself — like me. 
 
 ^Taking a jump through the stage door. 
 
75 
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.* 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER I.ATE ROYAL HIGHNESS TBS 
 
 PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. 
 
 BPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT KOOM IN SOHO-SQUABE, 
 
 Thursday, the 20th 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 ratlier 
 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— i»f»-. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. 
 Singers— ilir. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. 
 
 THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNIOR TENTO. 
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 OVERTURE— A SOLEMN DIRGE. 
 AIR — TRIO. 
 
 Arise, ye sons of worth, arise. 
 
 And waken every note of wo '. 
 "When truth and virtue reach the skies 
 
 'lis ours to weep the want below. 
 
 • This poem was first printed in Chalmers' edition of d'e -EnfjWl 
 Poets, from a copy given by Goldsmitli to his friend, Joseph Craao>K, 
 Esq., author of the tragedy of Zoleide. 
 
7B IHRBNODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 When troth and virtue, &c. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 The praise attending pomp and power. 
 
 The incense given to kings, 
 Are but the trappings of an hour. 
 
 Mere transitory things. 
 The base bestow them ; but the good agree 
 To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. 
 But when to pomp and power are join'd 
 An equal dignity of 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. 
 
 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 increasing load. 
 Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, 
 AfHiction still is virtue's opportunity ! 
 Virtue, on herself relying. 
 
 Every passion hush'd to rest. 
 Loses every pain of dying 
 
 In the hopes of being blest. 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. ST 
 
 Every added pang she suffers 
 
 Some increasing good bestows, 
 And every shock that malice offers 
 
 Only rocks her to repose. 
 
 SONG. BY A MAN — ^AFFETUOSO. 
 
 Virtue, on herself relying, &c. 
 
 to 
 Only rocks her to repose. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Yet ah ! what terrors frown'd upon her fate. 
 
 Death, with its formidable bandy 
 Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care. 
 
 Determined took their stand. 
 Nor did the cruel ravagers design 
 
 To finish all their efforts at a blow : 
 
 But, mischievously slow. 
 They robb'd the relic and defaced the shriae. 
 
 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 labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar. 
 
 While winds and waves their wishes cross,— 
 They stood, while hope and comfort fail. 
 Not to assist, but to bewail 
 
 The inevitable loss. 
 Relentless tyrant, at thy call 
 How do the good, the virtuous fall ! 
 Truth, beaut'v, worth, and all that most engage. 
 But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. 
 
 SONG. EV A MAN — BASSO, STOCCATO, SPIRITCOSO. 
 
 When vice my dart and scythe supply. 
 How great a Ring of Terrors I ! 
 If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, 
 Tremble, ve mortals, at my rage ! / 
 
 2F 
 
78 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 Fall, round me fall, ye little things. 
 Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings, 
 If virtue fail her counsel sage. 
 Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Yet et that wisdom, urged by her example. 
 Teach us to estimate what all must suffer : 
 Let us prize death as the best gift of nature. 
 As a safe inn where weary travellers. 
 When they have journey'd through a world of cares. 
 May put off life, and be at rest for ever. 
 Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables. 
 May oft distract us with their sad solemnity : 
 The preparation is the executioner. 
 Death, when unmask'd, shews me a friendly face. 
 And is a terror only at a distance : 
 For as the line of kfe conducts me on 
 To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair; 
 Tis JS'ature's kind retreat, that's always open 
 To take us in when we have drain 'd 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 he : 
 
 May every bliss be thine ! 
 And, ah ! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, 
 'i'hrough rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, 
 iVIay 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 ! 
 
 BONO. BY A WOMAN — AMOROSO. 
 
 Lovely, lasting Peace, below, 
 Comforter of every wo. 
 Heavenly born, and bred on high, 
 lo crcwn the favourites of the sky ! 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. jy 
 
 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 
 
 And art exhausts profusion round. 
 The tribute of a tear be mine, 
 
 A simple song, a sigh profound. 
 There Faith shall come — a pilgrim gray. 
 To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay ! 
 And calm Religion shall repair 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there. 
 Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree 
 To blend their virtues while they think of thee 
 
 AIR — CHORUS FOMFOSO. 
 
 Let us — let all the world agree. 
 To profit by resembling thee. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 OVERTURE — PASTORALE. 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Past 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 ; 
 
80 THRENODIA AIJGUSTALI3. 
 
 While, sweetly blending, still are seen 
 The wavy lawn, the sloping green ; 
 
 While novelty, with cautious cunning, 
 
 Through every maze of fancy running. 
 From Chma 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 vvhom her clemency sustain'd ; 
 The good old sire, unconscious of decay. 
 The modest matron, clad in home-spun gray. 
 The military boy, tlie orphan'd maid. 
 The shatter'd veteran now first dismay 'd, — 
 These sadly join beside the murmurmg deep. 
 
 And, as they view the towers of Kew, 
 Call on their mistress — now no more — and weep. 
 
 CHORUS. — AFFETOOSO, LAROO. 
 
 Ye siiady walks, ye waving greens. 
 
 Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes. 
 
 Let all your echoes now deplore. 
 
 That she who form'd your beauties is no 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 t 
 No lord will fake me now, my vigour fled. 
 
 Nor can my strength perform what they require: 
 Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare, 
 A sleek and idle race is all their care. 
 My noble mistress thought not so : 
 
 Her bounty, like the morning dew. 
 Unseen, though constant, used to flow. 
 
 And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew.' 
 
THRKNODIA AVG ISTALIS. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKEH. 
 
 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, 
 
 Auo-usta's cares had well supplied. 
 
 • And, ah 1' she cries, all wobegone, 
 
 • What now remains for me ? 
 Oh 1 where shall weeping want repair 
 
 To ask for charity 1 
 Too late in life for me to ask, 
 
 And shame prevents the deed, 
 And tardy, tardy are the times 
 
 To succour should I need. 
 But all my wants, before I spoke, 
 
 Were to my mistress known ; 
 She still relieved, nor sought my praise. 
 
 Contented with her own. 
 But every day her name I'll bless, 
 
 My morning prayer, my evening song, 
 I'll praise her while my life shall last, 
 
 A life that cannot last me long.' 
 
 SONG. — BY A WOMAN. 
 
 Each day, each hour, her name I'll 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 : 
 E2 
 
 »1 
 
 <-=nr: 
 
8Si . THRENODI.V AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 ' Wild is the v/hirlwind rolling 
 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain, 
 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 SPIBITUOSO. 
 
 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 featuie reigningj 
 
 Kindly came in beauty's aid : 
 Every grace that grief dispenses, 
 
 Every glance that warms the sou , 
 la sweet succession charms the senses. 
 
 While Pity harmonized the whole. 
 ' The garland of beauty,' 'tis thus she would say, 
 
 ' No more shall ray crook or my temples adorn , 
 I'll not wear a ga-rland — Augusta's away — 
 
 I'll not wear a garland until she return. 
 But, alas ! that return I never shall see : 
 
 The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim. 
 There promised a lover to come — but, ah me ! 
 
 'Twas death — 'twas the death of my mistress that 
 came. 
 
THRENODIA AUGUSTALlS. 88 
 
 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 j 
 For who'd wear a garland when she is away. 
 
 When she is removed, and shall never return ? 
 On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed, 
 
 We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom. 
 And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast. 
 
 And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb. 
 
 CHORUS. — 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 watei her tomb. 
 
84 
 
 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO.* 
 
 THE PERSONS. 
 
 First Jewish Prophet. 
 Second Jewish Prophet. 
 Israelitish Woman. 
 
 First Chaldean Priest. 
 Second Clialdean Priest. 
 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, cbain'd, and all the world our foe, 
 Our God alone is all we boast below. 
 
 Air. 
 
 f;rst prophet. 
 
 Our God is all we boast below 
 
 To him we turn our eyes ; 
 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 statiza repeated by the Chorus. 
 
 * This was first printed from the original, in Dr. Gnldsniit'i's own 
 Iiand-writiner, in tlie 8vo. edition of his Miscelianeoiu H'orks, tm!~ 
 lished ill IS'JO. . 
 
THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 83 
 
 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 I 
 
 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 i. What though by bonds confined, 
 
 Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind 2 
 
 Have we not cause for triumph, when we see 
 
 Ourselves alone from idol-worship free 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 And should we mourn 1 Should coward virtue fly. 
 
 When vaunting folly lifts her head on high 1 
 
 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 ; • 
 
86 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 
 
 The good man suffers but to gain, ' 
 And every virtue springs from paia : 
 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 earj 
 
 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 with theirs 
 
 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 splendour 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. 
 
THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 
 
 87 
 
 FIRST fRIEST. 
 
 Wine and beauty thus inviting, 
 Each to different joys exciting, 
 Whither shall my choice incline? 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 1 11 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 ihfise 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, 
 
 ^»ery moment as it flows 
 Some peculiar pleasure owes : 
 Come, then, providently wise. 
 Seize the debtor ere it flies. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 
 Think not to-morrovv 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. 
 
 Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ! 
 
88 THE CAPTIYITV: A.N ORATORIO. 
 
 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 Chaldbaks. 
 
 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. 
 
 IsBAELiTEs and Chaldeans, as before- 
 
 Air. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 O peace of mind, angelic guest, 
 Thou soft companion of the breast. 
 
 Dispense thy balmy store ! 
 Wing all our thoughts to reach the si 
 Till earth, receding from our eyes. 
 
 Shall vanish as we soar! 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 No more. Too long has justice been delay'd. 
 The king's commands must fully be obey'd j 
 
THE CAPTIVITY : AM ORATORIO. S 
 
 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 favourt offer'd from his hand. 
 Think, timely think, what terrors are behind. 
 Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Fierce is the tempest howling 
 
 Along the furrow'd main, 
 And fierce the whirlwind rolling 
 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain : 
 
 But storms that fiy 
 
 To rend the sky. 
 Every ill presaging, 
 
 Less dreadful shew 
 
 To worlds below 
 Than angry monarchs raging. 
 
 ISRAELITISR WOMAN. 
 
 Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow ! 
 How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow I 
 Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth. 
 Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth ! 
 Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey ; 
 To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away. 
 
 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 PBIEST. 
 
 Why this delay 1 At length for joy prepare: 
 I read your looks, and see compliance there. 
 
90 THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 
 
 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. 
 Shall reason only teach to weep t 
 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, 
 Prepare's our monarch's victories to sing. 
 
 ASr. 
 
 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. 
 
THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 91 
 
 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. 
 
 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 falH 
 
 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 ciiildren slam. 
 
 Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind 
 
 More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined 
 
 CHORDS OF ALL. 
 
 Arise, all potent ruler, rise. 
 
 And vindicate thy people's cause, 
 
 Till every tongue in every land 
 Shall offer up unfeign'd applause. 
 
 [Exeitnt. 
 
 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 wo. 
 
 In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; 
 
 Still shall our name and growing power be spread, 
 
 And still o\ir iustice crush the traitor's head. 
 
THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Coeval with man 
 Our empire began, 
 And never shall fall 
 Till ruin shakes ail. 
 When ruin shakes all. 
 Then shall Babylon fall. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 
 'Tis thus the proud triumphant rear the head,- - 
 A little while, and all their pov.'er is fled. 
 But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train. 
 That onward slowly bends along the plain 1 
 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. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Ye wretches, who by fortune's hate 
 
 In want and sorrow groan. 
 Come, ponder his severer fate. 
 
 And learn to bless your own. 
 
 PIRST PROPHET. 
 
 Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, 
 
 A while the bliss suspend ; 
 Like yours, his life began in pride, 
 
 Like his, your lives shall end. 
 
 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 1 
 
THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 93 
 
 How long-, how long, Almighty God of all. 
 Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall 1 
 
 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. Lord, alike distress'd, 
 
 For streams of mercy lono- ; 
 Streams which cheer the sore oppress'd. 
 
 And overwhelm the strong-. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 But whence that shout? Good heavens! Amaie- 
 
 ment all! 
 See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : 
 Behold, an army covers all the ground, 
 'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round : 
 .4nd now, behold, the battlements recline— 
 O God of hosts, the victory is thine ! 
 
 CHORUS OP CAPTIVES. 
 
 Down wifh them, Lord, to lick the dust; 
 
 Thy vengeance be begun ; 
 Serve them as they have served the jus^ 
 
 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 j 
 And give repentance but an hour's delay. 
 
 . 2G 
 
94 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 
 
 Air. 
 
 FIRST AND SJtCOND PRIEST. 
 
 O happy, who in happy hour 
 To God their praise bestow. 
 
 And own his all-consuming power 
 Before they feel the blow I 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Air. 
 
 O Lucifer, thou son of mom, 
 
 Of Heaven alike and man the foe, — 
 
 Heaven, men, and all, 
 
 Now press thy fall, 
 And sink thee lowest of the low. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 O Babylon, how art thou fallen ! 
 Thy fall more dreadful from delay ! 
 
 Thy streets forlorn 
 
 To wilds shall turn. 
 Where toads shall pant and vultures prey. 
 
 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. 
 
THE CAPTlVIi 1 . AN ORATOKIO. 93 
 
 CHORUS OP 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 everv pain. 
 
 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 OF 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 cbeek j 
 I gazed, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, 
 
 Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak 
 
«r 
 
 THE 
 
 GOOD-NATURED MAN: 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 This admirable comedy was represented, for the first time, at Covent 
 3arden, January 29, 1768, It keot nosspssinn nf .h= .„„'<.,■..:?_"_' 
 liglits, but was considered bj 
 :ll the success it deserved. 
 
 *?hich had appeared since ' 1 
 
 mated its merits still higher. 
 
 This admirable comedy was represented, for the first time, at Covent 
 Garden, January 29, 176^ It tept possession of the sta^e for ^fne 
 n gits, but was considered by the author's friends not to have met with 
 *'i"!f if"?'^^^' " <*es«r''e''. Dr. Johnson said it was the best comedT 
 which had appeared since ' The Provoked Husband,' and Burke esS- 
 mated its merits sbll higher. ' ""'"e esu- 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I 
 was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of the 
 last age, and strove to imitate them. The term genteel 
 comedy was then unknown amongst us, and little more 
 was desired by an audience than nature and humour 
 m whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous! 
 'J'he author of the following scenes never imao^ined that 
 more would be expected of him, and therefore to deli- 
 neate character has been bis principal aim. - Those 
 who know any thing of composition, are sensible that 
 in pursuing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the 
 recesses of the mean : I was even tempted to look for 
 It in the master of a spunging-house ; but, in deference 
 to the public taste— grown of late, perhaps, too deli- 
 cate—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 refine- 
 ment will not banish humour and character from ours 
 as It has already done from the French theatre.' 
 Indeed, the French comedy is now become so very 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. gy 
 
 elevated and sentimental, that it has not only banished 
 humour and ffloliere from the stage, but it has banished 
 all spectators too. 
 
 Upon the whole, the author returns nis thanks to 
 the public, for the favourable reception which the 
 Good-Nntvred Man has met with ; and to Mr. Colmaa 
 in paktiouiar, for his kindness to it. It may not also 
 be improper to assure any who shall hereafter writs 
 for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever 
 be a sufficient passport to his protection. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Croaker. 
 
 Lofty. 
 
 Sir William Honeywood. 
 
 Leontine. 
 
 Jarvis. 
 
 Butler. 
 
 Bailiff. 
 
 Dubardieu. 
 
 Postboy. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Afiss Richland. 
 
 Olivia. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 Garnet. 
 
 liOTidlady. 
 
 Scene — Loriiobi 
 
98 
 
 THB 
 
 GOOD-NATURED MAN 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 WRITTEN BT DR. JOHNSON, SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLBT 
 
 Press'd by the load of life, the weary miod 
 
 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 statesmen 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 veal v.heir rage, 
 
 As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 
 
 Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale. 
 
 For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; 
 
 Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
 
 Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 
 
 ' This day, the powder'd curls and golden coat,* 
 
 Says swelling Crispin, ' begg'd a cobbler's vote.' 
 
 ' 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 t 
 
 The bard may supplicate, bu* cannot bribe. 
 
 J 
 
THE GOOD NATURED MAN. 99 
 
 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 TOUNG HONKYWOODi 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. 1 can't help being blunt, and bemg very 
 ansry 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 WiUiam. 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. 
 
 Sir William. What signifies his affection to me? 
 or how can 1 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. 
 
 Jai~vis. Faith, betrging vour honour's pardon, I'm 
 sorry they taught him any philosophy at a'll : it has 
 only served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a 
 good horse in a stable, but an arrant jade on a jour- 
 ney- For my own part, whenever I heai him men- 
 
100 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 tion the name oa't, I'm always sure he's going to plaj 
 the fool. 
 
 •Sir William. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his 
 philosopliy, 1 entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good- 
 nature arises rather from his fears of ofFending the im- 
 portunate, than his desire of making the deserving 
 happy. 
 
 Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know ; but, to 
 be sure, every body has it that asks it. 
 
 Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I hav« 
 been now for some time a concealed spectator of his 
 follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation. 
 
 Jurvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or 
 Other for them all. He calls his extravagance, gene- 
 rosity ; and his trusting every body, universal benevo- 
 lence, ft 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. 
 
 Sir William. And upon that 1 proceed, as my last 
 effort, though with very little hopes, to reclaim him. 
 That very fellow has just absconded, and 1 have taken 
 up the security. Now, my intention is to involve hire 
 in fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself into 
 real calamity : to arrest him for that very debt, to clap 
 an officer upon him, and then let him see which of his 
 friends will come to his relief. 
 
 Jarvis. Well, if 1 could but any way see him 
 thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be music 
 to me ; yet, faith, 1 believe it impossibte. 1 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 h's hair-dresser. 
 
 Sir William. We must try him once more, however, 
 and I'll go this instant to put my scheme into execu- 
 tion : and I don't despair of succeeding, as, by your 
 means, I can have frequent opportunities of being 
 about him without being known. What a pity it is, 
 Jarvis, that any man's good-will to others should pro- 
 duce so much neglect of himself, as to require cor- 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. I( I 
 
 rection ! Yet we must touch hi? 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. 
 
 Jarms. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honey wood. 
 Tt 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. 
 
 Ente-^ Honeywood. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my 
 friends this morning? 
 
 Jarvis. Vou have no friends. 
 
 Honenwood Well, from my acquaintance then'! 
 
 Jarvis. (Pulling out bills.) A few of our usual cards 
 of comphment, that's all. This bill from your tailor ; 
 this from your mercer; and this from the little broker 
 in Crooked-lane. He says he has been at a great deal 
 of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. 
 
 Honeywood. That 1 don't know ; but 1 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 Meet. 
 1 believe that would stop his mouth for a while at 
 least. 
 
 Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their 
 mouths in the mean time 1 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 1 see things going at sixes and 
 sevens ? 
 
 Honeywood. Whatever reason you may have for 
 being out of your senses, I hope you'll allow that I'm 
 not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. 
 
102 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Jarvis. You are the only man alive in your present 
 situation that could do so. Every thing upon the 
 waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine fortune 
 gone already, and upon the point of being given to 
 your rival. 
 
 HoneyiDond. 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. Soh ! What will you have done with him 
 that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry I lo 
 the fact — 1 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'll 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 
 scullion to the privy-councillor. If they have a bad 
 master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if they have 
 a good master, they keep quarrelling with one another. 
 
 Enter Butler, drunk. 
 
 Butler. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jona- 
 than ; you must part with him, or part with me, that's 
 the ex — ex — exposition of the matter, sir. 
 
 Honeywood. Full and explicit enough. But what*» 
 his fault, good Philip 1 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 103 
 
 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 
 don't go without mouths, sir — 1 hate a drunkard, sir. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon 
 that another time ; so go to bed now. 
 
 Jarvis. To bed 1 let him go to the devil. 
 
 Butler. Begging your honour's pardon, and begging 
 your pardon, master Jarvis, I'll not go to bed nor to 
 the devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my 
 cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. Croaker is below. 
 I came on purpose to tell you. 
 
 Honeywood. Why didn't you shew him up, block- 
 head ! 
 
 Butler. Shew 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 niglit. He comes on the old 
 affair, 1 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. Cioaker, knowing 
 my friend,4iip for the young lady, has got it into his 
 head that 1 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 lovely woman that ever warmed tlie human 
 heart with desire, I own : but never let me harbour a 
 thought of making her unhappy, by a connexion with 
 one so unworthy her merits as I am. No, Jarvis, it 
 shall be my study to ser"e her, even in spite of my 
 wishes ; and to secure her happiness, though it destroys 
 my own. 
 
 Jarvis. Was ever the like 1 1 want patience. 
 
104 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could nVs?il 
 Miss Richland's consent, do you think 1 could succeed 
 with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wifel who, 
 though both very fine in their way, are yet a littte 
 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 — 
 
 Houeywood. Hush, hush! he's coming up, he'll hear 
 you. 
 
 Jarvis One whose voice is a passing bell— 
 
 Houeywood. Well, well ; go, do. 
 
 Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief— 
 a coffin and cross-bones — a bundle of rue — a spng of 
 deadly nightshade — a — ( Honey wood, stopping his 
 mouth, at last pushes him off . ) [Exit Jartns. 
 
 Houeywood. I must own my old monitor is not en- 
 tirely wrong. There is something in my friend (breaker's 
 conversation that quite depresses me. His very mirth 
 is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance has a 
 stronger effect on my spirits than an 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 mostshock- 
 ingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this weather does 
 not affer ^ jur spirits. To be sure, if this weather con- 
 tinups — T say nothing ; but God send we be all better 
 this dav 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. 1 know, 
 at this time, no less than a hundred and twenty-seven 
 Jesuits between during Cross and Temple Bar. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 105 
 
 Uoneywood. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or 
 me, I sliould 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. 
 
 Houeywond. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, 
 I assure you. 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies 
 whether they be perverted or no I The women in my 
 time were good for something. I have seen a lady 
 drest from top to toe in her own manufactures for- 
 merly : but now-a-days, the devil a thing of their own 
 manufacture's about them, except their faces. 
 
 Honeywood. But, however these faults may ba 
 practised 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, 1 don't find this match between Miss Richland 
 and my son much relished, either by one side or 
 t'other. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 un- 
 derstanding. 
 
 Honeyuood. But would not that be usurping an 
 authority, that more properly belongs to yourself? 
 
 Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my 
 authority at home. People t+iink, 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 
 F2 
 
106 THE GOOD-NATURED M^N. 
 
 do rouse sometimes ; but what then? always haggling 
 and haggling. A man is tired of getting the better, 
 before his wife is tired of losing the victory. 
 
 Honeywood. it's a melancholy consideration, in- 
 deed, that our chief comforts often produce our great- 
 est anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions is 
 but an inlet to new disquietudes. 
 
 Croaker. Ah ! my dear friend, these were the very 
 words of poor Dick Doleful to me, not a week before 
 he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. Honey- 
 wood, 1 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. 
 
 Honeiiwood. Pray what could induce him to com- 
 mit so riish an action at lastl 
 
 Croaker. 1 don't know : some people were mali- 
 cious 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, 1 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! [Goingtocry. 
 
 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 whi(-h is to come, by that which we have 
 past, the prospect is hideous. 
 
 Croaker. Life, at the greatest and best, is but a 
 froward child, that must be humoured and coaxed a 
 little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. 
 
 Honeywood. Very truo, 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. 
 
THE GOOD NATURED MAN. 107 
 
 Croaker. Ah! my dear friend, it is a perfect satis- 
 faction to be miserable with you. My son Leoiitine 
 shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation. I'll 
 just step home for him. I am willing to shew him 
 so much seriousness in one scarce older than himself. 
 And what if 1 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— frotn 
 Palmyra to Constantinople, and so from Constanti- 
 nople back to London again. \_Exit. 
 Honeywood. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves 
 the utmost pity. 1 shall scarce recover my spirits 
 these three days. Sure, to live upon such terms, is 
 worse than death itself. And yet, when 1 consider 
 my own situation — a broken fortune, a hopeless pas- 
 sion, friends in distress, the wish, but not the power 
 to serve them [Puiwing and sighing. 
 
 Enter Butler. 
 
 Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker 
 and Miss Richland; shall 1 shew them up? — but 
 they're shewing up themselves. [Eitt. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland. 
 
 Miss Bichland. You're always in such spirits. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear Honey- 
 wood, from the auction. There was the old deaf 
 dowager, 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 
 humour: I know you'll 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. 
 
108 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Miss Richland. You would seem to insinuate, 
 madam, that 1 have particular reasons for being dis- 
 posed to refuse it. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, 
 don'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 mis- 
 understood. 
 
 Honeywood. There's no answering for others, ma- 
 dam. But I hope you'll never find me presuming to 
 offer more than the most delicate friendship may rea- 
 dily allow. 
 
 Miss Richland. And I shall be prouder of such a 
 tribute from you, than the most passionate professions 
 from others. 
 
 Honeywond. My own sentiments, madam : friend- 
 ship is a disinterested commerce between equals ; love, 
 an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. 
 
 Miss Richland. And without a compliment, I knovir 
 none more disinterested, or more capable of friendship, 
 than Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 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 professed admirer. 
 
 Miss R:chland. Indeed ! an admirer ! — I did not 
 know, sir, you were such a favourite there. 'But is 
 she seriously so handsome 1 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. CroakiT. But she's resolved never to lose it, it 
 seems. For as her natural face decays, her skill im- 
 proves in making the artificial one. Well, nothing 
 diverts me more than one of those fine, old, dressy 
 things, who thrnks to conceal her age by every where 
 exposing her person ; sticking herself up in the front 
 of a side-box J trailing through a minuet at Almack's; 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 109 
 
 and then, in the public gardens — looking, for all the 
 world, like one of the painted 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 commerce in the frozen latitudes beyond 
 fifty. 
 
 Miss Richland. But, then, the mortifications they 
 must suffer, before they can be fitted out for traflSc. 
 I have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her 
 hair-dresser, when all the fault was her face. 
 
 Honeywood. And yet, I'll engage, has carried that 
 face at last to a very good market. This good-na- 
 tured town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to 
 fit every age from fifteen to fourscore. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Well, you're a dear good-natured 
 creature. But you know you're engaged with us this 
 morning upon a strolling party. I want to shew 
 Olivia the town, and the things : I believe I shall 
 have business for you the whole day. 
 
 Honeywood. I am sorry, madam, I have an ap- 
 pointment with Mt. 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. 
 
 Honeywood. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear 
 you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you 
 find jest, and I'll find laugh, I promise you. We'll 
 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 cheer- 
 ful as they are ! 
 
 Olivia. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, 
 when I have so many terrors to oppress rae 1 The 
 fear of being detected by this family, and the appre- 
 
no THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 hensions of a censuring world, when I must be de- 
 tected ' 
 
 Leontine. The world, my love ! what can it say 1 
 At worst it can only say, that, being compelled by a 
 mercenary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, 
 you for.Tied a resolution of flying with-the man of 
 your choice ; that you confided in his honour, and 
 took refuge in my father's house, — the only one 
 where yours could remain without censure. 
 
 Olivia. But cansider, Leontine, 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 mayn't she write, mayn'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 7 
 
 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. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can 
 Olivia think so meanly of my honour, or my love, as 
 to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from any 
 but her 7 No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor, per- 
 mit me to add, the delicacy of rny passion, leave any 
 room to suspett me. I only offer Miss llicliiaud a 
 
THE GOOD-NATLIISD ilAN. m 
 
 heart I am convinced she will refuse ; as I am con- 
 fident, tiiat, without knowing it, her affections are 
 fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! You'll excuse my ap- 
 prehensions ; 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 shew a seeming 
 compliance 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 t% suppose, that merit which has 
 made an impression on one's own heart may be 
 powerful over that of another. 
 
 Leontine. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us 
 make imaginary evils, when you know we have so 
 many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, 
 if Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse 
 his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland; 
 and — — 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Where have you been, boy 1 I have 
 been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here has 
 been saying such comfortable things ! Ah ! he's an 
 example indeed. 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 my ears ; I'm struck dumb with his vivacity, and 
 stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was there 
 ever such a transformation! (a laugh behind the 
 scenes. Croaker mimics it.) Ha! ha! ha! there it 
 goes : a plague take their balderdash ! yet I could 
 expect nothing less, when my precious wife was of 
 
112 THE GOOD-NATURED MaN. 
 
 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, what- 
 ever 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'll 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 Treasuiijf yifill allow. One 
 half of this she is to forfeit, by her father's will, in 
 case she refuses to marry you. So, if she rejects you, 
 we seize half her fortune ; if she accepts you, we 
 seize the whole, and a fine girl into the bargain. 
 
 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 reasons. When I am determined, I always 
 listen to reason, because it can then do no harm. 
 
 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 in- 
 dulgence. 
 
 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 jrou shall have your share. 
 
THK GOOD-NAIURliD MAN. 113 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, 1 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 in- 
 timate friend of mine, and these are friendly things 
 we ought to do for each other. [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene — croaker's house. 
 Miss Ilichland, 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 any thing from 
 that quarter. 
 
 Miss Richland. But how? Tell me again. Garnet. 
 
 Garnet. Why, madam, as I told you before, in- 
 stead 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 
 guardian 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 demuruly as Olivia carried it (oo! — 
 
114 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Would you believe it. Garnet, I told her all mj 
 secrets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this from 
 me ! 
 
 Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I don t 
 much blame her : she was loath to trust one with her 
 secrets, th-at was so very bad at keeping- her own. 
 
 Miss Richland. But, to add to their deceit, the 
 young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me 
 serious proposals. My guardian and he are to be 
 -jere presently, to open the affair in form. You know 
 . am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. 
 
 Garnet. Yet, what can you do 1 For being, as you 
 are, in love with Mr. Honeywood, madam 
 
 Mi!,s Richlajid. How ! idiot, what do you mean? 
 In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke me 1 
 
 Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with him : I 
 meant nothing more than friendship., as I hope to be 
 married — nothing more. 
 
 Mis3 Richland. Well, no more of this. As to my 
 guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to 
 receive them: I'm resolved to accept their proposal 
 with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compli- 
 ance, 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 innocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness ! 
 
 Miss Richland. Why, girl, I only oppose my pru- 
 dence to their cunning, and practise a lesson they have 
 taught me against themselves. 
 
 Garnet. Then you're likely not long to want em- 
 ployment, 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 wh )le. Come, let me see with what spirit you 
 begin: Well, why don't you ■? Eh! Whati Well 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 115 
 
 then, I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my dear, I 
 believe you guess at our business ; an affair which my 
 son here comes to open, that nearly concerns your 
 happiness. 
 
 Miss 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 open- 
 ing? Why don't you begin, I say? [To Leontine. 
 
 Leontine. 'Tis true, madam — my father, madam — 
 has same intentions — hem — of explaining an affair, — 
 which — himself can beat 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. (^side..) In short, madam, you 
 see before you one that loves you — one whose whole 
 happiness is all in you. 
 
 Miss Richland. I never had any doubts of your 
 regard, sir; and I hope you can have none of my 
 duty. 
 
 Croaker. That's not the thing, my little sweeting — 
 My love ! no, no, another guess lover than I : there 
 he stands, madam ; his very looks declare the force of 
 his passion — Call up a look, you dog! (Aside.} But 
 then, had you seen him, as 1 have, weeping, speaking 
 soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, 
 and sometimes absent - 
 
 Miss Richland. 1 fear, sir, he's absent now ; or such 
 a declaration vv'ould have come most properly from 
 himself. 
 
 Croaker. Himself ! IMadam, he would die before he 
 could make such a confession ; and if he had not a 
 channel for his passion through me, it would ere now 
 have drowned his understanding. 
 
 Miss Richland. 1 riiust grant, sir, there are attrac- 
 
116 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 tions in modest diffidence above the force of wordsj 
 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 liis favour. And yet I shall 
 be thought too forward ^n making such a confession.; 
 shan't 1, Mr. Leonline 1 
 
 Leontine. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. 
 But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust 
 her. I'll try. (Aside.) Don't imagine from my 
 silence, madam, that I want a due sense of the lionour 
 and happiness intended me. My father, madam, tells 
 me your humble servant is not totally indifferent to 
 you — he admires you : I adore you ; and when we 
 come together, upon my soul, I believe we shall be 
 the happiest couple in all St. James's. 
 
 Miss Richland. If I could flatter myself you thought 
 as you speak, sir 
 
 Leontine. Doubt my sincerity, madam 1 By your 
 dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory 1 
 ask cowards if they covet safety 
 
 Civaker. Well, well, no more questions about it. 
 
 Leontine. Ask the sick if they long for health? 
 ask misers if they love money 1 ask 
 
 Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ? What's 
 come over the boy 1 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 
 ardour almost compels me — forces me to comply. — 
 And yet I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest gained 
 with too much ease ; won't you, Mr. Leontine '' 
 
 Leontine. Confusion ! (Aside.) Oh, by no means, 
 madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talked 
 of force. There is nothing 1 would avoid so much as 
 compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam, I 
 will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to 
 refuse. 
 
THE GOOD-x\ATURED MAN- 117 
 
 Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady k 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 1 So get you 
 both gone together into the next room, and hang him 
 that interrupts the tender explanations. Get you gone, 
 I say ; I'll not hear a word. 
 
 Leonliiie. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist — 
 
 Croaker. Get oflT, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to 
 
 insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! But 
 
 I don't wonder : the boy takes entirely after his 
 
 mother. [Exeunt Miss Richland and Leontine. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, 1 bring you something, 
 my dear, that I believe will make you smile. 
 
 Croaker. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear, 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. A letter ; and as I knew the liand, 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 
 contains. 
 
 Croaker (reading}. 
 
 ' Dear Ntca, — An English gentleman, of large 
 fortune, has for some time made private, though 
 honourable, proposals to your daughter Olivia. They 
 love each other tenderly, and I find she has consented, 
 without letting any of the family know, to crown his 
 
lis XHE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 addresses. As such good offers don't come every day, 
 your own good sense, his large fortune, and family 
 considerations, will induce you to forgive her. Yours 
 ever, 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 
 v/ord on't to the old ones for the world. Yet I thought 
 I saw something she vs^anted 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 nevei get 
 this woman to think of the most serious part of the 
 nuptial engagement. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What ! would you have me think of 
 their funeral 7 But come, tell me, my dear, don't }'ou 
 owe more to me than you care to confess 1 — Would 
 you have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has 
 undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, 
 but for me 1 Who was it first made him an acquaint- 
 ance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout"! Who got him to 
 promise us his interest?. Is not he a back-stair favou- 
 rite — one that can do wliat he pleases with those that 
 do what they please 1 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 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. That, perhaps, may be owing to hia 
 nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. 
 
 Enter French Servant. 
 
 Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. He vil 
 be vait upon your honours insfammant. He be onlv 
 
e 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 119 
 
 giving four five instruction, read two tree memorial, 
 call upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid you in 
 one tree minutes. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. You see novir, my dear. What an 
 extensive department ! Well, friend, let your master 
 knovc that vi^e are extremely honoured by this honour. 
 Was there any thing ever in a higher style of breeding'! 
 All messages among the great are now done by ex- 
 press. [^Exit 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 
 given where respect is claimed. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Never mind the viforld, my dear; 
 you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. 
 Let us now think of receiving him with proper respect, 
 (o loud rapping at the door,) and there he is, by the 
 thundering rap. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is 1 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 marriage 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 
 teasing 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 expresses to his Grace be ready, let them 
 be sent off; they're of importance. — Madam, I ask 
 ten thousand pardons. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour 
 
 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. 
 
!20 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour i 
 
 Lofty. And, Dabardieu ! if the man comes from the 
 Cornish borough, j'ou must do him ; you must do himj 
 1 say. — Madam, 1 ask. ten thousand pardons. — And if 
 the Russian ambassador calls ; but he will scarce call 
 to-day, I believe. — And now, madam, I have just got 
 time to express my happiness in having the honour of 
 being permitted to profess myself your most obedient 
 humble servant. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honour are all 
 mine ; and yet, I'm only robbing the public while 1 
 detain you. 
 
 Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are 
 to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so charm- 
 ingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor crea- 
 tures in affairs ■? Thus it is eternally j solicited for 
 places here, teased for pensions, there, and courted 
 every where. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir, ' Toils of empires 
 pleasures are,' as Waller says. 
 
 Lofty. Waller — Waller; is he of the House'? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name, sir. 
 
 Lofty. Oh, a modern ! We men of business despise 
 the moderns ; and as for the ancients, we have no time 
 to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our 
 wives and daughters ; but not for us. Why now, here 
 I stand that know nothing of books. I say,,madam, 
 I know notliing 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 tl)em. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty 's 
 eminence in every capacity. 
 
 Loftv. 1 vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. 
 I'm "nothing, nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere 
 obscure gentleman, 'i'o be sure, indeed, one or two 
 of tlie present ministers are pleased to represent nie ;is 
 a formidable man. 1 know they are pleased to be- 
 spatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upo:i 
 my soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat ir.e si; ! 
 Measures, not men, have always been my mark ; 8i:J 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 121 
 
 I vow, by all that's honourable, my resentment has 
 never done ihe men, as mere men, any manner of 
 harm — that is, as mere men. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what 
 modesty ! 
 
 Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, I 
 own," I'm accessible to praise : modesty is my foible : 
 it was so the Duke of Brentford used to say of me. 
 'I love Jack Lofty,' he used to say, ' no man has a 
 finer knowledge 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 
 assurance when you come to solicit for your friends. 
 
 Lofty. Oh, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apropos ! 
 1 have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to 
 a 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 jus- 
 tice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. 
 Business must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. 
 Secretary, her business must, be done, sir. That's my 
 wav, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Bkss me ! you said all this to the Se- 
 cretary of State, did you ? 
 
 Lojty. I did not say the Secretary, did 1 1 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. 
 Honeywood would have had us. 
 
 Lofti^. Honeywood! he! he! He was, indeed, a 
 fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has 
 just happened to him ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Poor dear man! no accident, I hope? 
 
 Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors 
 have taken him into custody — a prisoner in his own 
 house. 
 
 G 
 
122 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. A prisoner in his own house ! Howl 
 At this very time 1 I'm quite unhappy for him. 
 
 Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was 
 immensely good-natured. But then, I could never 
 find that he had any thing in him. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was exces- 
 sive harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a little du'll. 
 For my part, 1 always concealed my opinion. 
 
 Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was 
 duH — dull as the last new comedy ! a poor impracti- 
 cable creature ! 1 tried once or twice to know if he was 
 fit for business ; but he had scarce talents to be groom- 
 porter to an orange-barrow. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. How differently does Miss Richland 
 think of him ! For, 1 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. Dis- 
 tress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join 
 her in the next room 1 Miss Richland is a fine girl, 
 has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. 
 Upon my honour, madam, I have a regard for Miss 
 Richland ; and, rather than she should be thrown 
 away, I should think it no indignity to marry her my- 
 self. [^Exeum. 
 
 Enter Oiivia and Leontine. 
 
 Leontine. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every 
 reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did every 
 thing in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy sur- 
 prises me. 
 
 Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indelicate 
 in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear 1 shall 
 be the most guilty thing alive. 
 
 Leontine. But you mistake, my dear. The same 
 attention I used to advance my merit with you, T prac- 
 tised to lessen it with her. What more could I do? 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 123 
 
 Olivia. Let us now rather consider what is to be 
 done. We have both dissembled too long. I have 
 always been ashamed— 1 am now quite weary of it. 
 Sure I could never have undergone so much for any 
 other but you. 
 
 Leontine. And you shall find my gratitude equal to 
 your kindest compliance. Though our friends should 
 totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content 
 for the deficiencies of fortune. 
 
 Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme of 
 humble happiness, when it is now in our power 1 I 
 may be the favourite of your father, it is true ; but can 
 it ever be thought, that his present kindness to a sup- 
 posed child will continue to a known deceiver] 
 
 Leontine. 1 have many reasons lo believe it will. As 
 his attachments are but few. they are lasting. His 
 own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. Be- 
 sides, 1 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 in- 
 duced to think he knows of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness too 
 great to be expected. 
 
 Leontine. However it be, I'm certain you have 
 power over hrm ; 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 
 another. 
 
 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 
 within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to 
 ghare your danger, or confirm your victory. lExit, 
 
124 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Crwiker. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not too 
 easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up the de- 
 corums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress 
 her witli an idea of ray authority. 
 
 Olivia. How I tremble to approach him ! — Might I 
 presume, sir — If 1 interrupt you 
 
 Cro.iker. No, child, whcEe 1 have an affection, it is 
 not a liitle thing can interrupt me. Affection gets over 
 little thmgs. 
 
 Olivia. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how ill 
 I deserve this partiality ; yet, Heaven knovys, 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 your's, 
 on mv conscience, I could be brous:ht to forgive any 
 thing, unless it were a very great offence indeed. 
 
 Olivia. But mine is such an offence — When you 
 know my guilt — Ves, you shall know it, though I 
 feel the greatest pain in the confession. 
 
 Croaher. Why, then, if it bs 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. 
 
 CroiikfT. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, 
 without 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 disposal 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. 
 
 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. 1 wa.s prepared, sir, for your anger, and 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 125 
 
 despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask it. 
 But your severity shall never abate my affection, as 
 my punishment is but justice. 
 
 Croaker. And yet you should not despair, neither, 
 Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. 
 
 Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir 1 Can 
 lever expect to be forgiven"! But hope has too 
 long deceived me. 
 
 Croaker. W hy then, child, it shan't deceive you 
 now, for I forgive you this very moment; 1 forgive 
 you alH and now you are indeed my daughter. 
 
 OUva. Oh transport ! this kindness overpowers me. 
 
 Croaker. I was always against severity to our chil- 
 Iren. We have been young and giddy ourselves, and 
 «ve can't expect boys and girls to be old before their 
 time. 
 
 Olivia. What generosity ! But can you forget the 
 many fakeJioods, the dissimulation—— 
 
 Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin 
 you ; but where 's the girl that won't dissemble for a 
 husband? My wife and I had never been married, if 
 we had not dissembled a little beforehand. 
 
 Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put 
 such generosity to a second trial. And as for the 
 partner of my offence and folly, from his native 
 honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, I can 
 answer for him that 
 
 Enter Leontine, 
 
 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: 1 now can boast 
 the most indulgent of fathers. The life he gave, com- 
 pared to this, was but a trifling blessing 
 
 Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with 
 that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner? I 
 don't know what we have to do with your gratitude 
 upon this occasion. 
 
126 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Lenntine. How, sir I is it possible to be silent, 
 when so mucli obliged ? Would you refuse me the 
 pleasure of being grateful 1 of adding my thanks to 
 my Olivia's? of sharing in the transports that you 
 have thus occasioned 1 
 
 Croaker. Lord, sir, we can he happy enough with- 
 out your coming in to make up the party. 1 don't 
 know what's the matter with the boy all this day ; he 
 has got into such a rhodomontade manner all this 
 morning I 
 
 Leontine. But, sir, I that have so large a part in 
 the benefit, is it not my duty to shew my joy 1 Is the 
 being admitted to your favour so slight an obligation 1 
 Is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so small a 
 blessing 1 
 
 Croaker. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! mar- 
 rying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his 
 senses. His own sister! 
 
 Leontine. My sister ! 
 
 Olivia. Sister 1 how have I been mistaken ! [Aside, 
 
 Leontine. Some cursed mistake in all this I find. 
 
 [Aside, 
 
 Creaker. What does the booby mean? or has he 
 any meaning? Eh, what do you mean, you block- 
 head, you ? 
 
 Lenntine. Mean, sir? — why, sir — only when my 
 sister is to be married, that 1 have the pleasure of 
 marrying her, sir, — that is, of giving her away, sir — 
 I have made a point of it. 
 
 Croaker. Oli, 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 
 prepare the writings between you and Miss Richland 
 this very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing! 
 Why what's the matter now? I thought I had made 
 you at least as happy as you could wish. 
 
 Olivia. Oh, yes, sir; very happy. 
 
 Croaker. Do you foresee any thing, child 1 You 
 Iffok as if you did. I think if any thing was to ba 
 
 .li;, ^ . ■.-'it]*^;. 
 
- THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 127 
 
 foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as another ; and 
 yet I foresee nothing. [£iit. 
 
 Leontine and Olivia. 
 
 Olivia. What can it mean? 
 
 Leontine. He knows something, and yet, for my 
 life, 1 can't tell what. 
 
 Olivia. It can't be the connexion 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 mortifi- 
 cation. I'll haste and prepare for our journey to 
 Scotland tliis very evenino;. My frieod Honeywood 
 has promised me his advice and assistance. I'll go 
 to him and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom; 
 and 1 know so much of his honest heart, that if he 
 can't relieve our uneasinesses, he will at least share 
 them. l_ExeuiU. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene — voung honeywood's house. 
 Bailijf, Honeywood, Follower. 
 
 Bailiff'. Lookye, sir, 1 ha-ve arrested as good men 
 as you m my time — no disparagement of you neither 
 — men that would go forty guineas on a game of 
 cribbage. I challenge the town to shew a man in 
 more genteeler practice than myself. 
 
 Honei/wood. Without all question, Mr. I for- 
 get your name, sir! 
 
 Baliff. How can you forget what you never knewt 
 he ! tie ! he ! 
 
 Honeywood. May I beg leave to ask your name ? 
 
 Baliff. Yes, you may. 
 
 Hoaeifwood. Then, pray sir, what is your name? 
 
 Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you. — He I 
 
128 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 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 
 shew 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 favour to ask, that's all. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked than 
 granted, as we say among us that practise the law. 
 1 have taken an oath against granting favours. 
 Would you have me perjure myself? 
 
 Honeywood. But my request will come recom- 
 mended in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you'll 
 have no scruple (pulling out hs purse). The thing 
 is only this : I believe 1 shall be able to discharge 
 this trifle in tv.-o or three davs 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 discharged ; for which I shall 
 be properly grateful. 
 
 Bailff. Oh ! that's anothei maxum, and altogether 
 withm 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. 
 
 Huneyuood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
 Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. 
 
 [Gives him money. 
 Bailiff. Oh ! your honour ; I hope your honour 
 takes nothing amiss as I does, as 1 does nothing but 
 my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can say I 
 ever give a gentleman, 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. 
 
 Honeywood, Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 129 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to 
 see a gentleman with a tender heart. 1 don't know, 
 but I think 1 have a tender heart nayself. If all that 
 I have lost by my heart was put together, it would 
 make a — but no matter for that. 
 
 Honeyweod. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. 
 The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of 
 the consoious happiness of having acted with humanity 
 ourselves. 
 
 Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better than 
 gold. 1 love humanity. People may say, that we 
 in our way have no humanity ; but I'll shew 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 shew him 
 any humanity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it 
 for me. 
 
 Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a 
 most powerful recommendation. 
 
 [Givng money to the follower. 
 
 Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman. 1 see you know 
 what to do with your money. But, to business, we are 
 to be with you here as yoar friends, 1 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. 
 
 Honeyvxwd. Well, that shall be remedied without 
 delay. 
 
 Enter Servants 
 
 Servant. Sir, Miss Bichland 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 honour gave away to the beg- 
 ging gentleman that maket; verses, because it was as 
 good as new. 
 
 G2 
 
130. THE GOOD NATUIIED MAN. 
 
 Honeywnod. The white and gold then. 
 
 Servant. Ihat, your honour, 1 made bold to sell, 
 because it was good for nothing. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, the first that comes to hand 
 then — the blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan 
 will look best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. 
 
 Bailiff. Raljbit me, but little Flanigan will look 
 well in any thing. Ah, if your honour knew that bit 
 of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love 
 with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four 
 counties after a shy-cock than he : scents like a hound 
 — sticks like a weasel. He was master of the cere- 
 monies to the black Queen of Morocco, when I took 
 him to follow me. (^Re-enter Flanigan.) Heh ! ecod, 
 I think he looks so well, that 1 don'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'll give your friend direc- 
 tions not to speak. As for yourself, 1 know you will 
 say nothing without being directed. 
 
 Bailiff. Never you fear me ; I'll shew the lady that 
 1 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. 
 
 Entei' Miss Richland and Garnet. 
 
 Miss Richland. You'll be surprised, sir, with thia 
 visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for choosing 
 my little library. 
 
 Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary ; as 
 it was 1 that was obliged by your commands. Chairs 
 here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch and 
 Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without cere- 
 mony. 
 
 Miss Richland. Who can these odd-looking men 
 be? I fear it is as 1 was informed. It must be so. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Bailiff. (After a -pause.) Pretty weather; very pretty 
 weather for the time of the year, madam. 
 
THE (iOOD-NATURED MAN. 131 
 
 Follower. Very good circuit weather in the country. 
 
 Honeiiwood. You officers are generally i'avourites 
 among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been 
 upon very disagreeable duty, 1 assure you. The fair 
 should, in some measure, recompense the toils of the 
 brave. 
 
 Miss Richland. Our officers do indeed deserve every 
 favour. The gentlemen are in the marine service, 1 
 presume, sir? 
 
 Honeywood. Why, madam, they do — occasionally 
 serve in the Fleet, madam. A dangerous service ! 
 
 Miss Richland. I'm told so. And 1 own it has often 
 surprised me, that while we have had so many in- 
 stances of bravery there, we have had so (ew of wit at 
 home to praise it. 
 
 Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have 
 not 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 sul)ject spoiled by a dull writer. 
 
 Honeywood. We should not be so severe ao-ainst 
 dull writers, madam. It is ten to one but the dullest 
 writer exceedb the most rigid French critic who pre- 
 sumes to despise 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'll be 
 daran'd but they come in for a bellyfuU. 
 
 Miss Richland, Very extraordinary this ! 
 
 Follower. But very tiue. What makes the bread 
 
132 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 rising ? the parle vous that devour us. What makes 
 the mutton tivepenoe a pound ? the parle vous that eat 
 it up. What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny 
 a pot 1. • 
 
 HoneiiwQod. 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 tapte and that of our 
 senses. We are injured as much by the French se- 
 verity in the one, as by French rapacity in the other. 
 Tliat's their meaning. 
 
 Mi&s Richland. Though I don't see the force of the 
 parallel, yet I'll own, that we should sometimes pardon 
 books, as we do our friends, that have now and then 
 agreeable absurdities to recommend them. 
 
 Bailiff'. That's all my eye. The King only can 
 pardon, as the law says : for, set in case 
 
 Honeywood. I'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see 
 the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our 
 presuming to pardon any work, is arrogating a power 
 that belongs to another. If all have power to con- 
 demn, what writer can be free? 
 
 Baliff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus 
 can set him free at any time : for, set in case — — 
 
 Honeiiwiiod. 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 
 
 HoneyiDood. jNIr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, 
 you could not improve the last observation. For my 
 own part, I tliink it conclusive. 
 
 Ba'iff. As for the matter of that, mayhap 
 
 Honeuwood, Nay, sir, give me leave, in this in- 
 stance, to be positive. For where is the necessity of 
 censuring works without genius, which must shortly 
 sink of themselves"! what is it, but aiming an unne- 
 cessary blow against a victim already under the hands 
 of justice'! 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED M.4N. 133 
 
 Bailiff. Justice! Oh, by the elevens! if you talk 
 about justice, 1 think 1 am at home there: for, in a 
 course of law 
 
 Honeywood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what 
 you'd be at, perfectly ; and 1 believe the lady must be 
 sensible of the art with which it is introduced. I sup- 
 pose you perceive the meaning, madam, of his course 
 of law. 
 
 Miss Puchland. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive 
 only that you answer one gentleman before he has 
 finished, and the other before he has well begun. 
 
 Bailijf'. Aladam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will 
 make tita matter out. This here question is about 
 severity, and justice, and pardon, and the like of they. 
 Now, to explain the thing 
 
 Honeywood. Oh ! curse your explanations ! [^Ande. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak 
 with you upon earnest business. 
 
 Honeywood. That's lucky, (^fde.) Dear madam, 
 you'll 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 v?ith 
 such friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if 
 I must. Dut I know your natural politeness. 
 
 Bailiff. Before and behind, you know. 
 
 Follower. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and 
 behind. [Eieunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower, 
 
 Miss Richland. What can ail this mean. Garnet? 
 
 Garnet, .\iean, madam! why, what should it mean, 
 but what ilr. Lofty sent you here to see 1 These peo- 
 ple he calls oflScers, are officers sure enough : shenfi'^s 
 officers — bailiffs, madam. 
 
 Miss Richland. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though 
 his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I 
 own there is something very ridiculous in them, and a 
 just punishment for hLs diisimulution. 
 
 Garnet. And so they are : but I wonder, madam. 
 
134 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 thaf 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 set- 
 ting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It has 
 totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet it 
 gives me pleasure to find, that among a number of 
 worthless friendships, he 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 2 I'll endeavour to sound her afTections.— 
 Madam, as I am the person that have had some de- 
 mands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you'll 
 excuse me, if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see 
 yourself. 
 
 Miss Richland. The precaution was very unneces- 
 sary, 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 gentleman you intended to serve. 
 
 Miss Ricldand. 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 favour- 
 ably of a character you have oppressed, would be 
 impeaching your own. And sure, his tenderness, his 
 humanity, his universal friendship, may atone for 
 many faults. 
 
 Sir William. That friendship, madam, which is 
 exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. 
 Our bounty, lilce a drop of water, disappears when 
 diffused too widely. They who pretend most to this 
 universal benevolence, are either deceivers or dupes, — 
 men who desire to cover their private ill-nature, by a. 
 pretended regard for all, or men who, reasoning 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. iZa 
 
 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 severe in his censure of it. ' 
 
 Sir Witliain. Whatever I may have gained by 
 folly, madam, you see I am willing to prevent your 
 losmg 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 msist upon their being complied with. 
 
 Sir William. Thou amiable woma-n ! I can ho 
 longer contam the expressions of m.y giatitude— 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 reclaim them,— his uncle' 
 Miss Richland. Sir William Honeywood ! You 
 amaze me. How shall I conceal ray confusion ■> I 
 tear, sir, you'll think I have been too forward in mv 
 
 services. I confess I ^ 
 
 Sir William. Don't make any apologies, madam. 
 1 only find jnyself 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 un- 
 asked, been your solicitor there. 
 
 _ Miss Richland. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your 
 intentions. But my gviardian has employed another 
 gentleman, who assures him of success 
 
 • ■^"' ''^''''«™' Who, the important little man that 
 visits here ? Trust me, madam, he's quite contempti- 
 ble a n>ong men m power, and utterly unable to serve 
 you. Mr. Lofty s promises are much better known 
 to people 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 2 Remember I'm to con- 
 
IS6 THE GOOD-NATUKED MAN. 
 
 tinue unknown. ]My return to England has not as yet 
 been made public. With what impudence he enters! 
 
 Enter ],cifty. 
 
 Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off: 
 I'll visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland 
 here before me "i Punctual, as usual, to the calls of 
 humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things of this 
 kind should happen, especially to a man I have shewn 
 every where, and carried amongst us as a particular 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Miss Ptichland. 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 me do? One man can't do every thing; and 
 then, I do so much in this way every day. Let me 
 see — something considerable might be done for him 
 by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried the list. 
 I'll undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two 
 dozen lords, and half the Lower House, at my own 
 peril. 
 
 SirWilliam. And, after all, it's more than proba- 
 ble, sir, he might reject the offer of suck powerful 
 patronage. 
 
 Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do 1 You 
 know I never make promises. In truth, I once or 
 twice tried to do something with him in the vvay of 
 business ; but as I often told his uncle, Sir William 
 Honeyvvood, the man was utterly impracticable. 
 
 Sir Wiliiam. His uncle ! then that gentleman, I 
 suppose, is a particular friend of yours. 
 
 Lofty. Meaning me, sir? — Yes, madam, as. I often 
 said. My dear Sir William, you are sensible I would 
 do any thing, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve 
 your family : but what can be done 1 there's no pro- 
 curing first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities. 
 
 Miss Richland. I have heard of Sir William Honey- 
 wood ; he's abroad in employment : he confided io 
 your judgment, I suppose 1 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Igf 
 
 Lofty. Why, yes, madam, I believe Sir William 
 had some reason to confide in my judgment — one 
 little rea^.on, perhaps. 
 
 Miss^Richland. Pray, sir what was it 1 
 
 Lofty. Why, madam — but let it go no farther — it 
 was 1 procured him his place. 
 
 Sir William. Did you, sir? 
 
 Lofty. Either you or I, sir. 
 
 Miss Richland. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind 
 indeed. 
 
 Lofty. I did love him, to be sure; he had some 
 amusing qualities ; no man was iitter to be a toast- 
 master to a club, or had a better head. 
 
 Miss Richland. A better head 1 
 
 Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was as dull 
 as a choice spirit; but hang it, he was grateful, very 
 grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults. 
 
 Sir Wiltiam. He might have reason, perhaps. His 
 place is pretty considerable, I'm told. 
 
 Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of 
 business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a 
 greater. 
 
 Sir William. Dignity of person do you mean, sir? 
 I'm told he's much about my size and figure, sir 1 
 
 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 — 1 have a place in me that you 
 want; do me here, do you there: interest of both 
 sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it's over. 
 
 SirWitUam. A thought strikes me. (^Aside.) Now 
 you mention Sir William Honeywood, madam, and 
 as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you'l.. be 
 
13S 
 
 TilE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 glad to 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 ac- 
 quainted. 
 
 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 de- 
 spatch, and his inspection. 
 
 Miss Richland. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a 
 person employed in my affairs — I know you'll serve us. 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. 
 Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think 
 proper to command it. 
 
 Sir 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 
 Pensacola business comes on this very hour, and I'm 
 engaged to attend — another time 
 
 Sir Wiliiam. 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 j face to 
 face, that's my way. 
 
 Sir William. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds ! sir, do you pretend to direct me 1 
 direct me in the business of office ] Do you know 
 me, sir ? who am 1 1 
 
 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 
 constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. 
 He shall have a letter : where is my secretary t 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 139 
 
 Dubardieu ! And yet, I protest, I don'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 cc<5ourings, like those 
 employed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend 
 that bloom which they contribute to destroy. I'm 
 not displeased at this interview : exposing this fellow's 
 mipudence 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 got- 
 ten out of one scrape, but he's running his head into 
 another. 
 
 Sir William. How sol 
 
 Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared ot the 
 bailiffs, and now he's again engaging, tooth and nail, 
 in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a clandestine 
 match with the young lady that passes in the house for 
 his sister. 
 
 Sir William. Ever busy to serve others. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, any body but himself. The young cou- 
 ple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland ; and he 
 supplies 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 
 *.hem to Scotland myself. 
 
 Sir William. How 1 
 
 Jantis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to 
 
140 THE GOOD NATURED MAN. 
 
 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 tliey 
 return ; so they have borrowed me from my master, 
 as the properest person to attend the young lady down. 
 
 Sir WiUiajii. 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 fa- 
 tiguing, than you imagine. I know but too much of 
 the yonng lady's family and connexions, whom I have 
 seen abroad. I have also discovered that Miss Rich- 
 land is not indifferent to mj' thoughtless nephew ; and 
 will end-eavour, though I fear in vain, to establish that 
 connexion. But come, the letter I wait for must be 
 almost finished ; I'll let you farther into my intentions 
 in the next room, [Eieunt. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 •Scerae— 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 ge- 
 nius like my own could draw me from. I was formerly 
 contented to husband out my places and pensions with 
 some degree of frugality ; birt 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 scru- 
 ple a lie or two to come at a fine girl, when 1 every 
 day tell a thousand for nothing? Ha! Honeywood 
 here before me. Could Miss Richland have set him 
 at liberty 1 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 
 Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad again, 
 find my concurrence was not necessary in ysur un« 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 141 
 
 fortunate affairs. I had put things in a train to do 
 your business ; but it is not for me to say what I in- 
 tended doing. 
 
 Honeywood. 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 1 
 
 Honeywood. Can't guess at the person. 
 
 Lofty. Inquiret * 
 
 Honeywood, I have ; but all I can learn is, that he 
 chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry must 
 be fruitless. 
 
 Lnfty. Must be fruitless? 
 
 Honeywood. Aljsolutely fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Sure of that "i 
 
 Honeywood. Very sure. 
 
 Lofty. Then I'll 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, to be sure, says such things of me. 
 
 Honeywood. The world, by what I learn, is no 
 stranger to your generosity. But where does this tend? 
 
 Lofty. To nothing — nothing in the world. The 
 town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as me 
 the subject of conversation, has asserted, that I never 
 yet patronized a man of merit„ 
 
 Honeywood. I have heard instances to the contrary, 
 even from yourself. 
 
 Lojty. Yes, Honeywood ; 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'll be damn'd if I answer them. 
 
 Honeywood. I will ask no farther. My friend ! my 
 benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that 1 am indebted 
 
142 THE GOOD-NAfURED MAN. 
 
 for freedom— fo!- lionour. Yes, thou worthiest of men, 
 
 from the beginning 1 suspected it, but was afraid to 
 
 return thanks ; wiiich, if undeserved, might seem 
 
 reproaches. 
 
 Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr. 
 Honey wood ; 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 "! 
 
 Noneywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an 
 action that adds to your honour. Your looks, your 
 air, your manner, all confess it. 
 
 Lofty. Confess it, sir ! torture itself, sir, shall never 
 bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I have 
 admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't let us 
 fall out ; make me happy, and let this be buried in 
 oblivion. You kru)w I hate ostentation ; you know I 
 do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always 
 loved to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this 
 may make no kind of distance between us. Come, 
 come, you and I must be more familiar — indeed we 
 must. 
 
 _ Honeywood. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such 
 friendship ? Is there any way 1 Thou best of men, 
 can I ever return the obligation ■! 
 
 Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I see 
 your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall be 
 grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you. 
 
 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 1 . 
 
 Lojty. Nobody so well. 
 
 Honeyivood. In what manner ? I'm all impatience. 
 
 Lofty. You shall make love for me. 
 
 Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your 
 favour 1 
 
 Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great in- 
 terest, I assure you — Miss Richland. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN, 143 
 
 Honeywood. Miss Richland! 
 
 Lefty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the 
 blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter ! 
 
 Doneywood' Heavens ! was ever any thing more 
 unfortunate 1 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. Be- 
 tween ourselves, I think she likes me. I'm not apt 
 to boast, but I think she does. 
 
 Doneywood. 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 suc- 
 cess of my passion. I'll say no more, let friendship 
 do the rest. I have only to add, that if at any time my 
 little interest can be of service — but, hang it, I'll make 
 no premises : you know my interest is yours at any 
 tinie. No apologies, my friend, I'll not be answered ; 
 it shall be so. [Exit. 
 
 Doneywood. Open, generous, unsuspecting man 1 
 He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such an 
 ardent passion 1 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 tormentor ; 
 a friend, that has perhaps distressed himself to serve 
 me. It shall be so. Yes, I will discard the fondlino- 
 hope from my bosom; and exert all my influence in 
 his favour. And yet to see her in the possession of 
 another ! — Insupportable ! But then to betray a gene- 
 rous, 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. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a milliner's box. 
 
 Olivia. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. 
 No news of Jarvis yet? I believe the old peevish 
 creature delays purely to vex me. 
 
144 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 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 g;et a bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! 
 
 Garnet. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had 
 twice as much to do, is setting off by this time from 
 his inn : and here you are left behind. 
 
 Olivia, Well, let us be prepared for his coming, 
 however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, 
 Garnet! 
 
 Garnet. Not a stick, madam ; all's here. Yet I 
 wish you could fake the white and silver to be mar- 
 ried 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 ail impatience till we are 
 out of the house. 
 
 Garnet, Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the 
 wedding ring! The sweet little thing. I don't think 
 it would go on my little finger. And what if I put 
 in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of necessity, 
 madam 1 — 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 1 My master's bill upon 
 the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Gar- 
 net may pin up her hair with it. 
 
 Olivia. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve us 
 so t What shall we do ■? Can't we go without it ? 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 145 
 
 Jams. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scot- 
 land without money ! Lord ! how some people under- 
 stand geography 1 We might as well set sail for 
 Patagonia upon a cork-jacket. 
 
 Olivia. Such a disappointment! What a base in- 
 sincere man was your master, to serve us in this man- 
 ner ! Is this his good-nature 1 
 
 Jarvis. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam ; 
 I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but 
 myself. 
 
 Garnet. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, you 
 need not be under any uneasiness: I saw Mr. Leon- 
 tine 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'll write im- 
 mediately. 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'll 
 do what I ca-n to please you. Let me see. All out 
 of m,y own head, 1 suppose 1 
 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 hov/ shall we send it ? 1 can trust none of the 
 servants of this family. 
 
 Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler is 
 in the next room : he's a dear, sweet man ; he'll do 
 any thing for me. 
 
 Jarvis. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some 
 blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-dav. 
 H ' ^ 
 
14S THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Oliv'm. No matter. Fly Garnet: any body wa 
 can trust will do. [Exit Garnet.'] Well, jarvis, now 
 we can have nothing more to interrupt us ; you may 
 take up the things, and carry them on to t-he inn. 
 Have you no hands, Jarvisl 
 
 Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You that are 
 going to be married think things can never be done 
 Lo fast; but vv-e, 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. Jiy life for it, you would do them ten times 
 over 
 
 Olivia. Why will you talk so 1 If you knew how 
 unhappy they make me 
 
 Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just 
 as unhappy when 1 was going to be married myself. 
 I'll tell you a story about that 
 
 Olivia. A story'l 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 forgot one thing we should never travel without 
 
 a case of good razors, and a box of shaving powder. 
 
 But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty well 
 
 shaved by the way. [Goiwg. 
 
 Enter Garnet. 
 
 Garnet. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. Jar- 
 vis, you said right enough. As sure as death, ^Mr. 
 Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the 
 letter before he went ten yards from the door. 
 There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this 
 moment reading it to himself in the hall. 
 
 Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 
 
 Garnet. No, madam ; don't be uneasy, he can 
 make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure, he looks 
 as if he was broke loose from Bedlam, about it, but 
 he can't find what it means for all that. O lud, he 
 IS coming this way all in the horrors ! 
 
THE GOOD-NATURRD MAN. 
 
 147 
 
 Oliviii Then let us leave the house this iustant. 
 for fear he should ask farther questions. In the mean 
 ;i::;rGavnet. do you write and send ofF jus^^such 
 another. '- 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 Croaher. Death and destruction ! Are all the hoj 
 rors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at me? 
 Am I only to be singled out for gunpowaer plots, 
 combustibles, and conflagrations? Here it is-An 
 incendiary letter dropped at my door. 1o Mustei 
 Croaker, ^these with sjeed,' Ay, ay pi am enoug^. 
 the direction : all in the genuine >"cendmry spelhng, 
 and as cramp as the devd. ' With speed. Oh, con- 
 found your ipeed! But let me read it once ir.o e. 
 CEeads) ' Muster Croaker, as sone as jo^^e see this 
 Isve tvventy gunnes at the bar of the ^alhoot tell 
 caled for, or yowe and yower experetioti will be al 
 blown u^.' Ah, but too plain! Blood and gun- 
 powder in every line of it. Blown up murderous 
 doo- 1 All blown up 1 Heavens ! what have i anu 
 my%oor family done, to be all blown up 1 (Reads) 
 « Our pockets are low, and money we must have. 
 Av there's the reason ; they'll blow us up, because 
 they have got low pockets. {Reads) 'It is but a 
 short time you have to consider ; for if this takes 
 wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame. Inhu- 
 man monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us ^ i he 
 earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire toil, {heads) 
 '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 !— 6o you to ihe 
 devil, you and your little Cupid together. Im so 
 fricrhtened. I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. 
 Pe°rhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, 
 blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. Ihey 
 are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder 
 We shall be all burnt ia our beds; we shall bo all 
 burnt in our beds ! 
 
148 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland. 
 
 Miis 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 iiope not, sir. 
 
 Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, 
 when I have a certificate of it here in my hand 1 
 Will nothing alarm my familyl Sleeping and eating 
 — sleeping and eating is the only work from morn- 
 ing 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, 
 famines, plagues, and mad dogs from year's end to 
 year's end. You remember, sir, it is not above a 
 month ago, you assured us of a conspiracj' among 
 the bakers to poison us in our bread ; and so kept the 
 whole family a week upon potatoes. 
 
 Ci-oaker. 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 1 Here, John, 
 Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cellars, 
 to see if there be any combustibles below ; and above, 
 in the apartments, th>at no matches be thrown in at 
 the windows. Let all the fires be put out, an,d 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 -7 Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms 
 us in this manner almost every day. But Honeywood 
 has desired an interview with me in private. What 
 can he mean 1 or rather, what means this palpitation 
 at his approach"! It is the first time he ever shewed 
 any thing in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure 
 he cannot mean to — but he's here. 
 
THK GOOD-NATURED MAN. 149 
 
 Enter Honeywood, 
 
 Honeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview, 
 madam, 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 favour of this 
 interview, in order to disclose something which our 
 long friendship prompts. And yet my fears 
 
 Miss Richkind. His fears ! what are his fears to 
 mine! (Aside.) We have, indeed, been long ac- 
 quainted, 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 1 
 
 Honeywood. Perfectly, madam : I presumed to 
 reprove you for painting ; but your warmer blushes 
 soon convinced the company that the colouring was 
 all from nature. 
 
 Miss Richland. And yet you only meant it in your 
 good-natured way, to make me pay a compliment to 
 myself. 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 every body 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 shew to most ad- 
 vantage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, 
 that put all their best goods to be seen at the win- 
 dows. 
 
 Honeywood. The first impression, madam, did in- 
 deed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with 
 all the faults of conscious flattered beauty : I ex- 
 pected 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, eir, is a style very unusual 
 
150 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 with Mr. Honeywood ; and I should be glad to know 
 why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, which 
 his own lessons 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 
 offending. 
 
 Miss Richland. Sir ! I beg you'd reflect : though I 
 fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request 
 of yours, yet you may be precipitate : consider, sir. 
 
 Honeywood. I own my rashness ; but as I plead 
 the cause of friendship, of one who loves — don't be 
 alarm.ed, madam — who loves you with the most 
 ardent passion, whose vifhole happiness is placed in 
 you 
 
 Miss Riehiand. 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 
 longer to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I 
 have long been prejudiced in his favour. It was but 
 natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed 
 himself ignorant of its value. 
 
 Honeywood. I see she always loved him. (^Aside.) 
 I find, madam, j'ou're already sensible of his wbrth, 
 his passion. How happy is my friend to be the 
 favourite of one with such sense to distinguish merit, 
 ind such beauty to reward it ! 
 
 Miss Richland. Your friend, sir ! what friend? 
 
 Honeywood. My best friend — my friend Mr. Lofty, 
 madam. 
 
 Miss Richlandr 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. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 151 
 
 Honeywood. I see your confusion, madam, and know 
 how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read 
 the language of your heart, shall I make my friend 
 happy, by communicating your sentiments ? 
 
 Miss Richland. By no means. 
 
 Honeywood, Excuse me, I must ; I know you de- 
 sire it. 
 
 Miss r.hland. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, 
 that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. When 
 I first applied to your friendship, I expected advice 
 and assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is in vain to 
 expect happiness 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 
 loved him, and yet she seemed to part in displeasure. 
 Can I have done any thing to reproach myself with 1 
 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. 
 
 Fmter 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 1 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 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 
 every thing to alarm us ? Perhaps this very moment 
 the tragedy is beginning. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress till 
 
i52 THE GOOD-NATURED. MAN. 
 
 the rising of the curtain, or give them the money 
 they want, and have done with them. 
 
 Croaker. Give them my money ! — and pray what 
 right have they to my money. 
 
 Mrs, Croaker. And pray what right, then, have 
 you to my good-humour 1 
 
 Croaker. And so your good-humour advises me to 
 part with my money 1 Why, then, to tell your good- 
 humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part with my 
 wife. Here's Mr. Honey wood, see what he'll say to it. 
 My dear Honeywood, look at this incendiary letter 
 dropped at my door. It will 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'll S'ufTer 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 occasion.? 
 
 Honeywood. It would not become me to decide, 
 madam ; but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors 
 now will but invite them to renew their viliany 
 another time. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 
 
 Croaker. How, sir ! Do you maintain that I should 
 lie down under such an injury, and shew, neither by 
 my fears nor complaints, that I have something of 
 the spirit of a man in me 1 
 
 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 pur- 
 suit of it. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now 1 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. But don't you think that laughing 
 off our fears is the best way 1 
 
 Honeywood. What is the best, madam, few can 
 say ; but I'll maintain it to be a very wise way. 
 
 Croaker. But we're talking of the best Surely the 
 best way is to face the enemy in the field, and not 
 ivait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamoer. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 153 
 
 Honeywood. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's a 
 verv 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 1 
 
 Honeywood. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 
 
 Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to 
 despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake'! 
 
 HoneywMd. 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 
 certainly to despise malice, if we cannot oppose it, and 
 not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose 
 as the highwayman's pistol. • ■ , ~ 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Oh, then you think I m quite right 1 
 
 Honeywood. Perfectly right. , , , , 
 
 Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can t be ooth 
 rio-ht. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. 
 My hat must be on ray head, or my hat must be off. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, 
 if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't be per- 
 fectly right. , , , • 1^ 
 
 Honevwood. And why may not both be right, 
 madam \ Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, 
 and you in waiting the event with good-humour'! 
 Pray, let me see the letter again. I have it. This 
 letter requires twen-ty guineas to be left at the bar ot 
 the Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, 
 what if you and I, sir, go there ; and when the wrUer 
 comes to be paid his expected booty, seize him \ 
 
 Croaker. IMy dear friend, it's the very thing-tlie 
 very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall 
 plant yourself in ambush near the bar ; burst out 
 upon the miscreant like a masked battery ; extort a 
 confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise. 
 H 2 
 
154 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN, 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, but I would not choose to exer- 
 cise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that 
 crimes generally punish themselves. 
 
 Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, 
 1 suppose 7 (Ironically.) 
 
 Honeywood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own bene- 
 volence. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, I do ; but remember that uni- 
 versal benevolence is the first law of nature. 
 
 lExeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croal<er. 
 
 Croaker. Yes ; and my universal benevolence will 
 hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 Scene — ^an inn. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Jaitis. 
 
 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 don't consider we 
 have got no answer from our fellow-traveller yet. If 
 we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only 
 one way left us. 
 
 Olivia. What way? 
 
 Jarvis. The way home again. 
 
 Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go 
 (ini nothing shall induce me to break it. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay ; resolutions are well kept, when they 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 155 
 
 jump with inclination. However, I'll go hasten things 
 without. And I'll call, too, at the bar to see if any- 
 thing should be left for us there. Don't be in such 
 a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, 
 I promise you. [Exit Jarvls. 
 
 Enter Landlady. 
 
 Landlady. What! Solomon, why don't you move? 
 Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. Will nobody 
 answer l To the Dolphin ; quick. The Angel has 
 been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship 
 call, madam 1 
 
 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 ass-ure 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 Mac- 
 fag, that married her father's footman. Alack-a-day, 
 she and her husband soon parted, and now keep se- 
 parate c-ellars 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 out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I 
 "ould not help coming to see you set out, though it 
 exposes us to a discovery. 
 
 Olivia. May every thing you do prove as fortunate. 
 Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disap« 
 
15(5 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 pointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the city has, it 
 seems, been protested, and we have been utterly at a 
 loss how to proceed. 
 
 Leondne. How ! an offer of his own too ! Sure 
 he could not mean to deceive us 1 
 
 Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mis- 
 took 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 lady- 
 ship's pardon, I don't think your ladyship quite ready 
 for the post-chaise. The north road is a cold place, 
 madam. I have a drop in the house of as pretty rasp- 
 berry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thimble- 
 full to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure, 
 the last couple we had here, they said it was a per- 
 fect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both away as good- 
 natured— Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, 
 and Drive away, post-boy ! was the word. 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croalcer. Well, while my friend Honeywood is 
 upon tlie post of danger at the bar, it must be my 
 business to have an eye about me here. I think I 
 know an incendiary's look ; for wherever the devil 
 makes a purchase he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! 
 who have we here t JMy son and daughter ! What 
 can they be doing herel 
 
 Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; 
 I think 1 know by this time what's good for tiie north 
 road. It's a raw night, madam. Sii' — 
 
 Leontiue. Not a drop more, good madam. I should 
 now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten the 
 horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. 
 
 Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon! 
 are you all dead there 1 Wha, Solomon, I say ! 
 
 [Exit, liawliiig. 
 
 Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun ia 
 fear, should end in repentance. Every moment v/e 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 15? 
 
 stay increases our danger, and adds to my apprehen- 
 sions. 
 
 Leontine. There's no danger, trust me, my dear ; 
 there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with 
 honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in em- 
 ployment till we are out of danger, nothing can in- 
 terrupt our journey. 
 
 Otivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's sin- 
 cerity, and even his desire to serve us. My fears are 
 from your father's suspicions. A mind so disposed to 
 be alarmed without a cause, will be but too ready 
 when there's a reason. 
 
 Leontine. Why, let him, when we are out of his 
 power. 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 him- 
 self employed, and scolds for his private amusement. 
 
 Olivia. 1 don't know that; but I'm sure, on some 
 occasions, it makes him look most shockingly. 
 
 Croaker discovering himself. 
 
 Croaker. Bov/ does he look now 1 — How does he 
 look now 7 
 
 Otivta. Ah! 
 
 Leontine. Undone ! 
 
 Cn^aker. How do I look now 1 Sir, I am your 
 very humble servant. IMadam, I am yours! What! 
 you are gomg off, are youl 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 in- 
 crease your displeasure, without adding to your infor- 
 mation. 
 
 Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy : 
 and you too, good madam, vvhat answer have you 
 got] Eh! (A cry without. Stop him.) I think J 
 
158 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 heard a noise. My friend Honeywood without — has 
 he seized the incendiary 1 Ah, no, for now I hear 
 no more on't. 
 
 Leontine. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was 
 Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither"! 
 
 Croakei . No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood conducted 
 me hither, 
 
 I.eontine. Is it possible] 
 
 Croaker. Possible ! why he's in the house now, sir; 
 more anxious about me than my own son, sir. 
 
 Leont'ine. Then, sir, he's a villain. 
 
 Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes 
 most care of your father? I'll not bear it. I tell 
 you, I'll not bear it. Honeyvi'ood is a friend to the 
 family, and I'll have him treated as such. 
 
 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 
 detect them, you would love him as I do. (A cry 
 wiihnut. Stop him.) Fire and fury ! they have seized 
 the incendiary : they have the villain, the incendiary 
 in view. Stop him ! 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. 
 Honeywood's sincerity. But we shall have satisfac- 
 tion : he shall give me instant satisfaction. 
 
 Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value 
 my esteem or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, 
 let us not add guilt to our misfortunes : consider that 
 our innocence 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 1 Forced me to borrow money from 
 him, which appears a mere trick to delay us; pro- 
 mised to keep my father engaged till we were out of 
 danger, and here brought him to the very scene of 
 our escape? . 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 159 
 
 Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Enter Postboy, dragging in Jarvis; Honeywood entering 
 soon after. 
 
 Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. 
 Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the re- 
 ward ; I'll 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. (Disco- 
 vering his mistake.) Death! what's here? Jarvis, 
 Leoniine, Olivia ! What can all this mean 1 
 
 Jarvis. Why, I'll 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 
 honour 
 
 Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not 
 continue 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 1 I now 
 see through all your low arts ; your ever complying 
 with every opinion ; your never refusing any request ; 
 your friendship's as common as a prostitute's favours, 
 and as fallacious ; all these, sir, have long been con- 
 temptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. 
 
 Honeywood, Ha ! contemptible to the world ! that 
 reaches mo. [^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 calculated to cover the cowardice of you? heart. 
 Draw, villain ! 
 
iCO THE GOOD-NATUKED MA^ 
 
 Enter Croaker, out of breath. 
 
 Croaker. Where is the villain'! Where is the in- 
 cendiary? (^Seizing the Postboy.) Hold him fast, the 
 dog : he has the gallows in his face. Come, you 
 dog, confess; confess ail, and hang yourself. 
 
 Postboy. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle me 
 fori 
 
 Groaker. (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist'; do 
 you resist 1 
 
 Postboy. Zounds ! master, I'm not he ; there's ihe 
 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 unaer 
 a strange mistake iiere ; 1 find there is nobody guiltv ; 
 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 Jesuit- 
 ical, pestilential plot, and I must have proof of it. 
 
 Honeywood. Do but hear me. 
 
 Croaker. What ! you intend to bring 'em off, i 
 suppose ? I'll hear nothing. 
 
 Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least calm enougc 
 to hear reason. 
 
 Olivia. Excuse me. 
 
 Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain i* 
 to you. 
 
 •farvis. What signifies explanations when the thing 
 is done? 
 
 Honeywood. Will nobody hear me 1 Was there ever 
 such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice? (To 
 the Postboy) My good friend, I believe you'll be sur- 
 prised when I assure you 
 
 Postboy. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of nothing but 
 a good beating. 
 
 Croaker. Come then you, madam, if you ever hope 
 for any favour or forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you 
 know of this aflfair. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED SIAf}. 161 
 
 Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the cause 
 of your suspicions : You see before you, sir one that, 
 with false pretences, has slept into your family to 
 betray it ; not your daughter 
 
 Croaker. Not my daughter ! 
 
 Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver — 
 who — support me, 1 cannot 
 
 Hcneywood. Help, she's going; give her air. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the 
 air; 1 would not hurt a hair of her head, whose ever 
 daughter she may be — not so bad as that neither. 
 
 [Exeunt 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 don'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. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. 
 
 Sir William. But how do you know, madam, that 
 my nephew intends setting off from this place 1 
 
 Miss Richland. My maid assured me he was come 
 to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to 
 /eave the kingdom, suggested the rest. But what do 
 I see 1 my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear 
 sir, could have expected meeting you here 1 To what 
 accident do we owe this pleasure l 
 
 Croaker. To a fool, 1 believe. 
 
 Miss R'chland. But to what purpose did you cornel 
 
 Croaker. 'J"o play the fool. 
 
 Miss Richland. But with whom'? 
 
 Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 
 
 Miss Richland. Explain. 
 
 Croaler. Why, Mr. Honey wood brought me here, 
 to do nothing now I am here ; and my son is going to 
 be married to I don't know who, that is here : so now 
 vou are as wise as I am. 
 
1G2 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Miss Richland. Married ! to whom, sir 1 
 
 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 boihin point of birth and fortune, the young- 
 lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her 
 father. Sir James Woodville 
 
 Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What ! of the 
 West 1 
 
 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 inclina- 
 tions. 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 inten- 
 tions. 1 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, vvill 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'll convince 
 you. [^Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 
 Honeywood. Obstinate man, still to persist in his 
 outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now 
 begiti to grow contemptible even to myself; Hovr 
 have I sunk, by too great an assiduity to please ! Hovr 
 have I overtaxed all my abilities, lest the approbation 
 of a single fool should escape me ! But all is now 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 162 
 
 over : I have survived my reputation, my fortune, my 
 friendships, and nothing remains henceforward for me 
 but solitude and repentance. 
 
 Miss Richland. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that 
 you are setting oft", without taking leave of you^ 
 friends'! The report is, that you are quitting England : 
 Can it be 1 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so 
 unhappy as to have fallen under your displeasure, yet, 
 thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness — to one who 
 loves you, and deserves your love — to one who has 
 power to procure you affluence, and generosity to im- 
 prove your enjoyment of it. 
 
 Miss Richland. And are you sure, sir, that the gen- 
 tleman you mean is what you describe him 1 
 
 Honeywood. I have the best assurances of it — his 
 serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest hap- 
 piness, 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 happmess can I 
 find but in solitude? what hope, but ia being for- 
 gotten 1 
 
 Miss Richland. A thousand : to live among friends 
 that esteem yoii, whose happiness k will be to be 
 permitted to oblige you. 
 
 Honeywood. No, madam, my resolutiop is fixed. 
 Inferiority among strangers is easy ; but among those 
 that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, to shew 
 you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak 
 with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, mv 
 dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that, 
 among the number of my other presumptions, I had 
 the insolence to think of loving you. Yes, madam, 
 while I was pleading the passion of another, my heart 
 was tortured with its own. But it is over ; it was un- 
 worthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten. 
 Miss Richland. You amaze me! 
 Honeywood. But you'll forgive it, I know you will: 
 since the confession should not have come from me 
 
164 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 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 
 iiave followed you here with a trifling piece of intelli- 
 gence ; but it goes no farther ; things are not yet 
 ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a cer- 
 tain board ; your affair at the Treasury will be done 
 in less than — a thousand years. Mum ! 
 
 Miss Fiichland. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 
 
 Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into 
 proper hands, that know where to push and where to 
 parry ; that know how the land lies — eh. Honey wood ? 
 
 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 ju9t had assurances from Lord Neverout, that 
 the claim has been examined, and found admissible. 
 Quietus is the word, madam. 
 
 Honeywood. But howl his lordship has been at 
 Newmarket these ten days. 
 
 JLofty. Indeed! then Sir Gilbert Goose must have 
 been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. 
 
 Miss Richland. He I why. Sir Gilbert anti his 
 family have been in the country this month. 
 
 Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — S;r 
 Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, so 
 that he must have met his lordship there ; and so it 
 came about. I have his letter about me ; I'll read it 
 to you. {Taking out a large bundle.) Thai's from 
 Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. 
 Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Ponia- 
 towski, now King of Poland 1 Honest Pon — {Search- 
 ing.) Oh, sir, what are you here too 1 I'll tell you 
 what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely de- 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 165 
 
 livered my letter to Sir William Honeywooil, you 
 may return it. The thing- will do without him. 
 
 Sir William. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must 
 inform you it was received with the most mortifying 
 contempt. 
 
 Croaker. Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that 
 mean? 
 
 Lqf'tii. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll 
 find it come to something presently. 
 
 Sir William. Yes, sir ; I believe you'll be amazed, 
 if, after waiting some time in the antichamber — after 
 being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing 
 servants, 1 was at last assured, that Sir William 
 Honeywood knew no such person, and I must cer- 
 tainly have been imposed upon. 
 
 Lofty. Good! let me die : very good. Ha! ha! ha' 
 
 Croaker. Now, for my life, I can't find out half 
 the goodness of it. 
 
 Lojty. You can't? Ha! ha! 
 
 Croaker. No, for the soul of me : I think it was as 
 confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one 
 private gentleman to another. 
 
 Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the 
 message ? Why, I was in the house at that very 
 time. Ha ! ha ! it was I that sent that very answer 
 to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croaker. Indeed ! How 1 why 1 
 
 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 sus- 
 picions 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 longer. Never talk to me. It'i over ; I 
 say it's over. 
 
 Croaker. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean 
 to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discomposed. 
 
166 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds! sir, but I am discomposed, and 
 . will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who am 
 1 1 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 1 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 ca«n you 
 have but asking pardon l 
 
 Lnjty. Sir, 1 will not be pacified — Suspects! Who 
 am 1 1 To be used thus ! Have I paid court to men 
 in favour to serve my friends, the lords of the Trea- 
 sury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the 
 gang, and talk to me of suspects ! Who am I, I say, 
 who am 1 1 
 
 Sir WWiam. Since you are so pressing for an 
 answer, I'll tell you who you are : — A gentleman as 
 well acquainted with politics as with men in power ; 
 as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with 
 modesty ; with lords of the Treasury as with truth ; 
 and, with all, as you are with Sir William Honey- 
 wood. I am Sir William Honeywood, (^Discoiering 
 his ensigns of the Bath.) 
 
 Croaker. Sir William Honeywood I 
 
 Honeywood, Astonishment ! my uncle ! (Aside.') 
 
 LnJ'ty. 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. 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 167 
 
 and how little Miss llichland has to expect {lom 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 
 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 for- 
 give thera. 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 Honeywood, has been 
 beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon. So, 
 if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think 
 we can tack them together without crossing the 
 Tweed for it. [Joining their hands, 
 
 Leontine. How blest and unexpected! What, 
 what can we say to such goodness 1 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. 
 (^Turning 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 in- 
 clined to the right, had not courage to condemn 
 the wrong. I saw with regret those splendid errors,, 
 that still took name from some neighbouring duty ; 
 
im 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN." 
 
 your charity, that was but iajustice ; your benevo- 
 ienoe, that was but weakness; and your friendship 
 but credulity. I saw with regret, great talents and 
 exteasive learning only employed to add sprightliness 
 to error, and increase your perplexities. I saw your 
 mind with a thousand natural charms ; but the great- 
 ness of its beauty served only to heighten my pity for 
 its prostitution. 
 
 Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir : I have for 
 some time but too strongly felt the justice of your re- 
 proaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, 
 sir, 1 have determined this very hour to quit for evsi 
 a place where 1 have made myself the voluntary slave 
 of all, and to seek among strangers that fortitude 
 which may give strength to the mind, and marshal all 
 its dissipated virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me 
 to solicit favour for this gentleman, who, notwith- 
 standing what has happened, has laid me under the 
 most signal obligations. Mr. Lofty 
 
 Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a re- 
 formation 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 1 design to speak truth for the future, I 
 must now assure you, that you owe your late enlarge- 
 ment to another ; as, upon my soul, I had np hand 
 in the matter. So now, if any of the company has a 
 mind for preferment, he may take my place ; I'm de- 
 termined to resign. [Exit. 
 
 Honeywood. How have I been deceived ! 
 
 SirWiUlam. No, sir, you have been obliged to a 
 kinder, fairer friend, for that favour, — to Miss Rich- 
 land. Wou.ld she complete our joy, and make the 
 man she has honoured 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. 
 
 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 
 
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ICO 
 
 quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not 
 power to detain him. \_Giving her hand. 
 
 Honeywnod. Heavens ! how can 1 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 WiUiam. 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, there- 
 fore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real 
 distress ; my friendship for true merit ; and my love 
 for her who first taught me what it is to be happy. 
 
 [^Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE.* 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY. 
 
 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 oa 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 : 
 ' Young man,' cries one (a bard laid up in clover), 
 ' Alas I young man, my writing days are over 1 
 
 * The author, in expectation of an Epilop^ue from a friend at Oxford; 
 deferred writinsf one himself till the very last hour. What is here 
 offered, owes all its success to the graceful raanoer of the actress wbc 
 spoke it. 
 
irO THE Gr-OD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 Let bO£S play tricks, and kick the straw, not I; 
 
 Your brother-doctor there, perhaps, may try.' 
 
 ' What I, dear s\vV the Doctor interposes, 
 
 • What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! 
 
 No, no, I've other contests to maintain ; 
 
 To-night I head our troops at Warwick- Lane. 
 
 Go, ask your manager.' — ' Who, me"! Your pardon ; 
 
 Those things are not our forte at Coven t Garden.' 
 
 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. 
 
 Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 
 
 He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace; 
 
 But not a soul will budge to give him place. 
 
 Since, then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform 
 
 ' 'I'o 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,' 
 
 Blame where you must, be candid where you can. 
 
 And be each critic the Good-Naiured Man. 
 
in 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 
 
 on, 
 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
 
 k COMEDY. 
 
 Skt Sloops to Conquer was represi ^ ..'c: for the first time, March 15, 
 177?. It wiis very succe,-sl'iil, iv' rec^j'e a stock plav. GolUsiuitll 
 oiii;iaally entitled it, T/ie Old Home a iSeio Inn. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 
 
 Dear Sir — Ry inscribing- this slight performance 
 to yon, I do not mean so much to compliment you 
 as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the 
 public, that 1 have Uvea many years in intimacy with 
 you. It may cum the interejls of inankind also to 
 inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a 
 character, without impairing the most unaffected 
 piety. 
 
 1 have, particularly, reason to t.iank you for your 
 partiality to this performance. The undertaking a 
 comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; 
 and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various 
 stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured 
 to trust it to the public ; and, though it was necessa- 
 rily delayed till late in the season, I have every rea- 
 Eoa to be grateful. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, 
 Your most sincere friend and admirer, 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONit. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Young Marlow (his son ft 
 
 Hardcastle. 
 
 Hastings. 
 
 Tony Lumpkin. 
 
 Biggory. 
 
 WOMEN, 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 Miss Hardcastle^ 
 Miss Neville, 
 Maid. 
 
 Landlord, Servant; ifi' 
 
173 
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. 
 
 Enter Mr. Woodward, dressed in black, 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've that within' for which there are no plasters ! 
 Pray, would you know the reason why I'm cryingl 
 The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying 1 
 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. 
 We now and then take down a hearty cup. 
 What shall we do? if Comedy forsake us. 
 They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us. 
 But why -can't I be moral ? Let me try : 
 My heart thus pressing — fix'd my face and eye— 
 With a sententious look that nothing means 
 (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes). 
 
174 
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Thus I begin, ' All is not gold that glitters, 
 
 Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. 
 
 When ign'raace enters, folly is at hand : 
 
 Learning is better far than house or land. 
 
 Let not your virtue trip : w1io trips may stumble. 
 
 And virtue is not virtue if she tumble.' 
 
 I give it up — morals won't do for me ; ^ 
 
 To make you l^ugh, I must play tragedy. 
 
 One hope remains, — hearing the maid was ill, 
 
 A Doctor comes this night to shew 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 vA\l 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'uous drugs are mix'd in what he gives 
 
 Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree • 
 
 If not, within he will receive no fee. 
 
 The college, you, must his pretensions back, 
 
 Pronounce him Regular, or dub hira Quack. 
 
 ACTFIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. — a chamber in an old-fashioned BoOe^. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle, I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're 
 very particular. Is there a creature in the wnole 
 country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town 
 now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? 'i'here's the 
 two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, 
 go to take a month's polishing every winter. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affecta 
 tion to last them (he whole year. I wonder why LondoB 
 cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, tht 
 follies of the town crept slowly among us, but nov 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 175 
 
 they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies 
 come down not only as inside passenge: s, but in the 
 very basket. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Aye, your times were fine times 
 indeed : you have been telling us of them for many a 
 long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, 
 thai looks for all the world like an inn, but that we 
 never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Odd- 
 fish, 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 Marlbo- 
 rough. 1 hate such old-fashioned trumpery. 
 
 Hardcastle. And I love it, I love every thing that's 
 old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, 
 old wine ; and, 1 believe, Dorothy, {taking her hand,) 
 you'll own I've been pretty fond of an old wife. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for 
 ever at your Dorothys, and your old wives. Ycu 
 may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. 
 I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one 
 good year. And twenty to twenty, and make money 
 of that. 
 
 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 j 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 don'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. Humour, my dear, nothing but 
 humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the 
 boy a little humour. 
 
 Hardcastle. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If 
 
176 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, 
 and worrying the kittens, be humour, lie has it. It was 
 but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my 
 chair, and when I went to make a bow, 1 popt my 
 bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcantte. And am 1 to blame 1 The poor 
 boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school 
 would be his death. When he comes to be a little 
 stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may 
 do for him 1 
 
 Hardcastle. Latin for him ! 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. 
 
 Hindcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the 
 symptoms. 
 
 Mrs Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. 
 
 Rardcaitle. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I'm actually afraid of his lung-3. 
 
 Hurdcii.'.tle. And truly so am 1 ; for 'le sometimes 
 whoo|js like a speaking trumpet — (Toni), hallomng 
 behind the scenes.)— Oh, there he guts— a very con- 
 sumptive figure, truly ! 
 
 Enter Tony, crossing the Stage. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcii.'stle. Tony, where are you going, my 
 charmer 1 Won't you give papa and 1 a little of your 
 company, lo\ey 1 
 
 Tony. I'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. 
 
 M^s. H.irdcastle. You shan't venture out this raw 
 evening, my dear; you look most shockingly. 
 
 Tony. 1 can't stay, 1 fell you. The Three Pigeons 
 expects me down every moment. There's some fun 
 going forward. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, the alehouse, the old place; I 
 thought so. 
 
SHK STOOPS TO CONQUER. i77 
 
 Mrs, Hardcaslle. A low, paltry set of fellows. 
 
 ■Tony, Not so low neither. 'J'here's Dick Muggins, 
 the exciseman. Jack Slang;, the horse-doctor, little 
 Aminadab, that grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist, 
 that spins the pewter platter. 
 
 Mrs, Hardcaitle. Pray, my dear, disappoint them 
 for one night at least. 
 
 Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so 
 much mind : but 1 can't abide to disappoint myself. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcaitle. {Detaining him.) You shan't go. 
 
 Tony. I will, I tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Hardciistle. I say you shan't. 
 
 Tony, We'll see which is the strongest, you or I. 
 [Exit, hauling her cnix. 
 
 Hardcastle. (Alone.) Ay, there goes a pair that 
 only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a' 
 combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors 1 
 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 Miss 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 trim- 
 mings of the vain. 
 
 Miss Hardcaitle, 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, remember 1 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, 1 protest, sir, I don't comprehend 
 your meaning. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, 1 
 12 
 
178 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 expect the young- gentleman I have chosen to be 
 
 your husband from town this very day. I have his 
 
 father's letter, in which he informs me his son is set 
 
 out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly 
 
 after. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Indeed ! I wish I had known 
 something of this before. Bless me, how shall 1 be- 
 have 1 It s a thousand to one 1 shan't like him ; our 
 meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of bu- 
 siness, that I shall find uo room for friendship or 
 esteem. 
 
 Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I never will 
 sontrol 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 schoisr, and 
 is designed tor an employment in the service -jf his 
 country. I am told he's a man of an excellent un- 
 derstanding. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Is he 1 
 
 Hardcastle. Very generous. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 1 believe I shall like him. 
 
 Hardcastle. ifoung and brave. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure 1 shall like him. 
 
 Hardcastle. And very handsome. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no more, 
 (kissing his hand) he's mine — I'll have him. 
 
 Hardcaitle. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of 
 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 re- 
 sides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler vir- 
 tues. It was the very feature in his character that 
 first struck me. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. He must have more striking fea- 
 tures to catch me, I promise you. However, if he 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 179 
 
 be so young, so handsome, and so every thinp; as you 
 mention, 1 believe he'll do still. I think I'll have 
 him. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. 
 It's more than an even wager he may not have you. 
 
 Miss Hurdcastle. My dear papa, why will you 
 mortify one sol Well, if he refuses, instead of break- 
 ing my heart at his indifference, I'll 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 1 la the mean time 
 I'll go prepare the servants for his reception : as we 
 seldom see company, they want as much training as 
 a company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (Alone.) Lud, this news of papa's 
 puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ; these 
 he put last, but I put them foremost. Seusible, 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 1 Yes ; and can't I — But I vow I'm dis- 
 posing of the husband, before 1 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 ia 
 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 1 
 
 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 
 
180 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Is ]\Iar!ow. 
 
 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 sing^ular 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 ! think no more of him, but trust to oc- 
 currences 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 
 agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hun- 
 dred 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 unwil- 
 ling to let it go out of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly 
 consists 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. How- 
 ever, 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 bot- 
 tom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married to 
 any body but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 181 
 
 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. l_Eieunt. 
 
 Scene u. — an alehouse room. 
 
 Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco ; Tony 
 at the head of the table, a little higher than the 
 rest, a mallet in his hand, 
 
 Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! 
 
 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'll 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, taroll. 
 
 When methodist preachers come down, 
 
 A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 
 I'll 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'll leave it to all men of sense. 
 
 But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroU. 
 
 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. 
 
182 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Let some cry up woodcock or hare, 
 
 Your bustards, your ducts, and your widgeons ; 
 But of all the birds in the air. 
 
 Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 
 
 Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 
 
 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 lovr. 
 
 Third Fellow. Oh, damn any thing that's lov?, I 
 cannot bear it. 
 
 Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel 
 thing at any time : if so be that a gentleman bees in 
 a concatenation accordingly. 
 
 Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it. Master 
 Muggins. What though I am obligated to dance a 
 bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. May 
 this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the 
 very genteelest of tunes ; ' Water Parted/ or ' The* 
 minuet in Ariadne.' 
 
 Second Fallow. What a pity it is the Squire is not 
 come to his own. It would be well for all the publi- 
 cans within ten miles round of him. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd 
 then shew 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. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age, I'll 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 reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the 
 matter" 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 183 
 
 Enter Landlord. 
 
 Landlord. There be two gentlemen m a post-chaise 
 at the door. They have lost their way upo' the forest ; 
 and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle, 
 
 Tmiy. 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. 1 believe they may. They look woun- 
 dily like Frenchman. 
 
 Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll 
 set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Landloi-d.) 
 Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company 
 for j'ou, step down for a moment, and I'll 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 1 1 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 three- 
 score. 
 
 Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that unaccount- 
 able reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire 
 more frequently on the way. 
 
 Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay 
 myself under an obligation to ever}' 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 
 ftre in 1 
 
18-1 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. Not ia the least, sir, but sliould thank 
 you for information. 
 
 Tony. Nor the way you came I 
 
 Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us 
 
 Tony. Why, gentlemen, if yoa know neither the 
 road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road 
 you caiue, the first thing I have to inform you is, that 
 — you have lost your vvay. 
 
 Marlow. We wanted no gliost to telLus that. 
 
 Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask 
 the place from whence you came 1 
 
 Marlow. That's not necessary towards directing us 
 
 /here 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, 
 talkative maypole ; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agree- 
 able 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 
 awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's 
 apron-string. 
 
 Tony. He-he-hem ! — Then, gentlemen, all I have 
 to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's 
 house this night, I believe. 
 
 Hastings. Unfortunate ! 
 
 Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, dan- 
 gerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to 
 Mr. Hardcastle's (winking upon the Landlord), Mr. 
 Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh — you understand 
 me? 
 
 Landlffrd. Master Hardcastle's ! Lock-a-daisy, my 
 masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong ! When 
 you came to tlie bottom of the hill, you should haye 
 crossed down Squash Lane. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 185 
 
 Marhw. 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 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 1 
 Mai-low. 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) 1 have hit it : don't you think, 
 Sting:o, our landlady could accommodate the gentle- 
 men 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 1 — 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. O ho !■ so we have escaped an adventure 
 for this night, however. 
 
 Landlord. (Apart to Tony.) Sure, you ben't send- 
 ing 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 tlie road side. 
 
1S6 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 You'll 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 ? 
 
 Tony. No, no : but I tell you though, the landlord 
 is rich, and going to leave off business ; so he wants 
 to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he ! 
 he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his company ; and, 
 ecod, if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his 
 mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of 
 peace. 
 
 Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but 
 a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole 
 country. 
 
 Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall 
 want no farther connexion. 'We are to turn to the 
 right, did you say 1 
 
 Tony. No, no, straight forward ; I'll just step 
 myself, and shew you a piece of the way. {To the 
 Landlord) Mum ! 
 
 Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, plea- 
 sant 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 shew that j'ou have been used to good company, 
 without ever stirring from home. 
 
 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. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 187 
 
 Cmnes. No, no. 
 
 Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have takec 
 from the barn, are to make a show at the side-table ; 
 and you, Roger, wliom 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 a 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 drink, and not think of drinking ; you must see us 
 eat, and not think of eating. 
 
 Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that's par- 
 fectly u-npossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating 
 going forward, ecod, he's always wishing for a mouthful 
 himself. 
 
 Hardcastle. Blockhead ! is not a beUyful in the 
 kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlour "! Stay 
 your stomach with that reflection. 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, I thank your v/orship, 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 1 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 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 — 
 ba ! ha ! ha I 
 
 Hardcastle. 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 
 
ISS SHB STOOPS lO COXQrKR. 
 
 tbe roocpaiQy sltocld call ror a glass of vine, bow iril! 
 Toabeltivel A g^as$ itf vine, sir, if yoa please, (F* 
 JDi^«rjr"> — Eh, Why doD^ jtw nsoTe? 
 
 l>^gg«nr. £cod, jo«r woi^up, I sera have coo- 
 nge till I see tbe eaitaUes aad diiokaUes bnwght 
 apo* Ae taUe, aod diea 1^ as ba«ld as a Uqd. 
 
 Hmiemde. What, vill nobodj more ? 
 
 JFlnt SeniDit. rte not to kaTe Uus pkace. 
 
 yrwl SoTHort. I\b ^le it's no plotce of miae. 
 
 Tturd Scmat. Kor suae, for saitaia. 
 
 ■Di fe «wi t . WaHUS, aad Aa sare it canna be Etine. 
 
 HmrdtmOe. Yoa bi^^xUs ! and so while, like 
 joar hettas, Toa are qaairdliB^ for places, die gaests 
 HBSt be starred. O yoa dances ! I ud I most bega 
 
 an over asara :^t doot I hear a coach drife iato 
 
 the raid 1 To yoar posas, Toa blockheads. IH go 
 ■i the Bean baae. and giveaayaSdfii^^'ssona hea^ 
 wekorae atthe gate. [Eat Hmidematie. 
 
 ■ D i gg f f. By'tiK dereas, bj place is qaite gone 
 oat of BB J head. 
 
 Baga: I know datny place b to be eroy whoe. 
 
 Fvtf Senaai. Where the devil is miiie! 
 
 SaoMd Senaat. Uypleacektebeiiowliereatallj 
 and so Ise go aboBtaiT basmess. 
 
 -Uffaaf oiEraants, raaaiagaaiwi^ as y 
 ^T^afieafla, aucjbZ wnpm 
 
 Ewea-Senmmt, w^A emmiks, Atma^m lUrkm ini 
 
 SeramL Wdcor:., g^z-lezi^z, Tfrr weicaBK! 
 This way. 
 
 HwOimgs. After ^ ^ ; -? day, 
 
 wdcoaae aace Ki:-T ;^ :::l .: 5 of a 
 
 dean lOoaaBd a : ; v 
 
 •eil-lDakii^ hoas.i 
 
 Ifarfan. Thee, 
 ag fiist laioEd tLz 
 at last cons to k 
 
 t» pay aO t&esa c^f 
 
SHB STOOPS TO COSQZES- WO 
 
 addxtaid, or a marttle dtsoaaer-jaece, thoogli aot 
 acbiallypatin tfaebOl^inSaBaeaiedboniagooeibaad- 
 edlj- 
 
 Mirter. TraTelleis, Geoife, Brast pay m all 
 {daoes ; tfae <nly ^sieeoe b, tkat m good ims jon 
 paj deail7fbrlezBiieE,mtiadiBii£joBaie&eeedziid 
 tsarred. 
 
 Hastimgs. Toe faa*e fired pRttfiB«AaaH»gt&em. 
 In tnitii I knre bees often SBipned, Ikst joa w^ 
 hare eeen eo mmtk of tlie woM, -wtth joor natmal 
 good Bense, and yoar many ojuw t t i uuU e^ coaldnerer 
 yet aeqoiie a l e q aiate sh^ of assmaacse. 
 
 M«r^». Tie Ei^i^tnaa's waahOj. Brt tdl ne, 
 Genfe, wfaere eo«ld I have leanaed dot assazaoee 
 
 Jroatalkofl My life kas been diefiy ^poit ia a coi- 
 ege or an inn, in sedssuo finm tfaa£ lordy pait of 
 the erealioa tka£ cUe^ tea^ men coBfideBce. I 
 dcB^kaow&at I was evo' Csmiliariy acqwamted iriA 
 a eagle nacdest wonan, exe^ bbj notfaer^ — Bat 
 among females of awnher das, yoaknov 
 
 Hiotngs. Ay, aaioi^ tfae^ job are inipBdeat 
 eBongfa, ctf an conseaenee. 
 
 Miriam. They are (tf ^, yoa Iebok-. 
 
 JBiofei^s. Bet in ibe coBipany of masen of r^s- 
 falioB I never saw ^Kb an i£ot — ^cfa a treaabier ; 
 joa hwk figr all the ««M as u joa wanted an oppor- 
 tanity of fteaHwg oat of ri>e looaa. 
 
 j£vte». Why, aaan, tiiat^s becaase I do waat to 
 steal oat of the room. Faith, I hare cKten £ain^ a 
 readstion to break the ice, asd latde away at any 
 rate. But Idoot knowbow, a an^glaiace fioBa 
 i pair of ^ec^es has totally ovesetKyii^alaiiaB. An 
 
 impadcBt l^low may eoonteiiat Bio^Ety, bat TD be 
 ha^ed if a coies: E:.sr czn ever eoanSafek inpor 
 de&ee. 
 
 H4ati*gi. I; ':_.;_.'_ . ' . z^^xhi^sB 
 
 to th^m, tiii.: :. ibc lier* 
 
 MbtImb. Wfcy, G«?r-T ;; to 
 
 them — tfaey freeze, tbej - T : ; . -.aft 
 
190 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such ba- 
 gatelle ; but to me, a modest woman, drest out ia all 
 her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole 
 creation. 
 
 Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how 
 can j'ou ever expect to marry 1 
 
 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, grand- 
 mothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out the 
 broad staring question of, ' Madam, will you marry 
 me V No, no, that's a strain much above xne, 1 
 assure you. 
 
 Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend be- 
 having to the lady you are come down to visit at tne 
 request of your father 1 
 
 Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies : bow very 
 low ; answer yes, or no, to all her demands. But 
 for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to look in her 
 face till I see my father's again. 
 
 Hastings. I'm surprrsed 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 for- 
 warding your happiness, not my own. JMiss Neville 
 loves you, the family don't know you ; as my friend, 
 you are sure of a reception, and let honour do the 
 rest. 
 
 Hastings. My dear filarlow ! — But I'll suppress tha 
 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 vifoman. I'm doomed to adore the 
 sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I de* 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 191 
 
 spise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward 
 unprepossessing visage of mine, can never permit me 
 to soar above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one 
 of the duchesses of Drury-laue. Pshaw ! this fellov? 
 here to interrupt us. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
 welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow 1 Sir, you are 
 heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to re- 
 ceive my friends with my back to the fire. 1 like to 
 give them a hearty reception in the old style at my 
 gate. 1 like to see their horses and trunks taken 
 care of. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) He has got our names from the 
 servants already. (To Inni) \\ e approve your cau- 
 tion and hospitality, sir. {To Hastings.) I have 
 been thinking, George, of changing our travelling 
 dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly 
 ashamed of mine. 
 
 Hardcastle. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ce- 
 remony in this house. 
 
 Hastings. I fancy, Charles, you're right : the first 
 blov/ is half the battle. I intend opening the cam- 
 paign 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. 
 
 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 
 garrison 
 
 Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat 
 will do with the plain brown 1 
 
192 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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 
 thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammuni- 
 tion, and other implements of war. Now, says the 
 Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood 
 next to him — You must have heard of George Brooks 
 — ' I'll pawn my dukedom,' says he, ' but I take that 
 garrison without spilling 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 vigour. 
 
 Hardcastle. Punch, sir ! (Adde) 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 Li- 
 berty-hall, you know. 
 
 Enter Roger with a cup, 
 
 Hardcastle. Here's a cup, sir. 
 
 3Iarlow. (^Aside.) So this fellow, in his .Liberty- 
 hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. 
 
 Hardcastle. (Taking the cup.} I hope you'll find it 
 to your mind. I have prepared it with my own 
 hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are 
 tolerahle. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir ? 
 Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. 
 (Drinh.) 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.') A very impudent fellow this . 
 but he's a character, and I'll humour 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, 
 before he has learned to be a gentleman. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 193 
 
 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 elections, I suppose. 
 
 Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that vpork 
 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 trurn for politics, I 
 find. 
 
 Hardcastle. Not in the least. There w^as a time, 
 indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of govern- 
 ment, like other people ; but, finding myself every 
 day grove 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 Croaker. Sir, my service to 
 you. 
 
 Hastings. So that with eating above stairs and 
 drinking below, with receiving your friends within 
 ana amusing them without, you lead a good, plea- 
 sant, bustling life of it. 
 
 Hardcastle. I do stir about - a great deal, tliat's 
 certain. Half the differences of the parish are ad- 
 justed in this very parlour. 
 
 Marlow. (After drinking.') And you have an ar- 
 gument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any^ 
 in Westminster-hall. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a 
 little philosophy. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever 
 heard of an innkeeper'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 philoso- 
 phy ; 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 ! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince 
 
194 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Eugene, when he fought the Turks, at the battle of 
 Belgrade. You shall hear. 
 
 Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I be- 
 lieve it's almost time to talk about supper. What 
 ^. has your philosophy got- in the house for supper t 
 
 Hardcastle. For supper, sir! (Aside) Was ever 
 such a request to a man in his own house ! 
 
 M-arlow, Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an 
 appetite. 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, 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 1 
 
 Hardcastle. Entirely. By the by, I believe they 
 are in actual consultation upon what's for supper this 
 moment in the kitchen. 
 
 Marlow. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of 
 their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When 
 I travel 1 always choose to regulate my own supper. 
 Let the cook be called. No offence, 1 hope, sir. 
 
 Hardcastle. O no, sir, none in the least ; yet I 
 don't know how, our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not 
 very communicative 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 favour. I always match my appetite to 
 my bill of fare. 
 
 Marlow. (To Hardcastle, who loohs at them with 
 surprise) 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 
 supper : I believe it's drawn out. — Your manner, Mr. 
 Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle. Colonel 
 Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was 
 sure of his supper till he had eaten it. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 1S5 
 
 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 1 For the first 
 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 Bed- 
 ford, to eat up such a supper 1 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are 
 hungry, 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 don't like them. 
 
 Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by 
 themselves. 
 
 Hardcastle. (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 
 sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a disk 
 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 dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm 
 for plain eating. 
 
 Hardcastle. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have 
 nothing you like ; but if there be any tiling you have 
 a particular fancy to 
 
J96 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 
 
 Marlow. Why, really sir, your bill of fare is so ex- 
 quisite, that any one part of it is full as good as 
 another. Send us what you please. So much for 
 Bupper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and 
 properly taken care of. 
 
 Mardcastle. I entreat you'll 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. 
 
 Hardcaslle. I must insist, sir, you'll 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 at- 
 tend you. (Aside) This may be modern modesty, 
 but 1 never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned 
 impudence. [Eicunt Marhw 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 1 
 
 Ha! what do I see] Miss Neville, by all that's 
 happy ! 
 
 E7iter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear Hastings ! To what unex- 
 pected good fortune — to what accident, am' I to 
 ascribe this happy meeting 1 
 
 Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, as 
 I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Con- 
 stance at an inn. 
 
 Miss Neville. An inn 1 sure you mistake : my aunt, 
 my guardian, lives here. What could induce you to 
 think this house an inn 1 
 
 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 hope- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.. 197 
 
 ful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk 
 so often ; ha ! ha ! ha ! y 
 
 Haitings. He whom your aunt intends for you 1 he 
 of whom I have such just apprehensions 1 
 
 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 un- 
 dertaken 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 oppor- 
 tunity of my friend's visit here to get admittance into 
 the family. The horses that carried us down are now 
 fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be re- 
 freshed ; 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 for- 
 tune behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it 
 was left me by my uncle, the India director, and 
 chiefly consists in jewels. 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^ 
 desire. In the mean time, my friend Marlow must 
 not be let into his mistake. I know the strange re- 
 serve 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 
 deception? — Miss Hardcastle is just returned from 
 walking — What if we still continue to deceive him? 
 This, this way ' [They confer. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. The assiduities of these good people tease 
 me beyond bearing. My host stems to think it ill 
 
198 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 manners 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 1 
 
 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 neighbourhood, they called on their return 
 to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just 
 slept into the next room, and will be back in an instant. 
 Wasn't it lucky ? eh ! 
 
 Marlow. (^Aside.) I have been mortified enough of 
 all conscience, and here comes something to complete 
 my embarrassment. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate 
 thing in the world 1 
 
 Marlow. Oh, yes. Very fortunate — a most joyful 
 encounter. But our dresses, George, you know, are 
 in disorder — What if we should postpone the happi- 
 ness till to-morrow "i — To-morrow at her own house — 
 It will be every bit as convenient — and rather more 
 respectful — To-morrow let it be. [Offering to go. 
 
 Miss Neville. By no means, sir. Your ceremony 
 will displease her. The disorder of your dress will 
 shew the ardour 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 if! — 
 Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You are 
 to assist me, you know I shall be confoundedly ridi- 
 culous. Yet hang it 1 I'll take courage. Hem ! 
 
 Hastings. Pshaw, man 1 it's but the first plunge, 
 and all's over. She's bu* a wontan, you know. 
 
 Marhw. And of all women, she that I dread most 
 to encounter. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 199 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from walking. 
 
 Hastings. (^Introducing them.') Miss Hardcastle, 
 Mr. Marlow, I'm proud of bringing two persons of 
 such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem 
 each other. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (Aside} Now for meeting my 
 modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his 
 Qwn manner. (After a pause, in which he appears very 
 uneasy and disconcerted) I'm glad of your safe arrival 
 sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the way. 
 
 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'll insure you the 
 victory. ^ 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You 
 that have seen so much of the finest company, cau 
 find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the 
 country. 
 
 Ma7-low. (Gathering cotirage.) I have lived, indeed, 
 in the world, madam ; but I have kept very little 
 company. I have been but an observer upon life, 
 madam, while others were enjoying it. 
 
 Miss 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 
 object of mirth than uner.Jsiness. 
 
200 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Hastings. (7o hini) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke 
 so well in your whole life. Well, Bliss Hardcastle, 1 
 see that you and Mr. Marlovv are going to be very 
 good company. 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 him) Zounds! 
 George, sure you won't gol how can you leave us? 
 
 Haitings. Our presence will but spoil conversation, 
 so we'll retire to the next room. (To him) You don't 
 consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a- 
 tete of our own. \_Exeunt. 
 
 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. 
 
 Mailoio. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, 
 madam, 1 — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to — 
 deserve them. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the very 
 worst way to obtain them. 
 
 Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to con- 
 verse only with the more grave and sensible part of 
 the sex — But I'm afraid 1 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 plea- 
 sures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of 
 tasting. 
 
 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 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 201 
 
 3Iarlow, I was observing, madam — I protest, 
 madam, I forget what I was going to observe. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. (^Aside) 1 vow and so do I. (To 
 him) You were observing, sir, that in this age of 
 hypocrisy — something about hypocrisy, sir. 
 
 Marloit). Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy, 
 there are few who, upon strict inquiry, do not — a — 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I understand you perfectly, sir. 
 
 Mar low. (Aside) Egad ! and that's more than I 
 do myself. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. You mean that, in this hypocriti- 
 cal age, there are few that do not condemn in public 
 what they practise in private, and think they pay every 
 debt to virtue when they praise it. 
 
 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, 
 
 madam, destroys all the and puts us upon — 
 
 a — a — a 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I agree, with you entirely : a want 
 of courage upon some occasions, assumes the appear- 
 ance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want 
 to excel. I beg you'll proceed. 
 
 Marlow. Yes,madam. Morallyspeaking,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 honour 
 to attend you 1 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Well, then, I'll follow. 
 
 Marhw. (^Aside) This pretty smooth dialogue has 
 done for me. [Exit, 
 
 K2 
 
202 SHK STOOPS TO COf Q'J&R. 
 
 Miss K:rdcastle. (Alone.) ll-i '-. ha ! ha i Was 
 there ever such a sober sentimeut'.l iutcrview ! I'dpi 
 certain he scarce looked in my f^ce the whole time, 
 i'et 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 ig- 
 norance. If I could teach him a little confidence, it 
 would be doing somebody that I know of a piece ol 
 service. But who is that somebody 1 That, faith, ij 
 a question I can scarce answer. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs, Hard- 
 castle and Hastings. 
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con 1 
 T 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. 
 
 Teny. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you 
 want to make me though ; but it won't do. I telJ 
 you, cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you'll keep 
 your distance — I want no nearer relationship. 
 
 [^She follows, coquetting him to the back scene, 
 
 Mrs. Hardcabtle. Well, I vow, Mr. Hastings, you 
 are very entertaining. There's nothing in the world 
 1 love to talk of so much as LondoTi, and the fashions; 
 though I was never there myself. 
 
 Mastings. Never there ! You amaze me !' From 
 your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred 
 all your life either at Ranelagh, &.. 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 neighbouring rustics ; but 
 who can have a manner, that has never seen the Pan- 
 theon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such 
 places, where the nobility chiefly resort % All I can 
 do is to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care 
 to know every tete-a-tete from the Scandalous Maga- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 203 
 
 zine, 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 1 . 
 
 Hastings. Extremely elegant and degag6e, upon 
 my word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I 
 suppose 1 
 
 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 play-house, would draw as many gazers as my 
 Lady Mayoress at a city ball. 
 
 M^s. Hurdcastle. I vow, since inoculation 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 crovvd. 
 
 Haitings. But that can never be your case, madam, 
 in any dress. (Bowing.} 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastlc. Yet, what signifies my dressing, 
 when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as 
 Mr. Hardcastle 1 all 1 can say will never argue down 
 a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted 
 him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he 
 was bald, to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, 
 with powder. 
 
 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 an- 
 swer was? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he 
 said I only wanted him to throw off his wig to con- 
 vert it into a tite 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 1 
 
 Hastings. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; 
 but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the 
 ensuing wintet. 
 
 Uz 
 
204 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously 1 Then I shall be too 
 young for the fashion. 
 
 Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels till 
 she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a polite 
 circle, would be considered as a child — 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 
 gentleman — 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 1 
 
 Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that 
 it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod I I've 
 not a place in the house now that's left to myself, but 
 the stable. 
 
 Mr*, 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 for- 
 given in private. 
 
 Tony. That's a damned confounded — crack. , 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you 
 think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr. 
 Hastings 1 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. O lud ! he has almost cracked my 
 head. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, the monster ! for shames 
 Tony. You a man, and beheve so ! 
 
 Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod ! 
 I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 r 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 205 
 
 M»'s. Hardcastle. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that 
 I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your educa- 
 tion 1 1 that have rocked you in your cradle, and 
 fed that pretty mouth with a spoon I Did not I work 
 that waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I pre- 
 scribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt 
 was operatmg ? 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you 
 have been dosing me ever since I was born. I have 
 gone through svery receipt in the Complete House- 
 wife ten times over ; and you have thoughts of cours- 
 ing me through Quincey next spring. But, ecod ! I 
 tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle, Wasn't it all for your good, 
 viper 1. Wasn't it all for your good ? 
 
 Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, 
 then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits ! If I'm 
 to have any good, let it come of itself; not to keep 
 dinging it, dinging it into one so. 
 
 Mrs. 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 agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the 
 wildest of the two. 
 
 Mrs, Hardcastle. Was ever the like 1 But I see he 
 wants to break my heart ; I see he does. 
 
 Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the 
 young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can per- 
 suade him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I must retire. Come, 
 Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the 
 wretchedness of my situation : was ever poor woman 
 so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, ua- 
 dutiful boy! \^Exeunt Airs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 
 
 Tony, (^Singing.') 
 
 There was a young man riding by. 
 And fain would have his will. > 
 
 Rang do didlo dee. / 
 
206 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of 
 her h'eart. 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 l 
 
 Tony. That's as 1 find 'um. 
 
 Hastings. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I 
 dare answer 1 And yet she appears to me a pretty, 
 well-tempered girl. 
 
 Tony. That's because you don't know her as well 
 as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and 
 there's not a more bitter cantanckerous toad in all 
 Christendom. ^ 
 
 Hastings. (Adde) Pretty encouragement this for 
 a lover ! 
 
 Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. 
 She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt 
 the first day's breaking. 
 
 Hastings. To me slie appears sensible and silent. 
 
 Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with 
 her playmates, she's as loud as a hog in a gate. 
 
 Hastings. But th'ere 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. 
 
 Hasti7igs. 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, niun. 
 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 th;^s bitter bargain off your hands 1 
 
 Tony. Anan ! 
 
 Hastings. Would you thank him that would take 
 Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your 
 dear Betsey 1 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 207 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend— for 
 who would take her 1 
 
 Hustings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll en- 
 gage 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'll clap a pair of horses to your chaise 
 that shall trundle you off" in a twinkling, and may be 
 get you a part of her fortin beside, in jewels, that you 
 little dream of. 
 
 Hastings. My dear squire, this looks like a lad of 
 spirit. 
 
 Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more 
 of my spirit before you have donewith me. 
 
 (Singing.') 
 vVe are the boys. 
 That fears no noise. 
 Where the thundering cannons roar. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT T H I H D. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 liardcastle. What could my old friend Sir Charles 
 mean by recommending his son as the modestest 
 young man in town 1 To me he appears the most 
 impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. 
 He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fire- 
 side already. He took off his boots in the parlour, 
 and desired me to see them taken care of. I'm de- 
 sirous to know how his impudence affects my dauo-hter. 
 She will certainly be shocked 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. 
 
208 SKE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Miss Hardciistle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in 
 obeying- your coimnands, that I take care to observe 
 them vvithout ever debating their propriety. 
 
 Hardcastie. And yet Kate, I sometimes give you 
 some cause, particularly when I reconnmended my 
 modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day 
 
 Miss Hardcastie. You taught me to expect some- 
 thing extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the 
 description. 
 
 Hardcastie. I was never so surprised in my life f— 
 He has quite confounded all my faculties. 
 
 Miss Hardcastie. I never saw any thing like it ; and 
 a man of the world too ! 
 
 Hardcastie. 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 mas- 
 querade. 
 
 Miss Hardcastie. It seems all natufal to him. 
 Hardcastie. A good deal assisted by bad company 
 and a French dancing-master. 
 
 Miss Hardcastie. Sure you mistake, papa. A 
 French dancing-master could never have taught him 
 that timid look — that awkward address — that bashful 
 manner. 
 
 Hardcastie. Whose look 1 whose manner, child 1 
 Miss Hardcastie. Mr. Marlow's : his mauVMse hmte, 
 his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 
 
 Hardcastie. Then your first sight deceived you'i tor 
 I think him one of the most brazen first sights that 
 ever astonished my senses. 
 
 Miss Hardcastie. Sure, sir, you rally! I never saw 
 any one so modest. 
 
 Hardcastie. And can you be serious! I never saw 
 such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since 1 was born. 
 Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. 
 
 Miss Hardcastie. Surprising ! He met me with a 
 respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed 
 on the ground. 
 
 Hardcastie. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly 
 air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. 
 
SHE STOOl'S TO CtJNQl'KR. 209 
 
 Mioi llnrdcusile. He ireaieJ me with diffiJence and 
 respect ; censured the nianueis of the age ; admired 
 the prudence of girls that never laughed , tired me 
 with apologies for being tiresome , tlien left the room 
 with a bow, and ' Madam, I would not for the world 
 detain you.' 
 
 Ha'dcastle. 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 Marlboiough and Prince Kugene, he 
 asked if I had not a good liand at making punch. 
 Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of 
 punch . 
 
 Miss Ilardcastle. One of us must certainly be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Ilardcastle. If he be what he has shewn himself, 
 I'm determined he shall never have my consent. 
 
 Miss Haidcastle And if he be the sullen thing I 
 take him, he shall never have mine. 
 
 Ha'-dcaitle. In one thing, then, we are agreed — to 
 reject him. 
 
 Miis Hardcastle. Yes — but upon conditions. For 
 if you should find him less impudent, and I more pre- 
 suming ; if you find him more respectful, and I more 
 importunate — I don't know — the fellow is well enough 
 for a man — certainly we don't meet many such at a 
 horse-race in the country. 
 
 Hiirdcastle. If we should find him so But that's 
 
 impossible. The first appearance has done my busi- 
 ness. I'm seldom deceived in that. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And yet there may be many good 
 qualities under tliat first appearance. 
 
 Hardcditle. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside 
 to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of 
 his furniture. With her a smooth face 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 1 
 
210 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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 1 
 
 Hardcastle, Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the 
 right. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And, depend on't, I'm not much 
 m the wrong. [Exewut, 
 
 Enter Tony, running in v)ith 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 1 
 
 Enter Hastings, 
 
 Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed 
 with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with 
 pretending love for your cousin, and that you are 
 willing to be reconciled at last 1 Our horses will be re- 
 freshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to 
 set off. 
 
 Tgny. 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 1 
 
 Tuny. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no 
 fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I 
 had not a key to every drawer 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 endeavouring to pro- 
 cure them from her aunt this very instant. If she 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 211 
 
 succeeds, it will be the most delicate way, at least, of 
 obtaining them. 
 
 Tmiy. 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 don't value her resentment the bounce 
 of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are. Morrice I 
 Prance ! [^Extt Hastings. 
 
 Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, and Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze 
 me. Such a girl as you wast jewels 1 It will be 
 time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, 
 wnen your beauty 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 or- 
 naments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at pre- 
 sent. Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaint- 
 ance, 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 some- 
 body that shall be nameless- would like me best with 
 all my little finery about me 1 
 
 Mrs. Hm-dcastle. 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 
 de»r? Does your cousin Con want any jewels in 
 your eyes to set off her beauty l 
 
 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 
 lable-cut things. They would make you look like 
 
212 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUKR,. 
 
 the court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Be- 
 sides, I believe 1 can't readily come at them. They 
 may be missing for aught I know to the contrary. 
 
 Tony. (^Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.) Then why don't 
 you teJl her so at once, as she's so longing for them 1 
 Tell her they're lo^t. It's the only way to quiet her. 
 Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hardoastte. (Apart to Tony) You know, my 
 dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if i say 
 they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you ? He ! 
 he! he! 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I'll say I saw them 
 taken out with my own eyes. 
 
 Miss Neville. 1 desire them but for a day, madam — 
 just to be permitted to shew them as relics, and then 
 they may be locked up again. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear 
 Constance, if I could find them you should have 
 them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for 
 aught I know ; but we must have patience whenever 
 they are. 
 
 Miss Neville. I'll 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. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If 
 they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my 
 son knows they are missing, and not to be found.' 
 
 Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are miss- 
 ing, and not to be found ; I'll 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 
 mis-fortunes of others. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Now, I wonder a girl of your 
 good sense should waste a thought upon such trum- 
 pery. We shall soon find them ; and in the mean time 
 you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels be 
 found. 
 
SHE STOOPS 10 CONQUER. 213 
 
 Miss Neville. I detest garnets. 
 
 Mrs.Hardcastle. The most becoming things in the 
 world to set oiF 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. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the gar- 
 nets, take what you can get. The jewels are your 
 own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, 
 and she does not know it. Fly to your spark ; he'll 
 tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear cousin I 
 
 Tmy. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them 
 already. [Exit Miss Neville.} Zounds! how she 
 fidgets and spits about like a Catharine wheel ! 
 
 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 "! 1 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, 1 never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I 
 thoua;ht 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. 
 
 Tony. Stick to that, ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that. 
 Til 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. 
 
214 Slll^ SfdOl'S TO CONQi.'KR. 
 
 T^my. Sure 1 know they are gone, anJ I am to 
 say so. 
 
 M-'-s. llardcasttc. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 
 They're gone, I say- 
 
 Tony. J5y the laws, mDinma, you make me for to 
 laugh, ha ! ha! 1 know who took them well eoough, 
 ha : ha ! ha ! 
 
 ISlrs. tlardcastle. Was iliere ever such a block- 
 hea'I, that can't tell the dilTerence between jest and 
 earne.<t ! 1 tell you 1 'ni not in jest, booby. 
 
 Toni/, 'i'liat's liglit, that's rij^lit ; you must be in a 
 bitlar passion, and then nobody will suspect either 
 of us. I'll beat witness that they are gone. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastte. AVas there ever sucli a rross- 
 grained brute, that won't hear me ! Can you bear 
 witness that you're no better than a fool? \V as ever 
 poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and 
 thieves on the other ! 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. lla^dcaiite. Bear witness again, you block- 
 head, you, and I'll turn you oui of the room directly, 
 RIy poor niece, what will become of her! Do you 
 laugii, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed mv 
 distress ! 
 
 Tony. 1 can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. llardcaiile. Do you insult me, monster ? I'll 
 teach you to vex your mother, I will ! 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that, {lie runs off, she 
 follows him.) 
 
 Enter Miss llardcastle and Maid. 
 
 Miss llardcastle. What an unaccountable creature 
 is that brother of mine, to send tiiem to the house as 
 an inn ; ha! ha I I don't wonder at his impudence. 
 
 Maid. But what is mo^e, madam, the young gen- 
 tleman, as you passed by in your present dress, asked 
 me if you were the bar-maid, lie mistook you for »he 
 bar-maid, madam ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Did he ? Then, as 1 live, I'm 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 215 
 
 resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, 
 how do you like my present dress i. Don't you think 
 2 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 com- 
 pany. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. And are you sure he does not 
 remember my face or person t 
 Maid. Certain of it. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so ; for thou<jh 
 we spoke for some time together, yet his fears we°re 
 such that he never once looked up during the inter- 
 view. 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 brino-g 
 ner face to market. Then 1 shall perhaps make an 
 acquaintance, 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, 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 
 nas already mistaken your person 1 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I have 
 
 <?ot the true bar cant— Did your honour call "! Attend 
 
 the Lion there.— Pipes and tobacco for the Ano-el. 
 
 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' 
 1 nave scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best 
 room, there 1 find my host and his story ; if I fly to 
 the gallery, there we have my hostess with her curtsey 
 
«-o SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to 
 
 Hiyself, and now for recollection. [Walks and musis. 
 
 M:ss Hardcastle. Did you call, sir? Did your 
 honour call ? 
 
 Marlow. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's 
 too grave and sentimental for me. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Did your honour call ? 
 
 [She still places herself before him, 
 he turning away, 
 
 Martow. No, child. (Musing) Besi^des, 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 
 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 1 
 
 Marlow. 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. O la, sir, you'll 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 ihat 
 these ten days. 
 
 Mariow. 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, per- 
 haps I might be disappointed in that too. | i j j 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Nectar! nectar! That's a iiquor | if '^ 
 there's no call for in these parts. French, I suDOOse. r""'^ ) 
 We keep no French wines here, sir. | y^ 
 
 Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure yoa. ^ 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 217 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Then it's odd I should not know 
 it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I 
 have lived here these eighteen years. 
 
 Martow. Eighteen years ! Why, one would think, 
 child, you kept the bar before you were born. How 
 old are you ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Oh, sir, I must not tell my age. 
 They say women and music should never be dated. 
 
 Marloui. To guess at this distance, you can't be 
 much above forty. (^Approaching) Yet nearer, I 
 don't think so much. {Apprpoching) 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. 
 
 Marlow. 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 Hardcastle. 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'll war- 
 rant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept 
 bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, 
 as if you were before a justice of the peace. 
 
 Marlow. (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 
 don't know me. I laughed and rallied her a little ; 
 but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could 
 not be too severe, curse me ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Oh, then, sir, you are a favourite, 
 1 find, among the ladies 1 
 
 Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And 
 yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to 
 follow. At the ladies' club in town I'm called their 
 agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, 
 but one I'm known by. My name is Solomons ; Mr. 
 L 
 
218 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Solomons, my dear, at your service. (p_ffering to 
 salurle her.) 
 
 Misi Hardcastle. Hold, sir, you are introducing me 
 to your club, not to yourself. And you're so great a 
 favourite there, you say 1 
 
 Mui'low. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, 
 Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. 
 Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your 
 humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Then it's a very merry place, I 
 suppose "i 
 
 Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, vi^ine, and 
 old women can make us. 
 
 jljiss Hardcastle. And their agreeable E-attle, ha ! 
 ha ! iia ! 
 
 3Iarlow. {Aside) Egad ! I don't quite like this 
 chit. She looks knowing, methin'ks. You laugh, 
 child ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. 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 l 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Aye, sure. There's not a screen 
 or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear wit- 
 ness to that. 
 
 Marlow. Odso ! then you must shew me your em- 
 broidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a 
 little. If you want a judge of your work, you must 
 apply to me. {Seizing her hand.) 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Ay, but the colours don't look 
 well by candle-light. You shall see all in the morn- 
 ing. {Struggling.) 
 
 Marlow. And why not now, my angel? Such 
 beauty fires beyond the power of resistance. Pshaw ! 
 the father here ! My old luck : 1 never nicked seven 
 that I did not throw ames ace three tim^s following.* 
 
 [Exit Marhw. 
 
 • Ames aco, or anibs ace, is two ares t'.irnwn at the scnmc time on 
 two dice. As seven is the mdiji, to llirow uiiies ace tlirice ruunintf. 
 
SHE STOO.VS TO CO;.^QtER. 219 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise. 
 
 y^ 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 1 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Never trust me, dear papa, but 
 he's still the modest man I first took him for ; you'll 
 be convinced of it as well as I, 
 
 Hardcastle, By the hand of my body, T believe his 
 impudence is infectious ! Didn't I see him seize your 
 hand 1 Didn't I see him hawl 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'll forgive him. / 
 
 Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one run 
 mad ! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am con- 
 vinced. He has scarcely been three hours in the 
 house, and he has already encroached on all my pre- 
 rogatives. 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 con- 
 vince 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 V\\ 
 have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, 
 do you mind me. 
 
 when the player nicks, that is, hazards his money on seven, is singu. 
 larly bad luck. 
 
220 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever found 
 that I considered your commands as my pride j for 
 your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been 
 inclination. [^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastitigs. You surprise me : Sir Charles Marlow 
 expected here this night! Where have you had your 
 information ? 
 
 Miss Neville. You may depend u-pon it. I just 
 saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him 
 he intends setting out a few hours after his son. 
 
 Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be com- 
 pleted before he arrives. He knows me ; and should 
 he find me here, would discover my name, and, per- 
 haps, my designs, to the rest of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. 'I'he jewels, I hope, are safe? 
 
 Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, 
 who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean time, 
 I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have 
 had the Squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses j 
 and if I should not see him again, will write him 
 farther directions. [^Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, success attend you ! In the 
 mean time, I'll go amuse my aunt with the olfl pre- 
 tence of a violent passion for my cousin. \_Exit, 
 
 Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. 
 
 Mai'low. I wonder what Hastings could mean by 
 sending 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 de- 
 posited the casket with the landlady, as I ordered 
 you 1 Have you put it into her own hands l 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honour. 
 
 Marlow. She said she'd keep it safe, did she 1 
 
 Servant, Yes; she said she'd keep it safe enough. 
 
SHE hT(!(;i\s i\> cuAQ'iiKll. 221 
 
 She asked me how 1 came by it ; and she said she 
 had a great mind to make me give an account of 
 myself. [Exit Sei-vant. 
 
 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 
 head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of 
 all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be 
 mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. Bless me ! I quite forgot io tell her that 
 I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. 
 Marlow 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 
 success has your honour's modesty been crowned with 
 now, that It grows so insolent upon us ■? 
 
 Marlow. Didn'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 1 
 
 Marlow. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, 
 such motion, such eyes, such Vvps — 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 shewing 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 honour 1 
 
 Marlow. Pshaw! pshaw! We all know the honour 
 of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend to rob her, 
 take my word for it ; there's nothing in this house I 
 shan't honestly pay for. 
 
 Hastings. 1 believe the girl has virtue. 
 . Marlow. And if she has, 1 should be the last man 
 in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 
 
222 SHE STOOPS TO CO.NQLiEU. 
 
 Hastmgs. You have taken care, I hope, of the 
 casket I sent you to lock up 1 It's in safety? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, yes ; it's safe enough. 1 have taken 
 care of it. But how could you think the seat of a 
 post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety V Ah ! 
 numskull ! I have taken better precautions for vou 
 than you did for yourself — 1 have 
 
 Hasimgs. VVhaf! 
 
 Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. 
 
 Hastings. To the landlady ! 
 
 Marlow. The landlady, 
 
 Hastings, You did 1 
 
 Marlow. I did. She's to be answerable for its 
 forthcoraing, you know. 
 
 Hastings. Yes, she'll 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, 
 metliinks. Sure nothing has happened t 
 
 Hastings. No, noihing. Never was in better spirits 
 in all my life. And so you left it wiih 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. 
 
 Hastings. (^Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are 
 at an end, and we must set off without it. (To him) 
 Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your meditations on 
 the pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you be 
 as successful for yourself as you have been for me ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Marlow. Thank ye, George: I ask nc more. — 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Huvdeastle. I no longer know my own house. It's 
 turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. -J-JS 
 
 already. I'll bear it no loager ; and yet, from my 
 respect for his father. 111 be calm. (To him) Mr. 
 Marlow, your servant. I'm your very humble ser- 
 vant. (^Boiuing low.) 
 
 Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside) What's 
 to be the wonder now 1 
 
 Hardcastle. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, 
 sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome thari 
 your father's son, sir. I hope you think so 1 
 
 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 don't drink as they ought, they 
 are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. 
 I did, 1 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. Then they had your orders for what 
 they do 1 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 honour, liberty and Fleet- 
 street for ever ! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as 
 good as another man. I'll drink for no man before 
 
224 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 supper, sir, damme ! God 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, trie fellow is as 
 drunk as he can possibly be. I don'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 I Mr. Marlow : sir, I 
 have submitted to your insolence for more than four 
 hours, and 1 see no likelihood of its coming to an end. 
 I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, and I desire 
 that you and your drunken pack may leave my house 
 directly. 
 
 Marlow. Leave your house ! — Sure you jest, my 
 good friend 1 W hat ! when I'm doing what I can to 
 please you. 
 
 Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, you don't please ; so I 
 desire you'll leave my house. 
 
 Marlow. Sure you cannot be serious 1 at this time 
 
 o'nightj and such a night'! You only mean to banter 
 
 rije. 
 
 y^" Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ! and now 
 
 ;•* that my passi§ns 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. (I« a serious tone.y 
 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 1 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 
 hoiise is min^ 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 furnitfire? There's a pair of .silver candle- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 225 
 
 sticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of 
 brazen-nosed bellows; perhi.ps 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 1 
 
 Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say, and I'll leave 
 you and your infernal house directly. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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, L 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 presently, and shall hear more of it. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Marlow. How's this I Sure I have not mistaken 
 the house. Every thing looks like an inn ; the ser- 
 vants cry coming ; the attendance is awkward ; the 
 bar-maid, too, to attend us. But she's here, and will 
 farther inform me. Whither so fast, child] A word 
 with you. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Let it be short then. I'm in a 
 hurry. (^Aside) I believe he begins to find out his 
 mistake. But it's too soon quite to undeceive him. 
 
 Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one question. 
 What axe you, and what may your business in this 
 house be 1 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. A relation of the family, sir. 
 
 Marlow. What, a poor relation 1 
 
 Miss Hardcastle, Yes, sir, a poor relation, ap- 
 L2 
 
226 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 pointed to keep the keys, and to see that the g'uests 
 want nothing in my power to give them. 
 
 Marlow. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this 
 inn. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Inn ! O la what brought that 
 
 Into your head? One of the best families in the 
 county keep an inn ! — Ha I ha 1 ha ! old Mr. Hard* 
 castle's house an inn ! 
 
 Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this Mr. 
 Hardcastle's house, child 1 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Ay, sure. Whose else shou't' 
 it be? 
 
 Marlow. So then, all's out, and I have been dam. 
 nably imposed upon. Oh, confound my stupid head, 
 I shall be laughed at over the whole town ! I shall 
 be stuck up in caricatura in all the print-shops. The 
 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 behaviour 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 every thing the wrong 
 way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and 
 your simplicity for allurement. But it's over — this 
 house I no more shew 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 
 (^p'-etending to cry) if he left the family upon my ac- 
 count. I'm sure I should be sorry people said any 
 thing amiss, since I have no fortune but my character. 
 
 Marlow. (jlside) By Heaven ! she weeps. This is 
 the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 227 
 
 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 honourable connexion impossible ; and I can never 
 harbour a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted 
 in my honour, of bringing 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 Bliss 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 paitiality in my 
 favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were 
 I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. 
 But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too 
 much to the authority of a father ; so that — I can 
 scarcely speak it — it affects me — Farewell. \_Exit. 
 Miss Hardcastle. I never knew half his merit till 
 now. He shall not go if I have power or art to detain 
 him. I'll still preserve the character in which I 
 stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, who, 
 perhaps, may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Tony and Miss Neville, 
 
 Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next 
 time. I hare 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 
 forsake us in this distress 1 If she in the least suspects 
 
228 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUKR. 
 
 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 1 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. Hard castle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to 
 be sure, but my son tells me it was all a mistake of 
 the servants. I shan't be easy, however, till they are 
 fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. 
 But what do I see 1 fondling together, as I'm alive. 
 I never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have I 
 caught you, my pretty doves'! What, billing, ex- 
 changing glances and broken murmurs 1 Ah ! 
 
 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little 
 now and then, to be sure ; but there's no love lost 
 between us. 
 
 Mrs. 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/shan't 
 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 be- 
 coming. 
 
 Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin 1 Who can help 
 admiring that natural humour, that plea^nt, broad, 
 Ted, thoughtless, {patting his cheek) — ah ! it's a hold 
 face ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Pretty innocence ! 
 
 Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel 
 eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twisis this 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CO>fQUER. 229 
 
 way and that over the 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. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear ? 
 You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the" 
 rest of his education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a 
 fitter opportunity. 
 
 Enter Diggovy. 
 
 Biggory. Where's the Scjuire t I have got a letter 
 for your worship. 
 
 Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my 
 letters first. 
 
 ^^ggory. I had orders to deliver it into your own 
 hands. 
 
 Tony. Who does it come from 1 
 . biggory. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter 
 Itself. 
 
 Tony. I could wish to know tliough. (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 for ever. I'll keep her employed 
 a little, if I can. (To Mrs. Hardcastle) But I have 
 not told you, madam, of ray cousin's smart answer 
 just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed— You must 
 know, madam— This way a little, for he must not 
 hear us. ((They confer.) 
 
 Tony. (Still gazing) A damned cramp piece of 
 penmanship, 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 enouc^h. But 
 when I come to open it, it's all buzz.° That's 
 
230 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 hard — very hard ; for the inside of the letter is always 
 the cream of the correspondence. 
 
 -Mrs. Har (least le. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very 
 well. And so my son was too hard for the philosopher ? 
 
 Miss Neville. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the 
 rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear 
 us. You'll hear how he puzzled him again. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. He seems strangely puzzled now 
 himself, methinks. 
 
 Tony. (Still gazing) A damned up-and-down hand, 
 as if It was disguised in liquor. (Reading') ' Dear 
 sis-,' — 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 1 
 
 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 ? 
 
 T(my. 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 present. 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. (Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.) 
 
 Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the conse- 
 quence 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'll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you pro- 
 mised. Despatch is necessary, as the hag' — ay, the 
 hag—' your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 231 
 
 Hastings.' Grant me patience : I shall run distracted ! 
 My rage chokes me ! 
 
 Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your 
 resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me 
 aay impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to 
 another. 
 
 Mrs.Hardcastle. (Curtseying very low) Fine spoken 
 madam, you are most miraculoaisly polite and en- 
 gaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and cir- 
 cumspection, 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 7 But I'll defeat all your plots in a mo- 
 ment. 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, instead of running away 
 with your spark, prepare, this very moment, to run off 
 with me. Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you 
 secure, I'll warrant me. You too, sir, may mount 
 your horse, and guard ns upon the way. — Here, 
 Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! — I'll shew you, that I wish 
 you better than you do yourselves. \^F,xit. 
 
 Miss Neville. So, now I'm completely ruined. 
 
 Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 
 
 Miss Nevilie. What better could be expected, from 
 being connected with such a stupid fool, and after all 
 the nods and signs I made him 1 
 
 Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own clever- 
 ness, and not my stupidity, that did your business ! 
 You were so nice and so busy with your Shake Bags 
 and Goose Greens, that I thought you could never 
 be making believe. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant, that you 
 have shewn 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. 
 
232 SHE STOOPS TO COxMQUER. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Mai-low. So, I have been finely used here among 
 you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill man- 
 ners, 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 1 a mere boy, an 
 idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. 
 
 Haitings. 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 insensit)le cub. 
 
 Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
 
 Tony. Baw ! damme, but I'll 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. 
 
 Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own disap- 
 pointments, 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'll get ready im- 
 mediately, madam. The horses are putting-to. Your 
 hat and things are in the next room. We are to go 
 thirty miles before morning. [EiJt Servant, 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, well, I'll come presently. 
 
 Marlow. (To Hastings.) Was it well done, sir, to 
 assist in rendering me ridiculous 1 — To hang me out 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. i:a3 
 
 for the scorn of all my acquaintance 1 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 intrusted to yourself, to the 
 care of another, sir 1 
 
 Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why 
 will you increase my distress by this groundless dis- 
 pute 1 I implore — 1 entreat you 
 
 Enter Servant, 
 
 Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is 
 impatient. lExit Sei-vant. 
 
 Miss Neville. I come. Pray, be pacified. If 1 
 leave yo'u thus, I shall die with apprehension. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Marlnw. I'm so distracted with a variety of pas- 
 sions, 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 
 excuse. 
 
 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 connexion. If 
 
 Mrs. Hardcasile. (^WUhln.) Miss Neville ! Con- 
 stance, why, Constance, 1 say ! 
 
 Miss Neville. I'm coming 1 Well, constancy ; re- 
 member, constancy is the word. [^Esit. 
 
 Hastings. My heart ! how can I support this 1 To 
 be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 
 
 Marlow. (To Tony.^ You sec now, young gentle- 
 
# 
 
 234 SHE SI'OOPS TO CONQUER, 
 
 man, the effects of your folly. What might be arouse- 
 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 don't find Tony 
 Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than you thought 
 for, I'll give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet 
 Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, 
 ho ! lExeunt. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Servant. 
 
 Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
 drive off, you say t 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honour. They went off in a 
 post-coach, and the young squire went on horseback. 
 They're thirty miles off by this time. 
 
 Hastings. Then all my hopes are over ! 
 
 Serva7it. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He 
 and the old gentleman of the house have been laugh- 
 ing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They 
 are coming this way. [Eii't. 
 
 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 Marlotv and Hardcastle, 
 
 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. 
 
 Hardcoitlz. And yet he might have seen something 
 m me above a common innkeeper, too. 
 
 Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an 
 uncommon innkeeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 235 
 
 Ilardcaitle. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think 
 of any thing but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this 
 union of our families will make our personal friend- 
 ships hereditary, and though my daughter's fortune is 
 but small 
 
 Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune 
 to mel My son is possessed of more than a compe- 
 tence already, and can want nothing but a good and 
 virtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it. 
 If they like each other, as you say they do 
 
 HardcastLe. If, man ! I tell you they do like each 
 other. My daughter as good as told me so. 
 
 Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, 
 you know. 
 
 Hardcastle. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest 
 manner myself ; and here he comes to put you out of 
 your ifs, 1 warrant him. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for 
 my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my in- 
 solence without confusion. 
 
 Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
 gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my daugh- 
 ter, will set all to rights again. She'll never like 
 you the worse for it. 
 
 Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her ap- 
 probation. 
 
 Hardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. 
 Marlow ; if I am not deceived, you have something 
 more than approbation thereabouts. You take me ! 
 
 Marlow, Really, sir, I've not that happiness. 
 
 Hardcasile. 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. 
 
 MarlouK Sure, sir, nothing has past between us but 
 the most profound respect on my side, and the most 
 distant reserve on hers. You don't think, sir, that 
 my impudence has been past upon all the rest of the 
 family ! 
 
23G SUE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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. 
 
 Marbw. 1 never gave her the slightest cause. 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, well, I Jike modesty in its place 
 well enough ; but this is over-acting, young gentle- 
 man. 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'm 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 ad- 
 mire it ; every moment's delay will be doing mischief, 
 so 
 
 Marlow. Bui why don't you hear me ? By all that's 
 just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the 
 slightest mark of my attachment, oT even the most 
 distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but 
 one interview, and that was formal, modest, and 
 uninteresting. 
 
 Hardcastle. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest 
 impudence is beyond bearing. 
 
 Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or 
 made any protestations 1 
 
 Marlow. As Heaven is my witness, I came down 
 in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady with- 
 out emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope 
 you'll 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 
 intrepidity of his assurance. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 237 
 
 _ Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honour 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 1 
 
 Mess 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 Charles) You see. 
 ^ SirCharles. But did he profess any attachment ? 
 Miss Hardcastle. A lastino- one. 
 Sir Charles. Did he talk of love 1 
 Miss Hardcastle. Much, sir. 
 Sir Charles. Amazing ! And all this formally ■? 
 Miss Hardcastle. Formally. 
 _ Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are sa- 
 tisfied. 
 
 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 
 vvant of merit, and the greatness of mine ; mentioned 
 his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with 
 pretended rapture. 
 
 Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed, 
 I know his conversation among women to be modest 
 and submissive. This forward, canting, ranting man- 
 ner by no means describes him, and, I am confident, 
 he never sat for the picture. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Then what, sir, if I should con- 
 vmce you to your face of my sincerity ? If you and 
 my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves 
 
238 SHE STOOPS TO CONQU£R. 
 
 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 don't find him what I 
 describe, I fear my happiness mwst never have a 
 beginning. 
 
 SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OF THE GARDEN. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. What an idiot am I to wait here for a 
 fellow 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. 
 
 Hasting'!. But how 7 where did you leave your 
 fellow-travellers ? Are they in safety 1 Are they 
 housed 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 Hastings. This is a riddle. 
 
 Tony. Kiddle me this, then. What's that goes 
 
 Z*"^ 
 
SHE STUOj'a i;; Cv>\.il K,:i. 239 
 
 round the house, and round the house, and never 
 touches the house 1 
 
 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 hvo 
 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 circum- 
 bendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at 
 the bottom of the garden. 
 
 Hastings. But no accident, I 'nope 1 
 
 Tony. No, no ; only mother is confoundedly 
 frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She's 
 sick of the journey ; and the cattle can scarce crawl. 
 So, if your own horses be ready, you may whip off 
 with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can 
 budge a foot to follow you. 
 
 Hastings. IMy 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 be 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 em- 
 ployed, I promise to take care of the young one. 
 
 [Exit Hastings, 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes ; vanish ! 
 She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist 
 like a mermaid. 
 
240 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 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, his 
 done my business. 
 
 Tony. Alack, mamma ! it was all your own fault. 
 You would be for running away by night, without 
 knowing one inch of the way. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home again. 
 1 never met so many accidents in so short a journey. 
 Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck 
 fast in a slou-gh, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose 
 our way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony 1 
 
 Tony. By my guess, we should be upon Crack- 
 skull Common, about forty miles from home. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcast-le. O lud ! O lud ! The most no- 
 torious spot in all the country. We only want a 
 robbery to make a complete night on't. 
 
 Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma ; don't be afraid. 
 Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the 
 other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. — Is 
 that a man that's galloping behind us No, it's only 
 a tree.^Don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. The fright will certainly kill me. 
 
 Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat 
 moving behind the thicket ? 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death ! 
 
 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. (Aiide) Father-in-law, by all that's un- 
 lucky, 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 
 approaches. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 241 
 
 Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and 
 
 leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, 
 
 I'll cough and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to 
 
 keep close. \_Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a 
 
 tree in the back scene. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hardcastle. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of 
 people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you 1 I 
 did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother 
 and her charge in safety? 
 
 Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's, Hem. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (^From behind) All, 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, 
 
 MJ-s. Hardcastle. (From behind) Sure, he'll do the 
 dear bov no harm I 
 
 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. Hera. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have 
 got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We'll 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'll lay down my life for the truth — hem — I'll 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'll believe 
 you. 
 
 M 
 
242 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (Runnincr forward from behindy 
 
 lud! he'll rnurder 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 1 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (^Kneeling) Take compassion on 
 us, good Mr. Highvvayman. Take our money, our 
 watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will 
 never bring you to justice ; indeed we won't, good 
 Mr. Highwayman. 
 
 Hardcastle. I believe the woman's out of her senses. 
 What, Dorothy, don't you know me 1 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive J 
 My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could 
 have expected to meet you here, in this frightful 
 place, so far from home ? What has brought you to 
 follow usi 
 
 Hardcastle. Sure', Dorothy, you have not lost your 
 wits 1 So far from home, when you are within forty 
 yards of your own door ! (To hirn) This is one of 
 your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you. (To her) 
 Don't you know the gate and the mulberry-tree 1 and 
 don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear 1 
 
 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 l I'll teach you to abuse your mother— 
 
 1 will. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
 spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. I'll spoil you, I will. 
 
 [^Follows him off the stage. 
 
 Hardcastle. There's morality, however, in his re- 
 ply. [Etti. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 Hastings, My dear Constance, why will you de- 
 liberate thus 1 If we delay a moment, all is lost for 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 243 
 
 ever. 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 
 unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' 
 patience will at last crown us with happiness. 
 
 Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than in- 
 constancy. Let us fly, my charmer ! Let us date 
 our happiness from this very moment. Perish for- 
 tune ! Love and content will increase what we pos- 
 sess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail ! 
 
 Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence 
 once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dic- 
 tates. In the moment of passion, fortune may be 
 despised, but it ever 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. 1 have no hopes. But, since you per- 
 sist, I must reluctantly obey you. [^Exeunt. 
 
 ^-^ SCENE CHANGES. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Marlotv 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 wis'hed for a daughter. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approbation ; 
 and to shew I merit it, if you place yourselves as I 
 directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But 
 he comes. 
 
 Sir Charles. I'll to your father, and keep him to 
 the appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I come 
 
244 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 once more to talce leave ; nor did 1, till this moment, 
 
 know the pain I feel in the separation- 
 
 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 
 shewing the little value of what you now think pro- 
 per to regret. 
 
 Marlmo. (Aside.) This girl every moment im- 
 proves 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 dis- 
 parity of education and fortune, the anger of a pa- 
 rent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose 
 their weight ; and nothing can restore me to myself 
 but this pai-nful effort of resolution. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Then go, sir ; I'll urge nothing 
 more to detain you. Though my family be as good 
 as hers you came down to visit, and my education, I 
 hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without 
 equal affluence? I must remain contented with the 
 slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have 
 only the mockery of your addresses, while all your 
 serious aims are fixed on fortune. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles Marlow,from hehind. 
 
 Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 
 
 Hardcastle. Ay, ay; make no noise. I'll' 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 emo- 
 tion? But every moment that I converse with you, 
 steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and 
 gives it stronger expression. What at first seemerf 
 rustic plainness, nov/ appears refined simplicity. What 
 seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the re- 
 sult of courageous innocence and conscious virtue. 
 
 Sir Charles. What can it mean 1 He amazes me ! 
 
 Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 245 
 
 Murlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, 
 and I have too good an opinion of my father's dis- 
 cernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. 
 Miss HardcaMe. No, Mr. Marlow, 1 will not, 
 cannot detain you. Do you think I could suffer a 
 connexion in which there is tlie smallest room for 
 repentance? Do you think I would take the mean 
 advantage of a transient passion to load you with con- 
 fusion 1 Do you think I could ever relish that hap- 
 piness which was acquired by lessening yours 1 
 
 Marlow. By all that's good, I can have no happi- 
 ness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor 
 shall I ever feel repentance but in not having seen 
 your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your 
 wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I 
 will make my respectful assiduities alone for the levity 
 of my past conduct. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. 
 As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indiffer- 
 ence. I might have given an hour or two to levity ; 
 but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever 
 submit to a connexion where I must appear merce- 
 nary, and you imprudent'! Do you think I could ever 
 catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirerf 
 
 Marlow. (Kneeling.) Does this look like security] 
 Does this look like confidence 1 No, madam, every 
 moment that shews me your merit, only serves to in- 
 crease my diffidence and confusion. Here let me 
 continue 
 
 iSiV Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, 
 Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your 
 indifference, your uninteresting conversation? 
 
 Hardcastle. Your cold contempt ; your formal in» 
 terview ! What have you to say now ? 
 
 Marlaw. 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. 
 
24G SHi'^ SH)()!-S 10 C()>QUEJl. 
 
 Martow. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter'? 
 
 Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter — my Kate ; 
 whose else should she be 1 
 
 Marlow. Oh, the devil ! 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical tall 
 squinting lady you were pleased to take me for 
 {curtseying ;) she that you addressed as the mild, mo- 
 dest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, for- 
 vifard, agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha I 
 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 falter- 
 ing gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks 
 just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud 
 confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Man- 
 trap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the 
 morning! — Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. 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'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? 
 We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. 
 
 [They retire, she tormenting him, to the baclc scene. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Tony. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. So, so, they're gone off. Let them 
 go, I care not. 
 
 Hardcastle. Who gone 1 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. My dutiful niece and her gen- 
 tleman, 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. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEll. 247 
 
 Hardcastle. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm 
 proud of the connexion. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 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. 
 
 Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so 
 mercenary ] 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. 
 
 Hardcastle. But you know if your son, when of 
 age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is 
 then at her own disposal. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, but he's not of age, and she 
 has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. (^Aside.) What, returned so soon! 
 I begin not to like it. 
 
 Hastings. (To Hardcastle.} For my late attempt to 
 fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be 
 my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal 
 from your justice to your humanity. By her father's 
 consent I first paid her my addresses, and our pas- 
 sions were first founded 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 for- 
 tune to secure my choice : But I am now recovered 
 from the delusion, and hope, from your tenderness, 
 what is denied me from a nearer connexion. 
 
 Mrs. 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 1 
 
 Tony. What signifies my refusing 1 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 
 
2-18 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEK. 
 
 concurred with your mother's desire to keep it secret. 
 But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, 1 must 
 now declare you have been of age these three months. 
 
 Tony. jOf age ! Am I of age, father 1 
 
 Hardcastte. Above three months. 
 
 Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my 
 liberty. (Taking Miss Neviiles hand) Witness all 
 men by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, 
 esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Ne- 
 ville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and law- 
 ful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom 
 she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. 
 
 Sir Charles. O brave Squire ! 
 
 Hastings. My worthy friend ! 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastte. My undutiful offspring ! 
 
 Marlmo. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- 
 cerely ! And, could 1 prevail upon my little tyrant 
 here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man 
 alive, if you would return me the favour. 
 
 Hastings. {To Miss Haidcastle.) Come, madam, 
 you are now driven to the very last scene of all your 
 contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves 
 you, and you must and shall have him. 
 
 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 don't believe you'll ever re- 
 pent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow 
 we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, 
 and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with 
 a merry 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. 
 
 "'^, [Eaeunt omnes. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUKll. 249 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 SPOKEN BY URS. BULKLET, IN TBE CUARACTEB OF 
 
 MISS HARDCASTL£. 
 
 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'dhim to conquer you : 
 And let me say, for all your resolution. 
 That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
 Our life is all a play, composed to please ; 
 * We have our exits and our entrances.' 
 The first act shews the simple country maid, 
 Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ; 
 Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action, 
 ' I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.' 
 Her second act displays a livelier scene, — 
 Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn. 
 Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 
 Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. 
 Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 
 The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs : 
 On squires and cits she there displays her arts, 
 And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts ; 
 And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete. 
 E'en common-eouncilmen forget to eat. 
 The fourth act shews her wedded to the squire, 
 And madam now begins to hold it higher ; 
 Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro. 
 And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro : 
 Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride, 
 Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside ; 
 Ogles and leers, with artificial skill, 
 Till, having lost in age the pow£r to kill. 
 She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. 
 Sucli, 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. 
 M2 ^ 
 
250 Slii; .Sl'wv;i .. io ^:.;s;^LKH. 
 
 EPILOGUE, * 
 
 TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF TONY LUMF&IN, 
 
 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'll 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'll 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, for ever up and down ; 
 We'll 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 inake these London gentry say. 
 We know what's damn'd genteel as well as they • 
 
 * This came too late to be spoken. 
 
i5l 
 
 ESSAYS, 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, a more whimsical figure iH 
 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-humour. In 
 this situation, however, every unexperienced wfiter, as 
 I am, finds himself. Impressed with terrors of the 
 tribunal before which he is going to appear, his natu- 
 ral humour turns to pertness, and for real wit he is 
 obliged to substitute vivacity. 
 
 For mv part, as I was never distinguished for ad- 
 dress, and have often even blundered in making my 
 bow, I am at a loss whether to be merry or sad on this 
 solemn occasion. Should I modestly decline all merit, 
 it is too probable the hasty reader may take me at my ■ 
 word, if, on the other hand, like labourers in the 
 magazine trade, I humbly presume to promise an epi- 
 tome of all the good things that were ever said or 
 written, those readers I most desire to please may for- 
 
 My bookseller, in this dilemma, perceiving my 
 embarrassment, instantly offered his assistance and 
 advice. ' You must know, sir,' says he, ' that the 
 republic of letters 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 i 
 third is a dab at an index. Thus a magazine is not 
 the result of any single man's industry, but goes 
 through as many hands as a new pin, before it is fit 
 for the public. I fancy, sir,' continues he ' I can 
 
252 ESSAVS. 
 
 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 hig 
 seraglio, at the rate of three-halfpence in hand, and 
 three shillings more in promises.' 
 
 He was proceeding in his advice, vifhich, however, I 
 thought proper to decline, by assuring him, that as I 
 intended to pursue no fixed method, so it was impos- 
 sible 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 
 curiosity 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 re- 
 press one criminal pleasure, or but for a moment fill 
 up an interval of anxiety 1 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 circum- 
 stances in its favour. Had Caesar or Cromwell ex- 
 changed countries, the one might have been a Serjeant, 
 and the other an exciseman. So it is with wit, which 
 generally succeeds more from being happily addressed, 
 than from its native poignancy. A jest calculated to 
 spread at a gaming-table, may be received with per- 
 fect indiflTerence should it happen to drop in a macke- 
 rel-boat. We have all seen dunces triumph in some 
 companies, where men of real humour were disre- 
 garded, by a general combination in favour of stupidity. 
 To drive the observation as far as it will go, should 
 the labours of a writer, who designs his performances 
 for readers of a more refined appetite, fall into the 
 
ESSAYS. 253 
 
 hands of a devourer of compilations, what can he ex- 
 pect but contempt and confusion 1 If his merits are 
 to be determined by judges who estimate the value of 
 a book from its bulk, or its frontispiece, every rival 
 must acquire an easy superiority, who with persuasive 
 eloquence promises four extraordinary pages of letter- 
 press, or three beautiful prints, curiously coloured 
 from Nature. 
 
 Thus, then, though I cannot promise as much 
 eatertainment, 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 entertainnent ; for I solemnly 
 assure him, I was never yet possessed of the secret of 
 writing and sleeping. 
 
 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, not- 
 withstanding, still find intolerably dull, or low, or sad 
 stuff, this I protest is more than I know ; 1 have a 
 clear conscience, and am entirely out of the secret. 
 
 Yet I would not have hirn, 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 oi extremity ; if he should still continue 
 refractory, and find me dull to the last, I must inform 
 him, with Bayes in the Rehearsal, that 1 think hirn 
 a very odd kind of fellow, and desire no more of his 
 acquaintance ; but still, if my readers impute the ge- 
 neral 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 
 country where the inhabitants had each a large ex- 
 crescence depending from the chin ; a deformity 
 which, as it was endemic, and the people little used 
 to strangers, it had been the custom, time iri^memo- 
 rial, to look upon as the greatest beaaty. Ladies grew 
 toasts from the size of their chins, and no men were 
 
254 ESSAYS, 
 
 beaux whose faces were not broadest at the bot- 
 tom. It was Sunday ; a country-church was at hand, 
 and our traveller was willing to perform the duties 
 of the day. Upon his first appearance at the church- 
 door, the eyes of all were 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 whispers, 
 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 perceive that I am a very ridiculous figure 
 here, but I assure you I am reckoned no way de- 
 formed at home.' 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP; OR, THE STORY 
 OF ALCANDER AND SEPTIMUS. 
 
 (Taken from a ByzaHtine 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 continued those pensions to men of learning, 
 which avaricious governors had monopolized. 
 
 In this city, and about this period, Alcander and 
 Septimius 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 admiration soon begot a friendship. Their 
 fortunes were nearly equal, and they were natives of 
 the two most celebrated cities in the world ; for 
 Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome. 
 
 In this state of harmony they lived for some time 
 together, when Alcander, after passing the first part 
 of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought 
 at length of entering into the busy world ; and as a 
 Btep previous to this, placed his affections on iivpcuia. 
 
KSSAY3. 255 
 
 a lady o^ exquisite beauty. 'I'lie day of their intended 
 nuptials was fixed ; the previous ceremonies were per- 
 formed ; and nothing now remained but her being 
 conducted in triumph 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 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 saga- 
 city 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 confession 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 refine- 
 ment 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 Iloman. 
 They were married privately by his connivance, and 
 this unlooked-for change of fortune wrought as unex- 
 pected a change in the constitution of the now happy 
 Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, 
 and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by 
 an exertion of those talents which he was so eminently 
 possessed of, Septimius, in a few years, arrived at the 
 
256 ESSAYS. 
 
 highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the 
 city judge, or prsetor. 
 
 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 rela- 
 tions 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, 
 Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was 
 carried into that region of desolation and sterility. His 
 stated employment was to follow the herds of an im- 
 perious 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 aggra- 
 vate his unsheltered distress. After some years of 
 bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered ; 
 he embraced it with ardour; 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 acknow- 
 ledged, 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; but be 
 was so much altered by a long succession of hardships, 
 that he continued unnoticed amongst the rest ; and in 
 the evening, when he was going up to the praetor's 
 chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending 
 lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven 
 from one ungrateful object to another; for night 
 
ESS.VYS. 257 
 
 coming on, he now found himself under the necessity 
 of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where 
 to apply. All emaciated, and in rags, as he was, none 
 of the citizens would harbour so much wretchedness ; 
 and sleeping in the streets might be attended with in- 
 terruption 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 in- 
 verted 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 circum- 
 stances 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, falsehood, and cruelty ; 
 he was determined to make no defence ; and thus, 
 lowenng with resolution, he was dragged bound with 
 cords before the tribunal of Septimius. As the proofs 
 were positive against him, and he offered nothing in 
 his own vindication, the judge was proceeding to doom 
 him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when the 
 attention of the multitude was soon diverted 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 hb 
 
258 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 
 embrace 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 friend- 
 ship and honours 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 Providence 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 countiy, 
 1 cannot avoid feeling some pain in thinking that those 
 happy days are never to return. In that retreat all 
 nature seemed capable of affording pleasure; I then 
 made no refinements on happiness, but could be 
 pleased with' the most awkward efforts of rustic mirth, 
 thought cross-purposes the highest stretch of human 
 wit, and questions and commands the most rational 
 way of spending the evening. Happy could so charm- 
 ing an illusion continue ! I find that age and know- 
 ledge only contribute to sour our dispositions. My 
 present enjoyments may be more refined, but they are 
 infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure the best actor 
 gives, can no way compare to that I have received from 
 1 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 rae into tears with John- 
 ny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or the Cruelty of 
 Barbara Allen. 
 
 V^ritrrs of every age have endeavoured to shew that 
 pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered for 
 our amusement. If the soul be happily disposed, 
 every thing becomes capable of affording entertain- 
 ment, and distress will almost want a name. Every 
 
ESSAYS. 259 
 
 occurrence passes in review like the figures of a pro- 
 cession : 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 fortifica- 
 tion in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with 
 his situation,. He vcas 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 circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he 
 sung, would have danced but that he wanted a leg, 
 and appeared the merriest, happiest man of all the 
 garrison. What a practical philosopher was here ! a 
 happy constitution supplied philosophy ; and, thoucrh 
 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 occur- 
 rence to excite their good-humour. The most cala- 
 mitous events, either to themselves or others, can bring 
 no new affliction ; the whole world is to them a theake, 
 on which comedies only are acted. All the bustle of 
 heroism, or the rants of ambition, serve only to heighten 
 the absurdity of the scene, and make the humour more 
 poignant. They feel, in short, as little anguish at 
 their own distress, or the complaints of others, as ;he 
 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 
 ohilosophy, wherever pleasure was to be sold, he was 
 
260 ESSAYS. 
 
 generally foremost to raise the auction. Being a uni- 
 versal admirer of the fair sex, when he found one lady 
 cruel, he generally fell in love with another, from 
 whom he expected a more favourable reception. If 
 she too rejected his addresses, he never thought of 
 retiring into deserts, or pining in hopeless distress : he 
 persuaded himself, that instead of loving the lady, he 
 only fancied 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 bis most deadly 
 enemy. Cardinal Mazarine (being confined a close 
 prisoner in the castle of Valenciennes), he never at- 
 tempted to support his distress by wisdom or philo- 
 sophy, 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 dis- 
 tress, though secluded from his friends, though denied 
 all the amusements, and even the conveniences of life, 
 he still retained his good-humour, laughed at all the 
 little spite of his enemies, 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 car- 
 dinal's example will instruct us to be merry in cir- 
 cumstances of the highest affliction. It matters not 
 whether our good-humour be construed by others into 
 insensibility, or even idiotism ; it is happiness^to our- 
 selves, and none but a fool would measure his satis- 
 faction by what the world thinks of it ; for my own 
 part, I never pass by one of our prisons for debt, that 
 1 do not envy that felicity which is still going forward 
 among those people, vpho forget the cares of the world 
 by being shut out from its silly ambition. 
 
 The happiest silly fellow I ever knevT, was of tke 
 number- of those good-natured creatures that are said 
 to do no harm to any but themselves. iVhenever he 
 fell inio misery, he usually called it seeing life. If 
 his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket 
 pickfd by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating 
 the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashion- 
 
E.SSAVS. 261 
 
 able cant of the other. Noihiiiy carmi amiss to him. 
 His inattention to money-matters liad incensed his fa- 
 ther to such a degree, that all the intercession of friends 
 in his favour was fruitless. The old gentleman was 
 on his death-bed. The whole family, and Dick among 
 the number, gathered around him. ' I leave my se- 
 cond 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 him- 
 self. ' I recommend Simon, my third son, to the care 
 of his elder brother, and leave him beside four thou- 
 sand pounds.' — ' Ah 1 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 yourselT 1' 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-humoured, 
 but competently rich. 
 
 Yes, let the world cry out at a bankrupt who ap- 
 pears at a ball, at an author who laughs at the public, 
 which pronounces him a dunce, at a general who 
 smiles at the approach of the vulgar, or the lady who 
 keeps her good-humour in spite of scandal ; but such 
 is the wisest behaviour that any of us can possibly 
 assume. It is certainly a better way to oppose cala- 
 mity 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 misfortunes, we are 
 sure to receive some wounds in the conflict ; but 
 a sure method to come off victorious, is by running 
 away. 
 
2u2 ESSAYS. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF VARIOUS CLUBS. 
 
 I REMEMBER to have read in some philosopher (I be- 
 lieve in Tom Brown's works), that, let a man's cha- 
 racter, 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 
 ou 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-la-ne ; and, if actually mad, 
 he may find very good company in Moorfields, either 
 at Bedlam or the Foundry, ready to cultivate a nearer 
 acquaintance. 
 
 But, although such as have a knowledge of the 
 town may easily class themselves with tempers con- 
 genial to their own, a countryman who comes to live 
 in London finds nothing more difficult. With regard 
 to myself, none ever tried with more assiduity, or came 
 off with such indifferent success. I spent a whole 
 season in the search, during which time my name has 
 been enrolled in societies, lodges, convocations, and 
 meetings without number. To some I was introduced 
 by a friend, to others invited by an advertisement; to 
 these I introduced myself, and to those I changed 
 my name to gain admittance. In short, no coquet 
 was ever more solicitous to match her ribands to her 
 complexion, than t to suit my club to my temper; 
 for I was too obstinate to bring my temper to conform 
 to it. 
 
 The first club I entered upon coming to town, was 
 that of the Choice Spirits. The name was entirely 
 suited to my taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good- 
 humour, a-nd even sometimes of fun, from my child- 
 hood. 
 
 As no other passport was requisite but the payment 
 of two shillings at the door, I introduced myself with- 
 
ESSAYS. 263 
 
 out farther ceremony to the members, who weie al- 
 ready assembled, and had, for some time, begun upon 
 business. The grand, with a mallet in his hand, pre- 
 ^sided at the head of the table. I could not avoid, 
 upon my entrance, making use of all my skill in phy- 
 siognomy, in order to discover that superiority of ge- 
 nius in men who had taken a title so superior to the 
 rest of mankind. I expected to see the lines of every 
 face marked with strong thinking ; but, though I had 
 some skill in this science, I could for my life discover 
 nothing but a pert simper, fat or profound stupidity. 
 
 My speculations were soon interrupted by the grand, 
 who had knocked down Mr. Spriggins for a song. I 
 was, upon this, whispered by one of the company who 
 sat next me, that 1 should now see something touched 
 - off to a nicety, for Mr. Spriggins was going to give us 
 Mad Tom in all its glory. Mr. Spriggins endeavoured 
 to excuse himself; for, as he was to act a madman 
 and a king, ^t was impossible to go through the part 
 properly without a crown and chains. His excuses 
 were overruled by a great majority, and with much 
 vociferation. The president ordered up the jack-chain ; 
 and, instead of a crown, our performer covered his 
 brows with an inverted Jordan. After he had rattled 
 his chain, and shook his head, to the great delight of 
 the whole company, he began his song. As 1 have 
 heard few young fellows offer to sing in company that 
 did not expose themselves, it was no great disappoint- 
 ment to me to find Mr. Spriggins among the number ; 
 however, not to seem an odd fish, I rose from my seat 
 in rapture, cried out, ' Bravo ! encore !' and slapped 
 the table as loud as any of the rest. 
 
 The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly 
 pleased with my taste, and the ardour of my approba- 
 tion ; and whispering told me I had suffered an im- 
 mense loss ; for, had I come a few minutes sooner, I 
 might have heard Geeho Dobbin sung in a tiptop 
 manner, by the pimple-nosed spirit at the president's 
 right elbow : but he was evaporated before I came. 
 As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disap- 
 
 b 
 
264 ESSAYS. 
 
 pointtnent, I found the attention of the company em. 
 ployed upon a fat figure, who, with a voice more rough 
 than the Staffordshire giant's, was giving us the ' Softly 
 sweet, in Lydian measure,' of Alexander's Feast. After 
 a short pause of admiration, to this succeeded a Welsh 
 dialogue, with the humours of Teague and Taffy; after 
 that came on Old Jackson, with a story between every 
 stanza : next was sung the Dust-Cart, and then Solo- 
 mon'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 begged to be heard while he 
 gave Death and the Lady in high taste ; another sung 
 to a plate which he kept trundling on the edges ; no- 
 thing was now heard but singing ; voice rose above 
 voice, and the whole became one universal shout, 
 when the landlord came to acquaint the company that 
 the reckoning was drunk out. Rabelais calls the mo- 
 ments in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most 
 melancholy of our lives : never was so much noise so 
 quickly quelled, as by this short but pathetic oration 
 of our landlord. ' Drunk out !' was echoed in a tone 
 of discontent round the table : ' drunk out already ! 
 that was very odd ! that so much punch could be drunk 
 out already ! impossible !' The landlord, however, seem- 
 ing resolved not to retreat from his first assurances, 
 the company was dissolved, and a president chosen 
 for the night ensuing. 
 
 A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some 
 time after of the entertainment I have been describ- 
 ing, proposed to bring me to the club that he fre- 
 quented ; which, he fancied, would suit the gravity 
 of my temper exactly. * We have, at the ]\Iuzzy 
 club,' says he, ' no riotous mirth nor awkward ribald- 
 ry ; no confusion or baw9ing ; all is conducted with 
 wisdom and decency: besides, some of our members 
 are worth forty thousand pounds ; men of puidenoe 
 \nd foresight everyone of them : these are the pioper 
 icquaintance, and to such I will to-night iniroauce 
 
ESSAYS. 2G5 
 
 50U.' I was charmed at the proposal; to be ac- 
 quainted 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 company^ for, ihouoh 1 
 made my best bow, they seemed insensible of my^ap- 
 proach ; but to the table at which they were sitting 
 Upon my entering the room, I could not avoid feeling 
 a secret veneration from the solemnity of the scene 
 before me ; the members kept a profound silence, each 
 with a pipe in his mouth and a pewter pot in his hand 
 and with faces that might easily be construed into ab- 
 solute 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 specullition I continued a full half 
 hour, expectmg each moment that somebody would 
 begin to open his mouth ; every time the pipe was 
 aid down 1 expected it was to speak ; but it was only 
 to spit. At length, resolving to break the charm mv- 
 seJt, and overcome their extreme diffidence, for to tliis 
 1 imputed their silence, I rubbed my hands, and 
 looking as wise as possible, observed that the nights 
 began to grow a Jittie coolish at this time of the year 
 I his, as It was directed to none, of the company iri 
 particular, none thought himself obliged to answer • 
 wherefore 1 continued still to rub my hands and look 
 wise. My next effort was addressed to a gemleman 
 who sat next me ; to whom 1 observed, that the beer 
 was extremely good ; my neighbour made no reply 
 out 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 i' says 
 another, still keeping the pipe in bis mouth, ' that 
 puts me in mind of a pleasant story about that— hem 
 —very well ; you must know— but, before I beoin— 
 Bir, my service to you— where was I '' ° 
 
 N 
 
2CG ESSAYS. 
 
 My next club goes by the name of the Hawnonical 
 Society ; probably from that love of order and friend- 
 ship which every person commends in institutions of 
 this nature. The landlord was himself founder. The 
 money spent is fourpence each ; and they sometimes 
 whip for a double reckoning. To this club feW le- 
 commendations are requisite except the introductory 
 fourpence, and my landlord's good word, which, as 
 he gains by it, he never refuses. 
 
 We all here talked and behaved as 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. Currycomb-maker had not caught 
 cold going home the last club-night; and he returned 
 the compliment by hopingthat young Master Bellows- 
 mender had got well again of the chin-cough. Doctor 
 Twist told us a story of a parliament man with whom 
 he was intimately acquainted ; while the bug-man, at 
 the same time, was telling a better story of a noble 
 lord with whom he could do any thing. A gentleman 
 in a black wig and leather breeches, at the other end 
 of the table, was engaged in a long narrative of the 
 ghost in Cock-lane : he had read it in the papers of 
 the day, and was telling it to some that sat next him, 
 who could not read. Near him Mr. Dibbins'was dis- 
 puting on the old subject of religion with a Jew pedlar, 
 over the table, vi^hile the president vainly knocked 
 down Mr. Leathersides for a song. Besides the com- 
 bination of these voices, which I could hear all to- 
 gether, and which formed an upper part to the con- 
 cert, there were several others playing under parts by 
 themselves, and endeavouring to fasten on some luck- 
 less neighbour'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 vvord, as it was spoken 
 
by every member of the company. It may be neces- 
 sary to observe, that the man who told of the ghost 
 had the loudest voice, and the longest story to tell, so 
 that his continuing 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 yearth for whom I have so high' — ' A 
 damnable false heretical opinion of all sound doctrine 
 and good learning ; for I'll tell it aloud, and spare 
 not, that' — ' Silence for a song ; Mr. Leathersides for 
 a song' — ' As I was walking upon the high way, I 
 met a young damsel' — ' Then what brings you heiel 
 says the parson to the ghost' — ' Sanconiathon, Mane- 
 tho, and Berosus' — ' The whole way from Islino-ton 
 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 don'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 nio-ht 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'll, I'll 
 tell you a story about that, that will make you burst 
 your sides with laughing. A fox once' — ' Will nobody 
 listen to the songf — ' 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 don't' — ' Mr. Bellows-mender; I have 
 the honour of drinking your very good health' — 
 ' Blast me if I do' — ' Dam' — ' Blood' — ' Bugs' — 
 ' Fire'—' Whiz'—' Blid'— ' Tit'—' Rat' — ' Trip'— 
 The rest all riot, nonsense, and rapid confusion. 
 
 Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I cou\d 
 
ms r.ssAYs. 
 
 here find ample room for declamation ; but, alas ! 1 
 have been a fool myself ; and why should I be angry 
 with them for being something so natural to every 
 child of humanity 1 
 
 Fatigued with this society, I was introduced, the 
 following 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 arrived. I now thought myself com- 
 pletely fitted, and resolving to seek no farther, de- 
 termined to take up my residence here for the winter : 
 while my temper began to open insensibly to the 
 cheerfulness I saw diflfused 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 con- 
 fidence ; every creature strove who should most re- 
 comm.end himself to our members of distinction. Each 
 seemed quite regardless of pleasing any but our new 
 guests ; and what before wore the appearance of 
 friendship, was now turned into rivalry. 
 
 Yet I could not observe that, amidst all this flat- 
 tery and obsequious attention, our great men took any 
 notice of the rest of the company. Their wjiole dis- 
 course was addressed 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 managing 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 digression upon grass- 
 seeds, and a long parenthesis about his new postilion. 
 In this manner we travelled on, wishing every story 
 to be the last ; but all in vain : 
 
 ' Hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arose.' 
 
 The last club in which I was enrolled a member. 
 
ESSAYS. 
 
 269 
 
 was a society of moral philosophers, as they called 
 themselves, who assembled twice a week, in cider to 
 shew the absurdity of the present mode of religion, 
 and establish a new one in its stead. 
 
 I found the members very warmly disputing when 
 I arrived ; not indeed about religion or ethics, but 
 about who had neglected to lay down his preliminary 
 sixpence upon entering the room. The president 
 swore that he had laid his own down, and so swore all 
 the company. 
 
 During this contest, I had an opportunity of ob- 
 serving 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, Vv-ith a long black 
 wig the next to him was dressed in a large white 
 wig, and a black cravat : a third, by the brownness 
 of his complexion, seemed a native of Jamaica ; and 
 a fourth, by his hue, appeared to be a blacksmith. 
 But their rules will give liie most just idea of their 
 learning and principles. 
 
 ' I. We, being a laudable society of moral philoso- 
 phers, intend to dispute twice a week about religion 
 and priestcraft ; leaving behind us old wives' tales, 
 and following good learning and sound sense : and if 
 so be, that any other persons has a mind to be of the 
 society, they shall be entitled so to do, upon paying 
 the sum of three shillings, to be spent by the company 
 in punch. 
 
 ' II. That no member get drunk before nine of the 
 clock, upon pain of forfeiting three-pence, to be spent 
 by the company in punch. 
 
 'III. That as members are sometimes apt to go 
 away without paying, every person shall pay sixpence 
 upon his entering the room ; and all disputes shall be 
 settled by a majority; and all fines shall b^ paid in 
 punch. 
 
 ' IV. That sixpence shall be every night given to 
 ibe president, in order to buy books of learning for the 
 good of the society ; the president has already put him- 
 self to a good deal of expense in buying books for the 
 
270 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 
 club; particularly the works of Tully, Socrates, 
 Cicero, which he will soon read to the society. 
 
 ' V. All them who brings a new argument against 
 religion, and who, being a philosopher, and a man of 
 learning, as the rest of us is, shall be admitted to the 
 freedom of the society, upon paying sixpence only, to 
 be spent in punch. 
 
 ' VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary 
 meeting, it shall be advertised by some outlandish 
 name in the newspapers. 
 
 * Saunders Mac Wild, president, 
 Anthony Blewit, vice-president, 
 
 his f mark. 
 William Turpin, secretary.' 
 
 ON THE POLICY OF CONCEALING OUR WANTS, 
 OK 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 ne- 
 cessities private, is the most likely person to have them 
 redressed ; and that the true use of speech is not so 
 much to express our wants as to conceal theni. 
 
 When we reflect on the manner in which jnankind 
 generally confer their favours, there appears something 
 so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally 
 collects from the smaller : and the pobr find as much 
 pleasure in increasing the enormous mass of the rich, 
 as the miser, who owns it, sees happiness in its increase. 
 Nor is there in this any thing repugnant to the laws of 
 morality. Seneca himself allows, that, in conferring 
 benefits, the present should always be suited to the 
 dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive large 
 •presents, and are thanked for accepting them. Men 
 of middling stations are obliged to be content with 
 presents something less j -while the beggar, who may 
 
be trul}' said to waul indeed, is wall paid if a taituuig 
 rewards his warmest solicitations. 
 
 Every man who has seen the world, and has had his 
 ups and downs in life, as the expression is, must have 
 frequently 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 it is obliged to sus- 
 tain. Thus, v?hen 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 occa- 
 sion to ask his friend for a guinea, used#o prelude his 
 request as if he wanted two hundred ; and talked so 
 familiarly of large sums, that none could ever think 
 he wanted a small one. The same gentleman, when- 
 ever he wanted credit for a suit of clothes, always made 
 the proposal in a laced coat ; for he found, by expe- 
 rience, 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, 
 except to find pity, and by this means relief; but 
 before a poor man opens his mind in such circum- 
 stances, he should first consider whether he is con- 
 tented 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 incom- 
 patible with each other ; and it is impossible that both 
 can reside in any breast, for the smallest space, with- 
 out 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 
 
272 ESSAVtj. 
 
 more thac transitory assistance ; with some it scarce 
 lasts from tiie tirst 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, 1 have 
 seen it operate for half an hour together ; but still, 
 last as it may, itgenerally producesbut 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 dis- 
 tress solicits a second time, we then feel with dimi- 
 nished sensibility ; and, like the repetition of an echo, 
 every stroke becomes weaker ; till, at last, our sensa- 
 tions lose all mixture of sorrow, and degenerate into 
 downright contempt. 
 
 These speculations bring to my mind the fate of a 
 very good-nakired 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 re- 
 straint in which my friend had been brought up, had 
 thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some re- 
 garded as prudence ; and, from such considerations, 
 he had every day repeated offers of friendship. Such 
 as had money, were ready to offer him their assistance 
 that way ; and they who had daughters, frequently, 
 in the warmth of affection, advised him to marry. 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 
 affairs, and several losses in trade, soon brought him to 
 a different way of tiiinking ; and he at last considered, 
 that it was his best way to let his friends know that 
 their offers were at length acceptable. His first ad- 
 dress 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. 
 
ESSAYS. 273 
 
 ' And pray, sir,' replied the scrivener, ' do you want 
 all this money T — ' Want it, sir !' says the other ; ' if 
 I did not want it I should not hav6 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 1 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.' 
 
 Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adven- 
 turer was resolved to try another, who he knew was 
 the very best friend he had in the world. The gentle- 
 man whom he now addressed, received his proposal 
 with all the affability that could be expected from 
 generous friendship. ' Let me see, you want a hun- 
 dred 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 "i 
 You know, my dear sir, that you need make no cere- 
 mony 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 advances that her sex's modesty 
 would permit, he made his proposal with confidence. 
 He soon, however, perceived that no bankrupt ever 
 found the fair one kind. She had lately fallen deeply 
 in love with another, who had more money, an.d the 
 whole neighbourhood thought it would be a match. 
 N 2 
 
274 ESSAYS. 
 
 Every day now began to strip my poor friend of liia 
 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 
 himself secure from actual necessity ; the numberless 
 invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, 
 were yet unanswered ; he was therefore now resolved 
 to accept of a dinner, because he wanted one ; and in 
 this manner he actually lived among his friends a 
 whole week without being openly affronted. The last 
 place I saw 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 laying. He took a chair,* 
 without being desired, and talked for some time with- 
 out 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 before, 
 but that the venison was over-done. But all this pro- 
 cured 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, whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's, might I 
 be permitted to advise as a friend, never seem to want 
 the favour 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. 
 
 I 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 
 whoiesomeness of your frugal repast. You may ob- 
 
ESSAYS. 275 
 
 serve that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed peas-broth for 
 the gravel ; hint that you are not one of those who 
 are alvi'ays 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 remark, that stuffs are very 
 much worn at Paris ; or, if there be found any irrepa- 
 rable defects in any part of your equipage, which 
 cannot be concealed by all the arts of sittmg 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 covering, 
 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 circumstances. To be poor, and to seem poor, 
 is a certain method never to rise ; pride in the great is 
 hateful; in the wise it is ridiculous; but beggarly 
 pride is a rational vanity, which 1 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 
 request, flis liberality also does not oblige more by 
 its greatness, than by his inimitable grace in giving. 
 Sometimes he even distributes his bounties to strangers, 
 and has been known to do good offices to those who 
 professed themselves his enemies. All the world are 
 unanimous in the praise of his generosity ; there is 
 only one sort of people who complain of his conduct. 
 Lysippus does not pay his debts. 
 
 It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct so 
 seemingly incompatible with itself. There is greatness 
 in being generous, and there is only simple justice in 
 
27G ESSAYS, 
 
 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 vir- 
 tue, 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 
 Lysippus satisfy his creditors, who would be at the 
 pains of telling it to the world 1 Generosity is a virtue 
 of a very different complexion. It is raised above 
 duty, and from its elevation attracts the attention and 
 the praises of us little mortals below. 
 
 In this manner do men generally reason upon jus- 
 tice 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. Lysippus is fold that his banker 
 asks a debt of forty pounds, and that a distressed ac- 
 quaintance petitions for the same sum. He gives it 
 without hesitating to the latter, for he demands as a 
 favour what the former requires as a debt. 
 
 Mankind in general are not suffiiciently acquainted 
 with the import of the word justice : it is commonly 
 believed to consist only in a performance of those 
 duties to which the laws of society can oblige us. This 
 I allow is sometimes the import of the word, and in 
 this sense justice is distinguished from equity ; but 
 there is a justice still more extensive, and which can 
 be shewn 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 ex- 
 tended 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. 
 
ESSAYS. 277 
 
 The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and 
 generosity, for instance, are not in their own naturs 
 virtues ; and if ever they deserve the title, it is owing 
 only to justice, which impels and directs them. With- 
 out such a moderator, candour might become indis- 
 cretion, 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 im- 
 posed on us by reason, which should be the sovereign 
 law of a rational being. But this generosity does not 
 consist in obeying every impulse of humanity, in fol- 
 lowing 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 
 honour, or without humanity, who live only to accu- 
 mulate, and to this passion sacrifice every other happi- 
 .. ness. They have been described as madmen, who, 
 in the midst of abundance, banish every pleasure, and 
 make, from imaginary wants, real necessities. But 
 few, very few, correspond to this exaggerated picture ; 
 and, perhaps, there is not one in whom all these cir- 
 cumstances are found united. Instead of this, we 
 find the sober and the industrious branded by the vain 
 and the idle with this odious appellation ; men who, 
 by frugality and labour, raise themselves above their 
 equals, and 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 chaiacters 
 
27S ESSAYS. 
 
 amongst us. In general these close men are found at 
 last the true benefactors of society. With an avaricious 
 man we seldom lose in our dealings, but too frequently 
 in our commerce with prodigality. 
 
 A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went 
 for a long time by the name of the Griper. He re- 
 fused to relieve the most apparent wretchedness, and, 
 •by a skilful management of his vineyard, had the good 
 fortune to acquire 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 amassing, he 
 laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the poor 
 more useful and lasting service, than if he had distri- 
 buted his whole income in charity every day at his 
 door. 
 
 Among men long conversant with books, we too 
 frequently find those misplaced virtues, of whic"h I 
 have been now Sbmplaining. 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 phi-losophy 
 are generally 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 misplaced liberality, to put himself into 
 the indigent circumstances of the person he relieves. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with the advice of one 
 of the ancients, to a young man whom he saw giving 
 away all his substance to pretended distress. ' It is 
 possible, that the person you relieve ihay be an honest 
 man ; and I know that you, who relieve bim, are 
 
ESSAYS. 279 
 
 such. You see then, by your generosity, that you rob 
 a man who is certainly deserving, to bestow it on one 
 who may possibly be a rogue ; and, while you are 
 unjust in rewarding uncertain 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 edu- 
 cation of youth. Yet it is a little surprising that it 
 has been treated almost by all in a declamatory man- 
 ner. They have insisted largely on the advantages 
 that result from it, both to individuals and to society; 
 and have expatiated in the praise of what none have 
 ever been so hardy as to call in question. 
 
 Instead of giving us iine but empty harangues upon 
 this subject, instead of indulging each his particular 
 and whimsical systems, it had been mucii better if the 
 writers on this subject had treated it in a more scien- 
 tific manner, repressed all the sallies of imagination, 
 and given us the result of their observations with di- 
 dactic simplicity. Upon this subject, the cmallest 
 errors are of the most dangerous consequence, and the 
 author should venture the imputation of stupidity upon 
 a topic, where his slightest deviations may tend to in- 
 jure the rising generation. However, such are the 
 whimsical and erroneous productions written upon this 
 subject. Their authors have studied to be uncom- 
 mon, not to be just ; and at present, we want a trea- 
 tise upon education, not to tell us any thing new, but 
 to explode the errors which have been introduced by 
 the admirers of novelty. It is in this manner books be- 
 come 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 knovvn, have not been at- 
 tended to by others ; and shall dismiss all attempts to 
 please, while I study only instruction. 
 
280 ESSAYS. 
 
 The manner in wliich our youth of London are at 
 present 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 vigour 
 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 
 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 edu- 
 cation. Is any man unfit for any of the professions, 
 he finds his last resource 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 schoolmasters ; 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, genias, 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 
 honour and bulwark of their aged parents t The care 
 of our children, is it below the state ■? Is it fit to in- 
 dulge the caprice of the ignorant with the disposal of 
 their children in this particular ? For the state to take 
 the charge of all its children, as in Persia or Sparta, 
 might at present be inconvenient ; but surely, with 
 great ease, it might cast an eye to their instructors. Of 
 all professions in society, I do not know a more useful. 
 
ESSAYS. 281 
 
 or a more honourable one, than a schoolmaster ; at 
 the same time that I do not see any more generally 
 despised, or whose talents are so ill rewarded. 
 
 Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be augmented 
 from a diminution of useless sinecures, how might it 
 turn to the advantage of this people ! a people whom, 
 wit^hout flattery, I maj', in other respects, term the 
 wisest and greatest upon earth. But while I would 
 reward the deserving, I would dismiss those utterly 
 unqualified for their employment : in short, I would 
 make the business of a schoolmaster every way more 
 respectable by increasing 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 sciioolmaster appointed, there should at 
 least be two; and wherever the salary is at present 
 t.\'enty pounds, it should be a hundred. Do we give 
 immoderate benefices to those who instruct ourselves, 
 and shall we deny even subsistence to those who in- 
 struct 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 necessary than clergymen, as children stand in 
 more need of instruction than their parents. 
 
 But instead of this, as I have already observed, we 
 send them to board in the country, to the most igno- 
 rant set of men that can be imagined. But, lest the 
 ignorance of the master be not sufficient, the child is 
 generally consigned 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 child to be educated to 
 a slave,' says a philosopher to a rich man ; ' instead 
 of one slave you will then have two.' 
 
 It were well, however, if parents upon fixing their 
 children in one of these houses, would examine the 
 abilities of the usher, as well as the master ; for what- 
 
282 . K.ss.vvs. 
 
 ever they are told to the contrary, the usher is gene- 
 rally 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 ail their endea- 
 vours 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 mastei himself, now 
 and then, cannot avoid joining in the laugh ; and the 
 poor wretch, eternally resenting this ill-usuage, seems 
 to live in a state of war with all the family. This is 
 a very proper person, is it not, to give children a relish 
 for learning ? They must esteem learning very much, 
 when they see its professors used with such little cere- 
 mony ! 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 sufficiently. 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 other, the punishment 
 that frequently attends the commission, is a just pic- 
 ture of tlie 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 no- 
 velty then may have irresistible charms. 
 
 In a public education boys early learn temperance ; 
 and if the parents and friends would give them less 
 money upon their usual visits, it would be much to 
 their advantage ; since it may justly be said, that a 
 great part of their disorders arise from surfeit, ' plus 
 
K;5sAva. 283 
 
 occidit gula quam gladius.' And now I am come to 
 the article of health, it may not be amiss to observe, 
 that Mr. Locke and some others have advised that 
 children should be inured to cold, to fatigue, and 
 hardship, from their youth ; but Mr. Locke was but an 
 indifferent physician. Habit, I grant, has great in- 
 fluence over our constitutions ; but we have not precise 
 ideas upon this subject. 
 
 We know that among savages, and even among our 
 peasants, there are found children born with such 
 constitutions, that they cross rivers by swimming, en- 
 dure cold, thirst, hunger, and want of sleep, to a sur- 
 prising degree ; that when they happen to fall sick, 
 they are cured without the help of medicine, by nature 
 alone. Such examples are adduced to persuade us to 
 imitate their manner of education, and accustom our- 
 selves betimes to support the same fatigues. But had 
 Shese gentlemen considered first how many lives are 
 lost in this ascetic practice ; had they considered, that 
 those savages and peasants are generally not so long- 
 lived as they who have led a more indolent life ; that 
 the more laborious the life is, the less populous is the 
 country ; had they considered, that what physicians 
 call the ' stamina vitae,' by fatigue and labour be- 
 come rigid, and thus anticipate old age ; that the 
 number who survive those rude trials, bears no pro- 
 portion 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 hard- 
 ships. Peter the Great, willing to inure the children 
 of his seamen to a life of hardship, ordered that they 
 should only drink sea-water J but they unfortunately 
 all died under the trial. 
 
 But while I would exclude all unnecessary labours, 
 yet still I would recommend temperance in the highest 
 degree. 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 
 -heir constant food. This diet would make them more 
 
284 ESSAYS. 
 
 healthy than any of those slops that are usually cooked 
 by the mistress of a boarding-school ; besides, it coi- 
 rects 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 
 society. It is true, lectures continually repeated upon 
 this subject, may make some boys, vi^hen they grow 
 up, run into an extreme, and become misers ; but it 
 were well, had we more misers than we have amongst 
 us. 1 know few characters more useful in society ; 
 for a man's having a larger or smaller share of money 
 lying useless by him, no way injures the common- 
 wealth ; since, should every miser now exhaust his 
 stores, this might make gold more plenty, but it would 
 not increase the commodities or pleasures of life ; they 
 would still remain as they are at present : it matters 
 not, therefore, whether men are misers or not, if they 
 be only frugal, laborious, and fill tlie station they have 
 chosen. If they deny themselves the necessaries 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 
 extravagance, in riches and matrimony, there should 
 be some men of wit employed to compose bojoks that 
 might equally interest the passions of our youth, where 
 such a one might be praised for having resisted allure- 
 ments 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 VVhittmgton, were his cat left out, might 
 be more serviceable to the tender mind, than either 
 Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, or a hundred others, 
 where frugality is the 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 
 
 .^. .'■ IS/ 
 
fiSSAYS. 
 
 285 
 
 pxipils, than all the grammars and dictionaries they 
 may publish these ten years. 
 
 Children should early be instructed in the arts from 
 which they may afterward draw the greatest advan- 
 tages. When the wonders of nature are never ex- 
 posed to our view, we have no great desire to become 
 acquainted with those parts of learning which pretend 
 to account for the phenomena. One of the ancients 
 complains, that as soon as young men have left school, 
 and are obliged to converse ra the world, they fancy 
 themselves transported into a new region. ' Ut, cum 
 in forum venerint, existiment se in alium terrarum 
 orbem delates.' We should early, therefore, instruct 
 them in the experiments, if I may so express it, cf 
 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 pro- 
 posed for their instruction ; they have never before 
 seen the phenomena, and consequently have no curi- 
 osity to learn the reasons. Might natural philosophy, 
 therefore, be made their pastime in school, by this 
 means it would in college become their amusement. 
 
 In several of the machines now in use, there would 
 be ample field both for instruction and amusement ; 
 the different sorts of the phosphorus, the artificial 
 pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the experiments upon 
 the rarefaction and weight of the air, and those upon 
 elastic bodies, might employ their idle hours; and 
 none should be called from play to see such experi- 
 ments but such as thought proper. At first, then, it 
 would be sufficient if the instruments, and the effects 
 of their combination, were only shewn ; the causes 
 should be deferred to a maturer age, or to those times 
 when natural curiosity prompts us to discover the 
 wonders of nature. Man is placed in this world as a 
 spectator ; when he is tired of wondering at all the 
 novelties about him, and not till then, does he desire 
 to be made acquainted with the causes that create 
 those wonders. 
 
 What I have observed with regard to natural phi- 
 
2S<3 ESSAYS. 
 
 losophy, I would extend to every other science what- 
 soever. We should teach them as many of the facts 
 as were possible, and defer the causes until they 
 seemed of themselves desirous of knowing them. A 
 mind thus leaving school, stored with all the simple 
 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 dis- 
 agreeable 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, tha*^ 
 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 gene- 
 rally applauded so much, that he sometimes continues 
 a coxcomb all his life after. He is reputed a wit at 
 fourteen, and becomes a blockhead at twenty. Wurses, 
 footmen, and such, should therefore be driven away 
 as much as possible. I was even going to add, that 
 the mother herself should stifle her pleasure or her 
 vanity, when little master happens to say a good or a 
 smart thing. Those modest, lubberly boys, who seem 
 to want spirit, generally go through their business 
 with more ease to themselves, and more satisfaction to 
 their instructors. 
 
 There has, of late, a gentleman appeared, who 
 thinks the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect 
 education. That bold male eloquence, which often, 
 without pleasing, convinces, is generally destroyed by 
 such institutions. Convincing eloquence is infinitely 
 more serviceable to its possessor, than the most florid 
 harangue, or the most pathetic tones, that can be 
 
ESSAYS. 287 
 
 imagined ; and the man who is thoroughly convinced 
 himself, who understands his subject, and the lan- 
 guage he speaks in, will be more apt to silence oppo- 
 sition, 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 de- 
 cline of the Roman empire, when they had been long 
 instructed 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 clientl 
 Two architects were once candidates for the building 
 a certain temple at Athens ; the first harangued the 
 crowd very learnedly upon the different orders of ar- 
 chitecture, and shewed them in what manner the 
 temple should be built; the other, who got up after 
 hmi, only observed, that what his brother had spoken 
 he could do ; and thus he at once gained his cause. 
 
 -I'o teach men to be orators, is little less than to 
 teach them to be poets ; and for my part, I should 
 have too great a regard for my child, to wish him a 
 manor only in a bookseller's shop. 
 
 Another passion which the present age is apt to run 
 into, is to make children learn all things; the lan- 
 guages, the sciences, music, the exercises, and paint- 
 ing. Thus the child soon becomes a talker in all, but 
 a master in none. He thus acquires a superficial 
 fondness for every thing, and only shews his itrnorance 
 when he attempts to exhibit his skill. ° 
 
 As 1 deliver my thoughts without method, or con- 
 nexion, so the reader must not be surprised to find 
 me once more addressing schoolmasters on the present 
 method of teaching the learned languages, which if 
 commonly by literal translations. 1 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? Eoys 
 who, if I may continue the allusion, gallop through 
 
288 ESSAYS. 
 
 one of the ancients with the assistance of a translation, 
 can have but a very slight acquaintance either with 
 the author or his language. It is by the exercise of 
 the mind alone that a language is learned ; but a literal 
 translation on the opposite page, leaves no exercise 
 for the memory at all. The boy will not be at the 
 fatigue of remembering, when his doubts are at once 
 satisfied by a glance of the eye ; whereas, were every 
 word to be sought from a dictionary, the learner 
 would attempt to remember them, to save himself the 
 trouble of looking out for them for the future. 
 
 To continue in the same pedantic strain, of all the 
 various grammars now taught in the schools about town, 
 1 would recommend only the old common one. I have 
 forgot 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 witii 
 subtllties, which, at a proper age, he must be at some 
 pains to forget. 
 
 Whatever pains a master may take to make the 
 learning of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he 
 rnay depend upon it, it will be at first extremely un- 
 pleasant. The rudiments of every language, therefore, 
 must be given as a task, not as an amusement. Attempt- 
 ing to deceive children into instruction of this kind, is 
 only deceiving ourselves ; and I know no passion ca- 
 pable 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 con- 
 sequently are thought the properest instructors for 
 their children ; but, though tenderness is a requisite 
 quality in an instructor, yet there is too often the truest 
 tenderness in well-timed correction. 
 
 Some have justly observed, that all passions should 
 be banished on this terrible occasion ; but I know not 
 how, there is a frailty attending human nature that 
 
ESSAYS. 289 
 
 few masters are able to keep their temper whilst they 
 correct. I knew a good-natured man, who was sen- 
 sible of his own weakness in this respect, and conse- 
 quently had recourse to the following expedient to 
 prevent his passions from being engaged, yet at the 
 same time administer justice with impartiality. When- 
 ever any of his pupils committed a fault, he summoned 
 a jury of his peers, I mean of the boys of his own or 
 the next classes to him : his accusers stood forth ; he 
 had liberty of pleading in his own defence, 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 pre- 
 vious orders to punish, but with lenity. By this means 
 the master took off the odium of punishment fnm 
 himself ; and the footman, between whom and the bo_'s 
 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 OF POPULAR FAVOUR. 
 
 An alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long 
 lived at the sign of the French King, upon the com- 
 mencement of the last war with France, pulled down 
 his old sign, and put up that of the Queen of Hun- 
 gary. Under the influence of her red face and golden 
 sceptre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer 
 the favourite of his customers ; he changed her there- 
 fore, 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, ane 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 seldom holds its station long; for the mob 
 are ever pleased with variety. 
 
 I must own, I have such an indifferent opinion of 
 O 
 
290 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 satis- 
 faction 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 ths 
 neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just evacu- 
 ated by the enemy, he perceived the townsmen busy 
 in the market-place i« pulling down from a gibbet a 
 figure which had been designed to represent himself. 
 There were also seme knocking down a neighbouring 
 statue of one of the Orsini fami'y, with whom he was 
 at war, in order to put Alexander's effigy in its place. 
 It is possible a man who knew less of the world would 
 have condemned the adulation of those barefaced flat- 
 terers ; but Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal, 
 and turning to Borgia, his son, said with a smile,. ■ 
 ' Vides, mi fili, quam Jeve discrimen patibulum inter 
 et statusm : — 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 coquet ; her lovers must 
 toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice ; 
 and, perhaps, at last, be jilted into the bargain. True 
 glory, on the other hand, resembles a wonian of sense : 
 her admirers must play no tricks ; they feel no great 
 anxiety, for they are sure, in the end, of being rewarded 
 in proportion to their merit. When Svvifi used lo 
 appear in public, he generally had the mob shouting 
 in his train. ' Pox take these foolr.,' 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 
 
ESSAYS. 291 
 
 posterity as the truest objects of admiration and praise 
 Perhaps the character of the lute Duke of filarlbo- 
 rough 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 
 vulgarly called the great ones. I must be pardoned 
 for this short tribute to the memory of a man, who, 
 while living, would as much detest to 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-pfece, except by illustrating 
 it rather by the assistance of my mecoory than judg- 
 ment ; and, instead of making reflections, by telling 
 a story. 
 
 A Chinese who had long studied the works of Con- 
 fucius, 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 plea- 
 sure. Upon his arrival at Amsterdam, his passion for 
 letters naturally led 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 I have you never heard 
 of that immortal poef!' returned the other, much 
 surprised ; ' that light of the eyes, that favourite of 
 kings, that rose of perfection I I suppose you know 
 nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to 
 the moonl' ' 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 precincts of Chin^V 
 
 There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one 
 university, that is not thus furnished with its little 
 
 t=^ 
 
292 ESSAYS. 
 
 great men. The head of a petty corporation, who op. 
 poses the designs of a prince, who would tyrannically 
 force his subjects to save their best clothes for Sundays ; 
 the puny pedant who finds one undiscovered property 
 in the polj'pe, or describes an unheeded process in 
 the skeleton of a mole, and whose mind, like his mi- 
 croscope, perceives nature only in detail ; the rhymer 
 who makes smooth verses, and paints to our imagina- 
 tion, when he should only speak to our hearts ; all 
 equally fancy themselves walking forward to immor- 
 tality, and desire the crowd behind them to look on. 
 The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philo- 
 sopher, and poet, are shouted in their train. — ' Where 
 was there ever so much merit seen 1 No times so im- 
 portant as our own ; ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with 
 wonder and applause !' To such miisic, the important 
 pigmy moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly 
 compared to a puddle in a storm. 
 
 I have lived to see generals v^fho once had crowds 
 hallooing 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 obscuritj', with scarce even an epi- 
 taph 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 v/ait but a few years longer, 
 and we shall find all our expectations a herring- 
 fishery. 
 
ESSAYS. 293 
 
 SPECIMEN OF A MAGAZINE iM MINIATURE. 
 
 Wii essayists, who aie allowed but one subject at a 
 time, are by no means so fortunate as the writers of 
 magazines, who write upon several. If a magaziner 
 be (lull upon the Spanish war, he soon has us up ao;iin 
 with the ghost in Cock-lane; if the reader begins to 
 doze upon that, he is quickly rou-ed by an eastern 
 tale; tales prepare us for poetry, and poetry for the 
 meteorological history of the weather. It is the life 
 and soul of a magazine, never to be long dull upon 
 one subject ; and the 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 rn miniature : 
 I shall hop from subject to subject, and if properly 
 encouraged, I intend in time to adorn my feuiile-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 
 unperforming promises of others, that it is with tlie 
 utmost modesty we assure them of our inviolable de- 
 sign of giving the very best collection that ever asto- 
 nished society. The public we honour and regaid, 
 and therefore to instruct and entertain them is our 
 highest ambition, with labours calculated as well to 
 the head as the heart. If four extraordinary pa^es of 
 letter-press be any recommendation of our wit, we 
 may at least boast the honour of vindicating our own 
 abilities. To say more in favour of the Infernal Maga- 
 zine, would be unworthy the public ; to say less, 
 would be injurious to ourselves. As we have no in- 
 terested 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 magazine merely for our own amusement. 
 
 Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. 
 
294 ESSAYS. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 VO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OP ALI, PATRONS 
 THE TKIPOLINE AMBASSADOH ; \ 
 
 Slay it please your Excellency, 
 As your taste in the fine arts is universally allowed 
 and admired, permit the authors of the Infernal Ma- 
 gazine to lay the following sheets hun)b!y at your 
 excellency's toe ; and should our labours ever have 
 the happiness of one day adorning the courts of Fuz, 
 ve doubt not that the influence wherewith we are 
 honoured, shall be ever retained with the most warm 
 ardour by, 
 
 May it please your Excellency, 
 
 Your most devoted humble servants. 
 
 The Authors of the Infernal Magazine, 
 
 A SPEECH, 
 
 SPOKEN' BY THE INDIGENT rHlLOSOPHEH, TO PERSUAUi 
 HIS Cl.UB AT CATEATON NOT TO DECLARE WA3 AGAINST 
 SPAIN. 
 
 RIy honest friends and brother coliticians, I per- 
 ceive that the intended war with rspajn makes many 
 of you uneasy. Yesterday, as we were told, the 
 stocks rose, and you v;ere glad ; to-day they fall, and 
 you are again miserable. 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 
 giad or sorry for this ; but, my good Mr. Bellows- 
 mender, what is all this to you or me ■? You must 
 mend broken bellows, and 1 write bad prose, as long 
 as we live, whether we like a Spanish war or not. 
 J5elieve 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 ; anil as we vvere born to work, so 
 others are born to watch over us while we are working. 
 
ESSAYS. 2y5 
 
 In the name of common sense then, my good fiiends, 
 let the great keep watch over us, and let us mind our 
 business, and perhaps we may at last gtt money our- 
 selves, and set beg^gars at work in our turn. J liave a 
 Latin sentence that is worth its weight in gold, and 
 which 1 shall beg leave to translate for your instruc- 
 tion. An author, called Lily's Grammar, finely ob- 
 serves, that ' ^s in present! perfectum format ;' that 
 is, ' Ready money makes a perfect man.' Let us 
 then get ready money, and let them that will spend 
 theirs by going to war with Spain. 
 
 RULES FOR BEHAVIOUR, 
 
 DRAWN UP BY THE INUIOENT PHILOSOPHIiR. 
 
 If you be a rich man, you may enter the room with 
 three loud herns, march deliberately up to the chim- 
 ney, 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 
 advise 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. 1 was disin- 
 heiited myself for liking gravy. 
 
 Do not laugh much in public: the spectators t'lat 
 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 Danjeiis de Snrlinriis, a writer contem- 
 porary witli Calvin, and one of Ihe Reformers of our CluirLh. 
 
 The person who desires to raise the devil, is to sa- 
 crifice a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own property, 
 to Beelzebub. lie is to swear an eternal obedience, 
 and then to receive a mark in some unfeen place, 
 either under the eye-lid, or in the roof of the mouth, 
 
 <1 
 
29G ESSAYS. 
 
 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 assembly he ap- 
 pears 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 honour of their false deity. The deity in- 
 structs them in every method of injuring mankind, i-n 
 gathering poisons, and of riding upon occasion through 
 the air. He shevi-s them the whole metliod, upon 
 examination, of giving evasive answers ; his spirits 
 have power to assume the form of angels of light, and 
 tiiere is but one method of detecting them, viz. to ask 
 them, in proper form, what method is the most certain 
 to propagate the faitii over all the world 1 To this 
 they are not permitted by the superior 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 CHARACTKE. 
 
 TnoiTGn naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay 
 company, and take every opportunity of thus dis- 
 missing the mind from duty, i^rom this motive 1 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 fiivolous earnestness, shout as tliey shout, 
 and condemn as they happen t-o disapprove. A mind 
 thus F-unk for a while below its natural standard, is 
 qualified for stronger flights,- as those first retire who 
 would spring forward with greater vigour. 
 
 Attracted by the serenity of the evening, a friend 
 and I lately went to gaze upon the company in one 
 
ESSAYS. 29T 
 
 of the public walks near the city. Here we sauntered 
 .ogether for some time, either praising the beauty of 
 6uch as were handsome, or the dresses of such a? 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 look- 
 ing behind, that he was attempting to avoid some- 
 body who followed : we now turned to the right, then 
 to the left : as we went forward, he still went faster, 
 but in vain ; the person whom he attempted 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 ail 
 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 1 Positively 
 I had fancied you had gone down to cultivate matri- 
 mony and your estate in the country.' During the 
 reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the appear- 
 ance of our new companion. 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 pe- 
 culiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter 
 part of my friend's reply ; in which he complimented 
 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 intimacy with the great will improve one's ap- 
 pearance, and a course of venison will fatten ; and 
 yet, faith, I despise the great as much as you do : but 
 02 
 
298 ESSAYS. 
 
 there are a great many damned honest fellows among 
 them, and we must not quarrel with one half because 
 the other wants breeding. If they were all such as 
 my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured 
 creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, 1 should my- 
 self 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 stayed 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 
 companion, with looks of infinite pity. ' I hope your 
 fortune is as much improved as your understanding in 
 such company.' 'Improved!' replied the other, 
 ' you shall know — but let it go no farther, — a great 
 secret — five hundred a year to begin with. — My lord's 
 word of honour for it — His lordship took me 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 V ' 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 country tod ; for 
 you nust 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 afl'air about that : we were a 
 select party of us to dine at Lady Grogram's, an af- 
 fected 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 crea- 
 ture ; lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or 
 so, just till — But hark'ee, ask me for it the next time 
 we meet, or it may be twenty to one but I forget to 
 pay you.* 
 
ESSAYS. 299 
 
 When he left us, our conversatioa naturally turned 
 upon so extraordinary a character, ' His very dress, 
 cries my friend, ' is not less extraordinary tlian 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 
 interest of society, and, perhaps, for his own. Heaven 
 has made him poor; and while all the world per- 
 ceives his wants, he fancies them concealed from 
 every eye. An agreeable companion, because he un- 
 derstands flattery ; and all must be pleased with the 
 first part of his conversation, though all are sure of its 
 ending with a demand on their purse. While his 
 youth countenances the levity of lys conduct, he may 
 thus earn a precarious subsistence ; but, when age 
 comes on, the gravity of which is incompatible with 
 buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken by all ; 
 condemned in the decline of life to hang upon some 
 rich family whom he once despised, there to undergo 
 all the ingenuity of studied contempt ; to be employed 
 only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear to 
 fright children into duty.' 
 
 BEAU TIBBS— CONTINUED. 
 There are some acquaintances whom it is no easy 
 matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday over- 
 took me again in one of the public walks, and slapping 
 me on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most 
 perfect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, 
 except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a 
 dirtier shirt, 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, 1 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 preliminary to particular conversation. 
 
300 ESSAYS. 
 
 The oddities thu^ marked his character, however, 
 soon began to appear ; he bowed to several well- 
 dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the 
 compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals 
 he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take memoran- 
 dums 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 absurditiess, 
 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 tefore ; there's 
 no company at all to-day. Not a single face to be 
 seen.' ' No coKipany,' 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 1' ' Lord, 
 my dear,' returned he with the utmost good-humour, 
 ' you seem immensely chagrined : but, blast me, when 
 the world laughs at me, 1 laugh at the world, and so 
 we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash the Creo- 
 lian, and 1, sometimes make a party at being ridicu- 
 lous ; 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 ; 1 must insist on't ; 1'41 intro- 
 duce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifi- 
 cations as any in nature ; she was bred, but that's 
 between ourselves, under tlie 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 creature : 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 siie 
 walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar, immensely 
 already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possililf 
 in every accomplishment. In the first place, I'll make 
 her a scholar ; I'll teach her Greek myself, and I 
 
ESSAYS. SCI 
 
 intend to learn that lang-uage purposely to instruct her, 
 but let that be a secret.' 
 
 Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took 
 me by the arm and hauled tne 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 
 shew me the way, he demanded, whether I delighted 
 in prospects; to which answering in the affirmative, 
 ' Then,' said he, ' 1 shall shew you one of the most 
 charming out of my windows ; we shall see the ships 
 sailing, and the whole country for twenty miles round, 
 tiptop, quite high. iWy Lord Swamp would give ten 
 thousand guineas for such a one ; but as I sometimes 
 pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my pros- 
 pects 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 him. 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 lending out the tub any longer.' ' My 
 two shirts !' cries he, in a tone that faltered with 
 
302 ESSAYS, 
 confusion, ' what does the idiot mean V — • 1 ken 
 what 1 mean well enough,' replied the other ; ' she's 
 wasliing your twa shirts at the next door, because 
 ' ' Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explana- 
 tions,' cried he. ' Go and inform her we have got 
 company. — Were that Scotch hag,' continued he, 
 turning to me, ' to be for ever in my family, she 
 would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd 
 poisonous accent of her's, or testify the smallest speci- 
 men of breeding or high life ; and yet it is very sur- 
 prising 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, dur- 
 ing which interval I had a full opportunity of survey- 
 ing the chamber and all its furniture ; which con- 
 sisted 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 1 
 There's the true keeping in it ; it's my own face ; and, 
 though there happens to be no likeness, a countess 
 ofTered me a hundred for its fellow : I refused her, for 
 hang it, that would be mechanical, you know.' 
 
 The wife at last made her appearance ; at once a 
 slattern and coquet; much emaciated, but still carry- 
 ing the remains of beauty. She made twenty apolo- 
 gies for being seen in such an odious dishabille, but 
 hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night 
 at Vauxhafl Gardens with the countess, who was ex- 
 cessively fond of the horns. ' And, indeed, my dear,' 
 added she, turning to her husband, ' his lordship 
 drank your health in a bumper.' ' Poor Jack !' cries 
 he, 'a dear good-natured creature, I know he loves 
 me ; but I hope, my dear, you have given orders for 
 
ESSAYS. 303 
 
 dinner ; you need make no great preparations neither, 
 there are but three of us ; something elegant, and 
 
 little will do ; a turbot, an ortolan, or a ' ' Or 
 
 what do you think, my dear,' interrupts the wife, 
 ' of a nice pretty bit of 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 acquainted with high life.' 
 
 By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my 
 appetite to increase ; the company of fools may at first 
 make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us 
 melancholy. 1 therefore pretended to recollect a prior 
 engagemeiTt, and after having shewn 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 ; then to ask ad- 
 vice of another, and turn to that ; so of a third, still 
 unsteady, always 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 fol- 
 low with perseverance and assiduity, will be found fit 
 
304 ESSAYS. 
 
 for you; it will be your support in youth, and com- 
 fort in age. In learning the useful part of every pro- 
 fession, 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 con- 
 tented, therefore, with one good employment ; for if 
 you understand two at a time, people will give you 
 business in neither. 
 
 A conjurer and a tailor once happened to converse 
 together. ' Alas !' cries the tailor, ' whgt an un- 
 happy 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 
 He'aven, 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 dme you are re- 
 duced 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 
 clotlies ; but the poor conjurer, with all his hundred 
 tricks, could find none that had money to throw-away : 
 it was in vain that he promised to eat fire, or to vomit 
 pins ; no single creature would relieve him, till he was 
 at last obliged to beg from the very tailor whose calling 
 he had formerly despised. 
 
 There are no obstructions more fatal to fortune than 
 pride and resentment. If you must resent injuries at 
 all, at least suppress your indignation till you become 
 rich, and then shew away. The resentment of a poor 
 man is like the efforts of a harmless insect to st'ng ; 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 
 
ESSAYS. 305 
 
 side ; and a goosoj in such circumstances, is always 
 extremely proud, and excessively punctilious. If any 
 other animal, without the least design to offend, hap- 
 pened to pass that way, the goose was immediate'y at 
 it. The pond, she said, was hers, and she would 
 maintain her right in it, and support her honour, while 
 she had a bill to hiss, or a wing to flutter. In this 
 manner she drove away ducks, pigs, and chickens • 
 nay, even the insidious cat was seen to scamper. A 
 lounging mastiff, however, happened to pass by, and 
 t'hought 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 followed his master. 
 
 Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, that, 
 while they are willing to take offence from none, they 
 are also equally desirous of giving nobody offence. 
 From hence they endeavour to please ail, comply 
 with every request, and attempt to suit themselves to 
 every company; have no will of their own, but, like 
 wax, catch every contiguous impression. By thus at- 
 tempting- to give universal satisfaction, they at last 
 find themselves miserably disappointed : to bring the 
 generality of admirers on our side, it is sufficient to 
 attempt pleasing a very few. 
 
 A painter of eminence was once resolved to finish a 
 piece which should please the whole world. When, 
 therefore, he had drawn a picture, in which his utmost 
 skill was exhauste'd, it was exposed in the public 
 market-place, with directions at the bottom for every 
 spectator to mark with a brush, that lay by, every 
 limb and feature which seemed erroneous. Ihe spec- 
 tators came, and in the general applauded ; but each. 
 
306 ESSAYS. 
 
 willing- to shew 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 different 
 manner : and exposing his picture as before, desired 
 that every spectator would mark those beauties he ap- 
 proved or admired. The people complied, and the 
 artist returning, found his picture covered with the 
 marks of beauty ; every stroke that had been yester- 
 day condemned, now received the character of appro- 
 bation. ' Well,' cries the painter, ' I now find that 
 the best way to please all the world, is to attempt 
 pleasing one half of it.' 
 
 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 inhabitant couits health in every breeze, and the 
 husbandman 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 every 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 Epidemic Terror. 
 
 A season is never known to pass in which the people 
 are not visited by this cruel calamity in one shape or 
 another, seemingly different, though ever the same ; 
 one year it issues from a baker's shop in the shape of 
 
ESSAYS. 307 
 
 a sixpenny 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 consternatioa 
 in the bite of a mad dog. The people, when once in- 
 fected, lose their relish for happiness, saunter about 
 with looks of despondence, ask after the calamities of 
 the day, and receive no comfort but in heightening 
 each other's distress. It is insignificant how remote 
 or near, how weak or powerful, the object of terror 
 may be, when once they resolve^to fright and be 
 frighted ; the merest trifles sow consternation and dis- 
 may ; 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 
 actually groaning under the malignity of its influence. 
 The people sally from their houses with that circum- 
 spection 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 pre- 
 sent spirit, to shev/ a resolution of being tamely bit by 
 mad dogs no longer. 
 
 Their manner of knowing whether a dog bemad or no, 
 somewhat resembles the ancient gothic custom of try- 
 mg 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 
 Bide. If he attempts to stand upon the defensive, and 
 bite, then he is unanimously found guilty, for ' a mad 
 
SOS KSSAVS. 
 
 dog always snaps at every thing.' If, on the contrary, 
 he strives to escape by running away, then he can ex- 
 pect no con". passion, 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 tliis national disease. The terror at first 
 feebly enters vvith a disregarded story of a little dog 
 that had gone through a neighbouring village, which 
 was thought to be mad by several who had seen him. 
 The next account comes, that a mastiff ran through a 
 certain iown, and had bit five geese, which immedi- 
 ately 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 congealed 'vith 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 family, 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 
 morning comes loaded with some new disaster i 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 v;ith new cir- 
 cumstances of peculiar horror. A lady, for instance, 
 in the country, of very weak nerves, has been frighted 
 by the barking of a dog ; and this, alas ! too frequently 
 happens. The story soon is improved, and spreads, 
 that a mad dog had frighted a lady of distinction. 
 These circumstances begin to grow terrible before they 
 have reached the neighbouring village; and there the 
 report is, that a lady of quality was bit by a mad 
 mastiff. This account every moment gathers new 
 strength, and grows more dismal as it approaches the 
 
ESSAYS. 309 
 
 capital ; and, by the time it has arrived in town, the 
 lady is described, with wild eyes, foaming mouth, run- 
 ning 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, slaver- 
 ing at the mouth, and seeking whom he may devour. 
 
 My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little 
 credulous, 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 
 hmd legs, sometimes barking like a dog, and sometime* 
 atteraptmg to talk like the farmer. Upon examinino- 
 the grounds of this story, I found my landlady had il 
 from one neighbour, who had it from another neic^h- 
 bour, who heard it from very good authority. ' ° 
 
 Were most stories of this nature well examined it 
 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, there- 
 fore 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 teason 
 ot this terrible death (and four is probably too lar^^e a 
 concession), yet still it is not considered how manv^are 
 preserved in their health and in their pro )ertv bv tl.is 
 devoted animal's services. The midnisht robber is 
 u^^i.^^ a distance ; the insidious thief is often detected ; 
 the healthful chase repairs many a worn constitution • 
 and the poor man fia^s in his dog a willing assistant' 
 
310 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 cul- 
 tivate 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 cheerful- 
 ness and pleasure ; for him bears famine and fatigue 
 with patience and resignation ; no injuries can abate 
 his fidelity, n > distress induce him to forsake his bene- 
 factor; studious to please, and fearing to offend, he is 
 still an humble, steadfast dependant ; 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 ungrateful a return to 
 the trusty animal for all its services. 
 
 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 vigour 
 of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new ter- 
 rors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our 
 years increase, fear becomes at last the pcevailing 
 passion of the mind, and the small remauider of life is 
 taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or pro- 
 vide 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 eijiier, dresses out the distant 
 prospect in fancied beauty ; some happiness, in long 
 
ESSAYS. Sll 
 
 perspective, still beckons me to pursue ; and, like a 
 losing gamester, every new disappointment increases 
 my ardour to continue the game. 
 
 Whence tiiea is this increased love of life, which 
 grows upon us with our years! Whence tomes it, 
 that we thus make greater efforts to preserve our ex- 
 istence, at a period when it becomes scarce worth the 
 keeping ! Is it that nature, attentive to the preserva- 
 tion of mankind, increases our wishes to live, while she 
 lessens our enjoyments ; and, as she robs the senses of 
 every pleasure, equips imagination in the spoil ! Life 
 would be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded 
 with infirmities, feared death no more than when m 
 the vigour of manhood : tiie 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 ima- 
 ginary 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 beea 
 long acquainted.' 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 re- 
 luctance : from hence proceeds the avarice of the old 
 in every kind of possession ; they love the world and 
 all that it produces; they love life and all its advan- 
 tages ; not because it gives them pleasure, but becu-^ee 
 they have known it long. 
 
 Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of 
 China, commanded that all who were unjustly de- 
 tained in prison, during tlie preceding reigns, should 
 be set free. Among the number v/ho came to thank 
 their deliverer on this occasion, there appeared a ma- 
 jestic 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 
 
312 ESSAYS. 
 
 shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. 1 
 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 
 dazzled with the splendour of that sun to which you 
 have restored me, I have been wandering the streets 
 to find out some friend that v^ould assist, or relieve, or 
 remember me ; but my friends, my family, and rela- 
 tions, 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 dungeoa 
 are to me more pleasing than the most splendid palace: 
 I have not long to live, and shall be unhappy except 
 I spend the rest of my days wiiere 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 begotten, all serve to bind us closer 
 to the earth, and imbitter our parting. Life sues the 
 young like a new acquaintance ; the companion, as 
 yet unexhausted, is at once instructive 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 antici- 
 pated in former conversation ; it has no new story to 
 make us smile, no new improvement with which to 
 surprise ; yet still we love it ; destitute of every enjoy- 
 ment, still we love it ; husband the wasting treasure 
 with increasing 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 equivalent to riches. Life opened all her treasure* 
 
ESSAYS. 313 
 
 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 appeal when age comes on 1 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 ended the de- 
 bate with a pistol ! Had this self-deluded man been 
 apprized, 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 ^n the 
 world more beautiful, or more ill-dressed, than those 
 of England, Our country-women have been com- 
 pared 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 unac- 
 quainted with design. 
 
 If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occasion, 
 that so much beauty, set off with all the advantages 
 of diess, would be too powerful an antagonist for the 
 opposite sex ; and therefore it was wisely ordered that 
 our ladies should want taste, lest their admirers should 
 entirely want rear-on. 
 
 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 tliat a shop- 
 keeper's wife in Cbeapside has a greater tenderness 
 for the fortune of hei husband, than a citizen's wife in 
 P 
 
31-4 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 stud-y there the 
 happy method of unitinoj grace and fashion, and never 
 excuse a woman for being awkv.'ardly dressed, by say- 
 ing her clothes are in the mode. A French womau 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 fashion gives tl'ie word, every distinction of beauty, 
 complexion, or stature, ceases. Sweeping trains, Prus- 
 sian 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 with 
 ladies m uniform ; and their whole appearance shews 
 as littl* 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. 
 
 B^it not only the ladies of every shape and com- 
 plexion, but of every age too, are possessed of this 
 unaccountable 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 
 imac^ination for an angel's face ; but what was his 
 
ESSAYS. 315 
 
 mortification 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 trans- 
 ports 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 ffew 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 most beautiful as it is more sparingly dis- 
 covered. 
 
 ' 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 1 trem- 
 bled 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 anti- 
 quated figures, so polite and so tender, soon attracted 
 the eyes of the company. As we made our way among 
 crowds who were out to shew their finery as well as 
 we, wherever we came, I perceived we brought good- 
 humour 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, attri- 
 buted all this mirth to the oddity of mine ; while I as 
 cordially placed the whole to her account. Thus, 
 from being two of the best-natured creatures alive, 
 before we got half way up the Mall, we both began 
 
315 ESSAYS. 
 
 to grow peevisl", and, like two mice on a stnng, en- 
 deavoured to revenge the impertinence of others upoQ 
 ourselves. " I am amazed, cousin Jeffery,' says miss, 
 " that 1 can never get you to dress like a Christian. 1 
 knev/ we should have the eyes of the Paik upon us, 
 with your great wig so frizzled, and yet so beggarly, 
 a'ad your monstrous muff, i hate those odious mufi's " 
 i could have patiently borne a criticism on all the 
 rest of my equipage ; but as I had aUvays a peculiar 
 veneration for my muff, I could not forbear being 
 piq-ued a little ; and, throwing my 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 
 ashamed of her gentleman-usher, and as 1 was never 
 very 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, 
 employed in very different speculations. I regarded 
 the whole company, now passing in review before me, 
 as drawn out merely for my amusement. For my 
 entertainment the beauty had, all that morning, been 
 impro.ving her char-ms : the beau had put on lace, and 
 the young doctor a big wig, merely to please me. But 
 quite different were the sentiments of cousin Hannah : 
 she regarded every well-dressed woman as a victorious 
 rival ; hated every face that seemed dressed in good- 
 humour, or wore the appearance of greater happiness 
 than her own. I perceived her uneasiness, and at- 
 tempted 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 ia 
 secret history, as she found me disposed to listen. 
 " Observe,"says she to me, " that old woman in tawdry 
 
 JJ 
 
JiSsA'lS. 317 
 
 silk, and dressed out beyond the fashioa. That is Miss 
 Biddy Evergreen. Mis.-; Biddy, it seems, has money ; 
 and as she considers that money was never so scarce 
 as it is now, she seems resolved to keep what she has 
 to herself. She is ugly enough, you see; yet, I assure 
 you, she has refused several oflfers, to my knowledge, 
 within this twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentle- 
 men 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 com- 
 pany but her monkey, her apothecary, and cat ; and 
 comes dressed out to the Park every Sunday, to shew 
 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 troUopee. Between you and I, 
 she is but a cutler's wife. See how she's dressed, as 
 fine as hands and pins can make her, while her two 
 marriageable daughters, like hunters in stuff gowns, 
 are now taking sixpenny-worth of tea at the White- 
 conduit house. Odious puss, how she waddles along, 
 with her train two yards behind her ! She puts me in 
 mind of my lord Bantam's Indian sheep, v;hich are 
 obiised 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 
 ber back ; and then you know, cousin, — her clothes 
 may be spoiled. 
 
 ' " Ah ! Miss Mazzard ! I knew we should not miss 
 her in the Park ; she in the monstrous Prussian bonnet. 
 Miss, though so very fine, was bred a milliner ; and 
 might have had some custom if she had minded her 
 business ; but the girl was fond of finery, and, instead 
 
318 ESSAYS. 
 
 of dressing her customers, laid out all her goods in 
 adorning herself. Every new gown she put on im- 
 paired her credit ; she still, however, went on, improv- 
 ing her appearance and lessening her little fortune, and 
 is now, you see, become a belle and a bankrupt." 
 
 ' My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which 
 , were interrupted by the approach of the very lady she 
 had been so freely describing. Miss had perceived her 
 at a distance, and approached o 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 savir 
 them into a hackney-coach at St. James's.' 
 
 ASEM; AN EASTERN TALE: 
 
 OR, THE WISDOM OF PROVIDENCE IN THE MORAL 
 GOVERNMENT OP THE WORLD. 
 
 Wheue 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 so- 
 ciety, and detesting the ways of men, lived Asem the 
 man-hater. 
 
 Asem had spent his youth with men ; had shared in 
 their amusements ; and had been taught to love his 
 fellow-creatures with the most ardent affection ; but, 
 from the tenderness of his disposition, he exhausted all 
 his fortune in relieving the wants of the distressed. 
 The petitioner 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 ex- 
 pected a grateful return from those he had formerly 
 relieved ; and made his application with confidence of 
 
ESSAYS. 319 
 
 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 dif- 
 ferent 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, ingra- 
 titude, dissimulation, and treachery, contributed to 
 increase his detestation of them. Resolved, therefore, 
 to continue no longer in a world which he hated, and 
 which repaid his detestation with contempt, he retired 
 to this region of sterility, in order to brood over his 
 resentment in solitude, and converse \yith 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 
 fhe mountain's side, his only food ; and hifS drink was 
 fetched with danger and toil from the headlong tor- 
 rent. In this manner he lived, sequestered from so- 
 ciety, passing the hours in meditation, and sometimes 
 exulting that he was able to live independenfly of his 
 fellow-creatures. 
 
 At the foot of the mountain an extensive lake dis- 
 played its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad surface 
 the impending horrors of the mountain. To this ca- 
 pacious 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 comparable 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 ungrateful man is a blot in the fair 
 page of universal beauty. Why was I born of that 
 
320 ESSAYS. 
 
 detested species, whose vices are almost a reproacli to 
 the wisdora of the Divine Creator 1 Were men en- 
 tirely free from vice, all would be uniformity, harmony, 
 and order. A world of moral rectitude should be the 
 result of a perfectly moral agent. Why, why, then, 
 O Alia ! must I be thus confined in darkness, doubt, 
 and despair ?' 
 
 Just as he uttered the word despair, he was going to 
 plunge into the lake beneath him, at once to satisfy 
 his doubts, and put a period to his anxiety ; when he 
 perceived a most majestic being walking oti the sur- 
 face 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 s-aw something awful and divine in his aspect. 
 
 ' Son of Adam,' cried the genius, ' stop thy rash 
 purpose; the Father of the Faithful has seen thy jus- 
 tice, thy integritj', thy miseries ; and hath sent me to 
 afford and administer relief. Give me thine hand, and 
 follow, without trembling, wkerever 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 curiosity, but a rectitude of intention. Fol- 
 low 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 astonishment 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 inspec- 
 tion, of our great prophet ; who once entertainea thts 
 
ESSAYS. 321 
 
 same doubts which filled your mind when 1 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 abso- 
 lutely without vice. In other respects it resembles 
 your earth ; but differs from it in being wholly iti- 
 habited by men whatever do wrong. If you find this 
 world more agreeable than that you so lately 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 
 immorality!' cried Asem, in a rapture; ' I thank 
 thee, O Alia, who hast at length heard my petitions : 
 this, this indeed will produce happiness, ecstasy, and 
 ease. O for an immortality, to spend- it among men 
 who are incapable of ingratitude, injustice, fraud, vio- 
 lence, 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 attendant and instructor.' 
 Asem and his companion travelled on in silence for 
 some time, the former being entirely lost in astonish- 
 ment ; 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 subsis- 
 tence ; it is the very same in the world over our heads. 
 But had 1 been permitted to instruct our prophet, I 
 would have removed this defect, and formed no vora- 
 cious or destructive animals, which only prey on the 
 Other parts of the creation.' — ' Your tenderness for in- 
 P2 
 
S22 ESSAYS. 
 
 fei'ior animals, is, I find, remarkable,' said the genius 
 . smiling. ' But, with regard to meaner creatures, this 
 world exactly resembles the other ; and, indeed, foi 
 obvious reasons : for the earth can support a more 
 considerable number of animals, by their thus becom- 
 ing- 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 pos- 
 sible. 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 tlie country inhabited by men without 
 vice ; and Asem anticipated ia idea the rational de- 
 light 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. ' Hea- 
 vens !' cried Asem, ' why does he fly ? What can 
 he fear from animals so contemptible V He had scarce 
 spoken, when he perceived two dogs pursuing another 
 of the human species, who, with equal terror and 
 haste, attempted to avoid them. ' This,' cried Asem 
 to his guide, ' is truly surprising ; nor can I conceive 
 the reason for so strange an action.' — ' Every species 
 of animals,' replied the genius, ' has of lafg 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 desttoyed,' 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: 
 ' j'ou seem to have forgot that branch of justice.' — ' I 
 must acknowledge my mistake,' returned Asem ; ' I 
 am now convinced that we roust be guilty of tyranny 
 and injustice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy 
 the world ourselves. But let us no longer observe the 
 
ESSAYS. 323 
 
 duty of man to these irrational creatures, but survey 
 their connexions with one another.' 
 
 As they walked farther up the country, the more 
 he was surprised to see no vestiges of handsome houses 
 no cities, nor any mark of elegant design. His coni 
 ductor, perceiving his surprise, observed that the in- 
 habitants of this new world were perfectly content 
 with their ancient simplicity; each had a house, 
 which, though homely, was sufficient to lodcre his 
 Jittle 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 con- 
 venience, and not for show. ' At least, then,' said- 
 Asem, < they have neither architects, painters, nor 
 statuaries, in their society ; but these are idle arts 
 and may .)e spared. However, before I spend much 
 more time here, you shall have my thanks for intro- 
 ducmg me into the society of some of their wisest 
 men : there is scarce any pleasure to me equal to a 
 rehned conversation ; there is nothing of which I am 
 so much enamoured as wisdom.'—' Wisdom !' replied 
 his instructor : ' how ridiculous ! We have no wisdom 
 here, for we have no occasion for it ; true wisdom is 
 only a knowledge of our own duty, and the duty of 
 others to us ; but of what use is such wisdom here? 
 Ji.ach mtuitively performs what is right in himself, and 
 expects the same from others. If by wisdom you 
 should mean vam curiosity, and empty speculation, as 
 such pleasures iiave their origin in vanity, luxury or 
 avarice, we are too good to pursue them.'—' All this 
 maybe right,' says Asem ; ' but, methinks I observe a 
 solitary disposition prevail among the people ; each 
 tamily keeps separately within their own precincts 
 without society, or without intercourse.'^' That in- 
 deed, ,s true,' replied the other; ' here is no esta- 
 blished 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 
 
324 ESSAYS. 
 
 sceptic, ' as 1 am to spend my time here, if I am to 
 have neither the polite arts, nor wisdom, nor friend- 
 ship, in such a world, I should be glad, at least, of an 
 easy companion, who may tell me his thoughts, and 
 to whom 1 may communicate mine.' — ' And to what 
 purpose- 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 endeavours to heap up more than is 
 necessary for his own subsistence ; each has therefore 
 leisure for pitying those that stand in need of his com- 
 passion.' 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 relief, and found him in the last 
 stage of a consumption. ' Strange,' cried the son of 
 Adam, ' that men who are free from vice should thus 
 suffer so much misery without relief !' — ' Be not sur- 
 prised,' said the wretch, who was 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 possessed 
 of a single meal more than is necessary ; and what is 
 barely necessary cannot be dispensed with.' — ' They 
 should have been supplied with more than is neces- 
 sary,' 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 favou-r. They 
 have, however, another excellence yet behind ; the 
 love of their country is still, I hope, one of their dar- 
 ling virtues.' — ' Peace, Asem,' replied 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 interest 
 to that of others, induce us to regard our country pre- 
 
ESSAYS. 325 
 
 ferable to that of another. Nothing less than univer- 
 sal benevolence is free from vice, and that you see is 
 practised here.' — ' Strange !' cries the disappointed 
 pilgrim, in an agony of distress ; ' what sort of a 
 world am I now introduced to 1 There is scarce a 
 single virtue, but that of temperance, which they prac- 
 tise ; and in that they are no way superior to the brute 
 creation. There is scarce an amusement which they 
 enjoy ; fortitude, liberality, friendship, wisdom, con- 
 versation, 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 de- 
 spised ; a world which has Alia for its contriver, is 
 much more wisely formed than that which has been 
 projected by Mahomet. Ingratitude, contempt, and 
 hatred, I can now suffer, for perhaps I have deserved 
 them. When I arraigned the wisdom of Providence, 
 I only shewed 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, as- 
 tonished at the terror of the scene, looked for his 
 imaginary world ; when, casting his eyes around, he 
 perceived himself in the very situation, and in the very 
 place, where he first began to repine and despair; his 
 right foot had been just advanced to take the fatal 
 plunge, nor had it been yet withdrawn ; so instantly 
 did Providence strike the series of truths just imprinted 
 on his soul. He now departed from the water-side 
 in tranquillity, and, leaving his horrid mansion, tra- 
 velled to Segestan, his native eity ; where he diligently 
 applied himself to commerce, and put in practice 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 
 disdain ; and a youth of misery was concluded with 
 an old age of elegance, affluence, aid ease. 
 
ESSAYS. 
 
 ON THE ENGLISH CLERGY AND 
 POPULAR PREACHERS. 
 
 It is Allowed on all hands, that our English divines 
 receive a more liberal education, and improve that 
 education by frequent study, more than any others of 
 this reverend profession in Europe. In general, also, 
 it may be observed, that a greater degree of gentility 
 is affixed to the character of a student in England 
 than elsewhere ; by which means our clergy have an 
 opportunity of seeing better company while young, 
 and of sooner vvearing off those prejudices which they 
 are apt to imbibe even in the best-regulated universi- 
 ties, and which may be justly termed the vulgar er- 
 rors of the wise. 
 
 Yet, with all these advantages, it is very obvious, 
 that the clergy are no where so little thought of, by 
 the populace, as here ; and, though our divines are 
 foremost with respect to abilities, yet they are found 
 last in the effects of their ministry; the vulgar, in ge- 
 neral, appearing no way impressed vv'ith a sense of 
 religious duty. I am not for whining at the depravity 
 of the times, or for endeavouring to paint a prospect 
 more gloomy than in nature ; but certain it is, no 
 person who has travelled will contradict me, when I 
 aver, that the lower orders of mankind, in other coun- 
 tries, testify, on every occasion, the profound6st awe 
 of religion; while in England they are scarcely awak- 
 ened into a sense of its duties, even in circumstances 
 of the greatest distress. 
 
 This dissolute and fearless conduct foreigners are 
 apt to attribute to climate, and constitulion : may not 
 the vulgar being pretty much neglected in our exhor- 
 tations from the pulpit, be a conspiring cause ? Our 
 divines seldom stoop to their mean capacities; and 
 they who want instruction most find least in our reli- 
 gious assemblies. 
 
 Whatever may become of the higher orders of man- 
 kind, who are generally pos-sessed of collateral moiives 
 to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded. 
 
ESSAYS. 323 
 
 whose behaviour in civil life is totally hinged upon 
 their hopes and fears. Those who constitiUe the basis 
 of the great fa-bric of society, should be particularly 
 regarded ; for^in policy, as architecture, ruin is most 
 fatal vvhen it begins from the bottom. 
 
 Men of real sense and understanding prefer a pru- 
 dent mediocrity to a precarious popularity: and, fear- 
 ing to outdo their duty, leave it half done. Their 
 discourses from the pulpit are generally dry, methodi- 
 cal, and unaiFecting : delivered with the most insipid 
 calmness; insomuch, that should the peaceful preacher 
 lift his head over the cushion, which alone he seems to 
 address, he might discover his audience, instead of being 
 awakened to remorse, actually sleeping over his me- 
 thodical and laboured composition. 
 
 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 debaucheries till they are committed. Reason 
 is but a weak antagonist when headlong passion dic- 
 tates ; in all such cases we should arm one passion 
 against another : it is with the human mind as in na- 
 ture ; from the mixture of two opposites, the result is 
 most frequently neutral tranquillity. Those who at- 
 tempt to reason us out of our follies, begin at the 
 wrong end, since the attempt naturally presupposes 
 us capable of reason ; but to be made capable of this, 
 is one great point of the cure. 
 
 There are but few talents requisite to become a 
 popular preacher; for the people are easily pleased, 
 if they perceive any endeavours in the orator to please 
 them ; the meanest 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 becoming sincerity is always cer- 
 tain of producing a becoming assurance. ' Si vis me 
 flere, dolendum est primum tibi ipsi,' is so tiite a quo- 
 tation, that it almost demands an apology to repeat it; 
 
 f 
 
328 ESSAYS, 
 
 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, seetn impressed rather 
 with an awe of their audience, than with a just respect 
 for t'be truths they are about to deliver : they, of all 
 professions, seem the most bashful, who have the 
 greatest right to glory in their commission. 
 
 The French preachers generally assume all that 
 dignity which becomes men who are ambassadors from 
 Christ; the English divines, like erroneous envoys, 
 seem more solicitous not to offend the court to which 
 they are sent, than to drive home the interests of their 
 employer. The bishop of Massillon, in the first ser- 
 mon he ever preached, found the whole audience, 
 upon his getting into the pulpit, in a disposition no 
 way favourable to his intentions ; their nods, whispers, 
 or drowsy behaviour, shewed 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 particular; 
 if the eyes of the whole kingdom were fixed upon the 
 event ; if the most eminent counsel were employed on 
 both sides; and if we had heard from our infancy of 
 this yet-undetermined trial; would you not all -sit with 
 due attention, and warm expectation, to the pleadings 
 on each side 1 Would not all your hopes and fears 
 be hinged upon the final decision t and yet, let me 
 tell you, you have this moment a cause of much greater 
 importance before you; a cause where not one nation, 
 but all the world, are spectators ; tried not before a 
 fallible tribunal, but the awful throne of Heaven; 
 where not your temporal and transitory interests are 
 the subject of debate, but your eternal happiness or 
 misery; where the cause is still undetermined, but, 
 perhaps, the very moment I am speaking may fix the 
 irrevocable decree that shall last for ever : and yet, 
 aotwilhstanding all this, you can hardly sit with pa- 
 
ESSAYS. 329 
 
 tience to near the tidings of your own salvation ; 1 
 pJead the cause of Heaven, and yet I am scarcely 
 attended to,' &c. 
 
 The style, the abruptness of a beginning- like this, 
 in the closet would appear absurd ; but in the pulpit 
 it is attended with the most lasting impressions : that 
 style which, in the closet, might justly be called flimsy, 
 seenrs 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 accomplishments which may be 
 taken up by every candidate who will be at the pains 
 of stooping. Impressed with a sense of the truths he 
 is a"bou-t to deliver, a preaclier disregards the applause 
 or t-he contempt of his audience, and he insensibly 
 assumes a just and manly sincerity. With this talent 
 alone we see what crowds are drawn around enthu- 
 siasts, even destitute of common sense; wliat numbers 
 converted to Christianity. Folly may sometimes set 
 an example for wisdom to practise ; and our regular 
 divines may borrow instruction from even Methodists, 
 who go their circuits, and preach prizes among the 
 populace. Even Whitfield may be placed as a model 
 to some of our young divines ; let them join to their 
 own good sense, his earnest man-ner of delivery. 
 
 It will be perhaps objected, that by confining the 
 excellences of a preacher to proper assurance, earnest- 
 ness, and openness of styls, I make the qualifications 
 too trifling for estimation ; fliere will be something 
 called oratory brought up oh this occa-sion ; action, 
 attitude, grace, elocution, may be repeated as abso- 
 lutely necessary to complete the character: but let 
 us not be deceived ; common sense is seldom sv/ayed 
 by fine tones, musical periods, just attitudes, or the 
 display of a white handkerchief; eratorial behaviour, 
 except in very able hands indeed, generally ikiks into 
 awkward and paltry affectation. 
 
330 ESSAYS. 
 
 It must be observed, however, that these rules are 
 calculated only for him who would instruct the vul- 
 gar, 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 differ- 
 ent method ot proceeding. All I shall observe oa 
 this head is, to entreat the polemic divine, in his con- 
 troversy with the deist, to act rather offensively than 
 to defend; to push home the grounds of his belief, 
 and the impracticability of theirs, rather than to spend 
 time in solving the objections of every opponent. ' It 
 is ten to one,' says a late writer on the art of war, 
 'but that the assailant who attacks the enemy in his 
 trenches is always victorious.' 
 
 Yet upon the whole, our clergy might employ 
 themselves more to the benefit of society, by declining 
 all controversy, than by exhibiting even the profound- 
 est skill in polemic disputes : their contests with each 
 other often turn on speculative trifles ; and their dis- 
 putes 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 dis- 
 pute longer would only endanger it ; the sceptic is 
 ever expert at puzzling a debate which he finds 'him- 
 self 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 pene- 
 trated any considerable way eastward into Asia. They 
 have all been influenced either by motives of com- 
 merce or piety, and their accounts are such as might rea- 
 
ESSAYS. 331 
 
 Bonably be expected from men of a very narrow or very 
 prejudiced education — the dictates of superstition, or 
 the result of ignorance. Is it not surprising, that, of 
 such a variety of adventurers, not one single philoso- 
 pher should be found among the number"! For, as to 
 the travels of Gemelii, the learned are long agreed 
 that the whole is but an imposture. 
 
 There is scarce any country, how rude or unculti- 
 vated 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 vege- 
 table substances scarlet, and likewise that of refining 
 lead into a metal, which, for hardness and colour, 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, be- 
 cause they have no instances of the like nature among 
 themselves; but they would have treated the secrets of 
 gunpowder, and the mariner's compass, 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 i he it is, who, 
 undaunted by the seeming difficulties that oppose, 
 prompts human curiosity to examine every part of 
 nature ; and even exhorts man to try whether he can- 
 not subject the tempest, the thunder, and even earth- 
 quakes, to human control. Oh ! had a man of his 
 daring spirit, of his genius, penetration, and learning, 
 travelled to those countries which have been visited 
 only by the superstitious and mercenary, what might 
 not mankind expect ! How would he enlighten the 
 regions to which he travelled ! and what a variety of 
 
^ 
 
 332 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 equiva- 
 lent information ; and I am apt to think, that a person 
 who was ready to give more knowledge than he re- 
 ceived, would be welcome wherever he came. All 
 his care in travelling should only be, to suit his intel- 
 lectual banquet to the people with whom he con- 
 versed ; he should not attempt to teach the unlettered 
 Tartar astronomy, nor yet instruct the polite Chinese 
 in the arts of subsistence ; he should endeavour to 
 improve the barbarian in the secrets of jiving comfort- 
 ably ; and the inhabitant 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 trifiingly sedulous, in the incatenation of fleas, 
 or the sculpture of cherry-stones. 
 
 I never consider this subject without being sur- 
 prised that none of those societies so laudably esta- 
 blished 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 undertaking, let them but read 
 the relations of their own travellers. It will there be 
 found, that they are as often 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, informs us with 
 what pleasure the country to which he was sent em- 
 braced Christianity, and the numbers he converted j 
 what methods he took to keep Lent in a region where 
 there were no fish, or the shifts he made to celebrate 
 
ESSAYS. 333 
 
 the rites of his relijjion, in places where there was 
 neither bread nor wine ; such accounts, with the usual 
 appendage of marriages and funerals, inscriptions, 
 rivers, and mountains, make up the whole of a Eu- 
 ropean traveller's diary: but as to all the secrets of 
 which the inhabitants are possessed, those are univer- 
 sally attributed to magic ; and when the traveller can 
 give no other account of the wonders he sees per- 
 formed, he very contentedly ascribes them to the 
 devil. 
 
 It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English 
 chemist, 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 ob- 
 server, the advantages would be inestimable. Are 
 there not, even m Europe, many useful inventions 
 known or practised but in one place? Their instru- 
 ment, as an example, for cutting down corn in Ger- 
 many, 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 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 ignorant travellers in hasty ca- 
 ravans. 
 
 The caution with which foreigners are received in 
 Asia, may be alleged as an objection to such a de- 
 sign. But how readily have several European mer- 
 chants found admission into regions the most sus- 
 picious, under the character 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 shew that there were still 
 
334 ESSAYS, 
 
 some who boasted a greater name than that of pa- 
 triots, who professed themselves lovers of men. 
 
 The only difficulty would remain in choosing a proper 
 person for so arduous an enterprise. He should be a 
 man of a philosophical turn; one apt to deduce conse- 
 quences of general utility from particular occurrences ; 
 neither swoln with pride, nor hardened by prejudice; 
 neither wedded to one particular system, nor instruct- 
 ed 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 imagina- 
 tion, and an innate love of change; furnished with 
 a body capable of sustaining every fatigue, and a 
 heart not easily terrified at danger. 
 
 A REVERIE 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 ; endeavour 
 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 endeavouring to forget 
 them ; for, if he attempts to resist, he is certainly un- 
 done. ]f I feel poverty and pain, I am not so hardy 
 as to quarrel with the executioner, ev&n while under 
 correction ; I find myself no way disposed to make 
 fine speeches, while I am making wry faces. In a 
 word, let me drink when the fit is on, to make me in- 
 sensible ; and drink when it is over, for joy that I feel 
 pain no longer. 
 
ESSAYS. 335 
 
 The character of old FalstafF, even with all his 
 faults, gives me reore consolation than the most 
 studied efforts of wisdom : I here behold an agreeable 
 old fellow, forgetting age, and shewing me the way to 
 be young at sixty-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'otiier 
 bottle : here's to the memory of Shakspeare, FalstafF, 
 and all the merry men of Eastcheap. 
 
 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 
 Sir John Falstaff" cracked his jokes, in the very chair 
 which was sometimes honoured by Prince Henry, and 
 sometimes polluted by his immoral, merry companions, 
 I sat and ruminated 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 together. I considered myself as 
 the only living representative of the old knight ; and 
 transported my imagination 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 watch- 
 men had gone twelve : my companions had all stolen 
 off, and none now remained with me but the landlord. 
 From him I 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 dif- 
 ferent ages ; but my landlord could give me no infor- 
 mation. He continued to doze, and sot, 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. 
 
336 ESSAYS. 
 
 I found at last, however, his wine and his conversatioa 
 operate by degrees : he insensibly began to alter his 
 appearance. His cravat seemed quilled into a ruff, 
 and his breeches swelled into a f'ardingale. I now 
 fancied him changing sexes ; and, as my eyes began to 
 close in slumber, 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 1' — ' In good sooth,' replied slie, ' lie«did deserve 
 to live for ever ; but he makeih foul work on't where 
 he hath flitted. Queen Proserpine and he have quar- 
 relled, for his attempting a rape upon her divinity ; 
 and were it not that she still had bowels of compassion, 
 it more than seems probable 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 resolved 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 Frince Henry : men 
 were twice as strong, and twice as wise, and niucli 
 braver, and ten thousand times more charitable, tlinn 
 now. Those were the times ! The battle of Agincoiirt 
 was a victory indeed ! Ever since that, we hive only 
 been desenerating ; and 1 have lived to st;^ t!:e das 
 
KSSAIS. 337 
 
 when drinking is no longer fashionable. When men 
 wear clean shirts, and women shew their necks and 
 arms, all are degenerated, Mrs. Quickly; and we shall 
 probably, m another century, be frilted away into 
 beaux or monkeys. Had you been on earth to see 
 what I have seen, it would congeal ail the blood in 
 your body (your soul, I mean). Why, our very 
 nobility now have the intolerable arrogance, in spite 
 of what is every day remonstrated 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 favour to console me a little for 
 their absence by tiie 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 tliis apartment,' interrupted my com- 
 panion, ' 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 whiloros nor eftsoons, 
 Mrs. Quickly, if you please,' I replied ; ' 1 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. 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 
 
 Q 
 
33S ESSAYS. 
 
 than I drew for my customers : my giief was sincere, 
 and the sack was excellent. The prior of a neigh- 
 bouring convent (for our priors then had as much 
 power as a iVWdlesex justice now), he, I say, it was 
 who gave me a licence 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 confessing 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 customers con- 
 tinued, hov/ever, to compliment my looks while I was 
 by, but I could hear them say I was wearing when 
 my back was turned. The prior, howevei, 5fill was 
 constant, 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 of keeping a low bawdy-house. In short, 
 we were so well purified there with stripes, mortifica- 
 tion, 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 London, you may view the different manners, 
 pleasures, and follies of men, at different periods.—- 
 You will find mankind 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 persuades hiia 
 
ESSAYS. 339 
 
 to give up his conscience to please his minister. 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 pow- 
 dered 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 liim look killing. It is the same 
 vanity, the same folly, and the same vice, only appear- 
 ing different, as viewed through the glass of fashion. 
 In a word, all mankind are a ' 
 
 ' Sure the woman is dreaming,' interrupted I. — 
 ' None of your reflections, Mrs. Quickly, if you love 
 me; they onlj' 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 1 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 habi- 
 tation 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 frrars. Instead of being a scene of occasional 
 debauchery, it was now filled with continued lewdness. 
 The prior led the fashion, and the whole convent imi- 
 tated 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 favourite companion, and 
 a power of discarding her as often as he pleased. The 
 laity grumbled, quarrelled with their wives and dauoh. 
 ters, hated their confessors, and maintained them in 
 
340 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 present: those that 
 labour, starve ; and those that do nothing, wear fine 
 clothes and live in luxury.' 
 
 ' In this manner the fathers lived, for some years, 
 without molestation ; they transgressed, confessed 
 themselves to each other, and were forgiven. One 
 evening, however, our prior keeping a lady of distinc- 
 tion somewhat too long at confession, her husband 
 unexpectedly came upon them, and testified ail 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 man- 
 ner. 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 ex- 
 pect, 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 candour. What plea then do you 
 think the prior made to obviate this accusation'? He 
 denied the fact, and challenged 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 in- 
 jured husband was obliged to take it up, in token of his 
 accepting the challenge. Upon this, the priest sup- 
 plied his champion, for it was not lawful for the clergy 
 to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiff, according 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 
 
ESSAYS. 341 
 
 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 combatants. As the champion whom 
 the prior had pitched upon, had fought six or eight 
 times upon similar occasions, it was no way extraor- 
 dinary to find him victorious in the 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 
 bow much more just, and wise, and valiant, our an- 
 cestors 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 countenance 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 fire- 
 works that were made on the present occasion. Our 
 convent now began to enjoy a very high degree of 
 reputation. There was not 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 pj-ior had placed in a nunnery, and whom he con- 
 tinued 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 enter- 
 tained the visions of a devotee ; found herself strangely 
 disturbed ; but hesitated in determining, whether she 
 
342 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 hei 
 own, but that of the devil within her. In short, she 
 was bewitched ; and all the difficulty lay in determin- 
 ing who it could be that bewitched her. The nuns 
 and the monks all demanded the magician's name, 
 but the devil made no reply ; for he knew they had 
 no authority to ask questions. By the rules of witch- 
 craft, when an evil spirit has takea possession, he may 
 refuse to answer any questions asked him, unless they 
 are put by a bishop, and to these he is obliged to re- 
 ply. 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 com- 
 mand he resided in his present habitation ; and that, 
 without his command, he was resolved to keep in pos- 
 session. The bishop was an able exorcist ; he drove 
 the devil out by force of mystical arms ; the prior was 
 arraigned for witchcraft ; the witnesses were strong 
 and numerous against him, not less than fourteen per- 
 sons 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 himself 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 believed 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 sui>sist any longer ; the fathers 
 were ordered to decamp, and the house was once again 
 converted 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 
 
ESSAYS. 343 
 
 neighbourhood of the court, and the mistress a very 
 pohte woman, it began to have more business thaa 
 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 re- 
 ceived such an education in the country as became 
 her quality, beauty, and great expectations. She 
 could make shifts and hose for herself and all the ser- 
 vants 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 ; 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 im- 
 proved good-humour, 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 fol- 
 lowed 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 bufl' in the parlour ; 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- 
 playing. 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 qualifications were exactly fitted to her ex- 
 ternal accomplishments. 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 
 
 e 
 
344 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 com- 
 pletely 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 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 
 qualifications 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, re- 
 penting of his misdeeds, and instigated by his father 
 confessor, from a principle of conscience, 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 accomplish- 
 ments, a good face was enough to raise them to the 
 royal couch ; and she who was this day a royal mis- 
 tress, 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 ; drunken- 
 

 ESSAYS. 345 
 
 ness is ever the vice of a barbarous, and gaming of a 
 luxurious age. They had not such frequent enter- 
 tainments as the moderns have, but were more expen- 
 sive and more luxurious 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 dominions to furnish 
 out the frippery of a tournament. There were certain 
 days appomted for riot and debauchery, and to be 
 sober at such times was reputed a crime. Kings 
 themselves set the example j 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 1 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 cor- 
 respondent, ' 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 opportunity of calling for something com- 
 fortable, 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 times resembled the 
 common, low-lived harridan of a modern bagnio. — 
 Witness, ye powers of debauchery ! how often I have 
 been present at the various appearances of, drunken- 
 ness, riotj guilt, and brutality. A tavern is a true 
 picture of human infirmity ; in history we find only 
 Q2 
 
446 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 succes- 
 sively occupied by adventurers, bullies, pimps, and 
 gamesters. Towards the conclusion of the reign of 
 Henry V'll. gaming 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. Tlie 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 
 regret being born in the times you now live in, or do 
 you still believe that human nature continues to run 
 on declining every ase "! If we observe the actions of 
 tiie busy part of mankind, your ancestors will be found 
 infinitely 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 sensual, more entirely devoted to 
 pleasure, and infinitely more selfish. 
 
 ' The last hostess of note I find upon record was 
 Jane Rouse. She ivas born among the lower ranks 
 of the people ; and by frugality and extrema com- 
 plaisance, contrived to acquire a moderate fortune : 
 this she might have enjoyed for many years, had she 
 not unfortunately quarrelled with one of her neigh- 
 bours, 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 con- 
 trived to vomit crooked pins was sure to come off vic- 
 torious. The scandal of a modern tea-table differs 
 widely from the scandal of former times ; the fascina- 
 tion of a lacly's eyes, at present, is regarded as a com- 
 pliment J but if a lady formerly should be accused of 
 
ESSAYS. 347 
 
 having witchcraft 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 revo- 
 lutions, according to the spirit of the times, or the dis- 
 position of the reigning monarch. It was this day a 
 brothel, and the next a conventicle for enthusiasts. 
 It was one year noted for harbouring whigs, and the 
 next infamous for a retreat to tories. Some years ago 
 it was in high vogue, but at present it seems declin- 
 ing. 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 ex- 
 pected a romance, and here you have been this 
 half-hour giving me only a description of the spirit of 
 the times ; if you have nothing but tedious remarks to 
 communicate, seek some other hearer ; I am deter- 
 mined 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 v/as now got into the story of 
 the cracked glass in the dining-room. 
 
 ON QUACK DOCTORS. 
 
 WnATEVEU may be the merits of tlie English in ether 
 sciences, they seem peculiarly excellent in the art of 
 healing. There is scarcely a disorder incident to 
 humanity, 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 : 
 
34S ESSAYS, 
 
 but doubting is entirely 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 bedfellow, or hinderance 
 of business. 
 
 When I consider the assiduity of this profession, 
 their benevolence amazes me. They not only, in ge- 
 neral, give their medicines for half value, but use the 
 most persuasive remonstrances to induce the sick to 
 come and be cured. Sure there must be something 
 strangely obstinate in an English patient, who refuses 
 so much health upoii such easy terms ! Does he take 
 a pride in being bloated with a dropsy? does he find 
 pleasure in the alternations of an intermittent fever ? 
 or feel as much satisfaction in nursing up his gout, as 
 he found pleasure in acquiring it"! He must; other- 
 wise he would never reject such repeated 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 attention of the 
 public to what he is going to propose ; he solemnly 
 affirms the pill was never found to want success ; 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 1 there are some who 
 even think proper to die ! Yes, by the head of Con- 
 fucius, 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 rout as soon as imported, 
 and feels the genial beam of favour ; while the mighty 
 
ESSAYS. 349 
 
 metropolis, like one vast munificent dunghill, receives 
 them mdisciiminately to her breast, and supplies each 
 vcith more than native nourishment. 
 
 In other countr.ies the physician pretends to cure 
 disorders in the lump; the same doctor who combats 
 the gout in the toe, shall pretend to prescri.be 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 1 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 reason- 
 ing; they have therefore one doctor for the eyes, an- 
 other 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 anec- 
 dotes of the great, however minute or trifling, I must 
 present you, inadequate as my abilities are to the 
 subject, with an account of c«e or two of those per- 
 sonages who lead in this honourable 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 sane, but a 
 hat never ; it is indeed very remarkable that this ex- 
 traordinary 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, pac- 
 kets, and gallipots. No man can promise fairer or 
 better than he; for, as he observes, 'Be your dis- 
 order never so far gone, be under no uneasiness, 
 make yourself quite easy, I can cure you.' 
 
350 ESSAYS. 
 
 The next in fame, though by some reckoned of equal 
 pretensions, is Doctor Timothy Franks, F. O. G. H. 
 living in the Old Bailey. As Rock is remarkably 
 squab, his great rival Franks is as remarkably tall. 
 He vcas 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 particu- 
 larly 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 fix- 
 ing on his rival the odious appellation of Dumpling 
 Dick. He calls the serious Doctor Rock, Dump- 
 ling Dick ! Head of Confucius, what profanation ! 
 Dumpling Dick! What a pity, ye powers, that the 
 learned, who were born mutually to assist in enlighten- 
 ing the world, should thus differ among themselves, 
 and make even the profession ridiculous! Sure the 
 world is wide eoough, at least, for two great person- 
 ages to figure in: men of science should leave con- 
 troversy to the little world below them ; and then we 
 might see Rock and Franks walking together, hand iu 
 hand, smiling onward to immortality. 
 
 ADVENTURES OF A STROLLING PLAYER. 
 
 I AM fond of amusem,ent, in whatever company it ia 
 to be found : and wit, though dressed in rags, is ever 
 pleasing to roe, I went some days ago to take a 
 
ESSAYS. 351 
 
 walk in St. James's Park, about the hour in which 
 company leave it to go to dinner. There were but 
 few in the walks, and those who stayed seemed by 
 their looks rather more willing to forget that they had 
 an appetite, than gain one. I sat down on one of 
 the benches, at the other end of which was seated a 
 man in very shabby clothes. 
 
 We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as 
 usual upon such occasions ; and, at last, ventured 
 upon conversation. ' I beg pardon, sir,' cried I, ' but 
 I think I have seen you before ; 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 quar- 
 relled, beat each other, and parted; he to sell his 
 puppets to the pincushion-makers in Rosemary-lane, 
 and I to starve in St. James s Park.' 
 
 ' I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appearance 
 should labour under any difficulties.' — ' O sir,' re- 
 turned he, ' my appearance is very much at your ser- 
 vice : but, though 1 cannot boast of eating much, yet 
 there are few that are merrier; if I had twenty thou- 
 sand a year I should be very merry ; and, thank the 
 Pates, though not worth a groat, I am very merry still. 
 If I have threepence in my pocket, I never refuse to 
 be my three halfpence ; and, if I have no money, I 
 never scorn to be treated by any that are kind enough 
 to pay 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 neigh- 
 bouring ale-house, and, in a few momenis, had a 
 frothing tankard, and a smoking steak, spread on the 
 table before us. It is impossible to express how mucn 
 the sight of such good cheer improved my companion s 
 
352 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 was 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 beggars are the very fondlings of Nature; the 
 rich she treats like an arrant step-mother ; they are 
 pleased with nothing ; cut a steak from what part you 
 will, and it is insupportably tough ; dress it up with 
 pickles, and even pickles cannot procure them an 
 appetite. But the whole creation is filled with good 
 things for the beggar ; Calvert's butt out-tastes cham- 
 paign, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels tokay. Joy, 
 joy, my blood ; though our estates lie no where, we 
 have fortunes wherever we go. If an inundation 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 
 prevent our sleeping ; let us have another tankard, 
 while we are awake ; let us have another tankard ; 
 for, ah, how charming a tankard looks when full! 
 
 ' You must know, then, that I am very well de- 
 scended ; 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 trum- 
 peters in our family. Many a nobleman cannot shew 
 so respectful a genealogy ; but that is neither here nor 
 there. As I was their only child, my father designed 
 to breed m-e up to his own employment, which was 
 that of a drummer to a puppet-show. Thu3,the whole 
 employment of my younger years was that of inter- 
 
ESSAYS. 353 
 
 prefer (o Punch and King- Solomon in all his glory. 
 But, though my father was very fond of instructing 
 ine in beating all the marches and points of war, I 
 made no very great progress, because I naturally had 
 no ear for music : so at the age of fifteen, I went and 
 listed for a soldier. As I had ever hated beating a 
 drum, so I soon found that I disliked carrying a musket 
 also ; neither the one trade nor the other was to my 
 taste, for I was by nature fond of being a gentleman : 
 besides, I was obliged to obey my captain ; he has 
 his will, I have mine, and you have yours : now I 
 very reasonably concluded, that it was much more 
 comfortable for a man to obey his own will than 
 anot'her's. 
 
 ' The life of a soldier soon therefore gave me the 
 spleen ; I asked leave to quit the service ; but, as I 
 was tail 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 an- 
 swered 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 an- 
 swered my purpose every bit as well as if I had bought 
 my discharge. 
 
 ' Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employ- 
 ment, I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and, 
 in order not to be overtaken, took the most unfre- 
 quented roads possible. One evening, as I was 
 entering a village, I perceived a man, whom I after- 
 ward 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. 
 
354 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 
 for I loved always to have a man thank me at his own 
 door. The curate asked a hundred questions; as, 
 whose son I was ; froni whence I came ; and whether 
 I would be faithful. I answered him greatly to his 
 satisfaction, and gave myself one of the best characters 
 in the world for sobriety (sir, I have the' honour of 
 drinking your health), discpetion, 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 endeavoured to starve me between 
 them, 1 made a pious resolution to prevent their com- 
 mitting murder : I stole the eggs as soon as they were 
 laid ; I emptied every unfinished bottle that 1 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 morning, and paid 
 three shillings and sixpence for two months' wages. 
 
 ' While my money was getting ready, I employed 
 myself 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 knap- 
 sack. After this piece of frugality, I returned to 
 receive my money, and, with my knapsack vm my 
 back and a staff in my hand, I bid adieu, with tears 
 in my eyes, to my old benefactor. I had not gone far 
 from the house when I heard behind me the cry of 
 " Stop thief!" but this only increased my despatch: 
 it wooild 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 curate's with- 
 out drinking ; come, the times are dry, and may this 
 be my poison if ever I spent two more pious, stupid 
 months i-n 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 wanned 
 
ESSAYS. 355 
 
 to them : I Iiad a sort of natural love foi every thing 
 of the vagabond order ; they were employed in settling 
 their baggage which had been overturned in a narrow 
 way ; I offered my assistance, which they accepted ; 
 and we soon became so well acquainted, that they 
 took me as a servant. This was a paradise to me ; 
 they sung, danced, drank, eat, 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 gric, 
 and laughed at every word that was spoken. They 
 liked me as much as 1 liked them ; 1 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 gentleman from the theatre royal in 
 Drury-lane; Juliet, b}' 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 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 neighbouring apothecary's, an- 
 swered all the purposes of a bell : and our landlord's 
 own family, wrapped in white sheets, served to fill up 
 the procession. In short, there were but three figures 
 among us that might be said to be dressed with any 
 propriety ; I mean the nurse, the starved apothecary, 
 and myself. Our performance gave universal satis- 
 faction : 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 
 
350 ESSAYS, 
 
 way of expressing it, to make a great deal of the cha- 
 racter. 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 vinegar, which grates upon the taste, 
 and one feels it while he is drinking. To please in 
 town or country, the way is, to cry, wring, cringe 
 into attitudes, mark the emphasis, slap the pockets, 
 and labour like one in 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 candies ; 
 and, let me tell you, that without a candle-snufTer, 
 the piece would lose half its embellishments. In this 
 manner we continued a fortnight, and drew tolerable 
 houses : but the evening before our intended depar- 
 ture, we gave out our very best piece, in which all our 
 strength was to be exerted. VVe had great expecta- 
 tions 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 dowii 
 with the part in my hand, and a tankard before me 
 (sir, 3'our health), and studied the character, which 
 was to be rehearsed the next day, and played soon 
 after. 
 
 *I found my memory excessively helped by drink- 
 ing : 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 resolved to take her when in the humour. 
 We got together in order to rehearse, and 1 informed 
 
ESSAYS. 357 
 
 my companions, masters now no longer, of the surpris- 
 ing change I felt within me. Let the sick man, said 
 I, be under no uneasiness to get well again ; I'll fill 
 his place to universal satisfaction : he may even die, 
 if he thinks proper ; I'll engage that he shall never 
 be missed. I rehearsed before them, struifd, ranted, 
 and received applause. They soon gave out.that a 
 new actor of eminence was to appear, and immediately 
 all the genteel places were bespoke. Before I as- 
 cended 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, address- 
 ing our company)., I don't pretend to direct you ; far 
 be it from me to treat you with so much ingratitude : 
 you have published my name in the bills with the ut- 
 most good-nature ; and, as affairs stand, cannot act 
 without me ; so, gentlemen, to shew you my gratitude, 
 I expect to be paid for my acting as much as any of 
 you, otherwise 1 declare off; I'll brandish' my snuffers 
 and clip candles as usual. This was a very disagree- 
 able 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 frown- 
 ing brows bound with a stocking stuffed into a turban, 
 while on my captived arms -I brandished a jack-chain. 
 Nature seemed to have fitted me for the part ; I was 
 tall, and had a loud voice; my very entrance excited 
 universal applause ; 1 looked round on the audience 
 with a smile, and made a most low and graceful bow, 
 for that is the rule among us. As it was a very pas- 
 sionate part, I invigorated my spirits with three full 
 glasses (the tankard is almost out) of brandy. By Alia 1 
 it is almost inconceivable howl went through it. Tamer- 
 lane was but a fool to me ; though he was sometimes 
 loud enough too, yet I was still louder than he ; but 
 then, besides, I had attitudes in abundance ; in gene- 
 ral, 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 : 
 
358 ESSAYS. 
 
 in short, I came off like a prodigy ; and, such was 
 my success, that I could ravish the laurels even from 
 a sirloin of beef. The principal 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 vpord, says the squire's 
 lady, he will make one of the finest actors in Europe ; 
 I say it, and I think I am something of a judge. — 
 Praise in the beginning is agreeable enough, and we 
 receive it as a favour ; but when it comes in great 
 quantities we regard it only as a debt, which nothing 
 but our merit could extort : instead of thanking them, 
 I internally applauded myself. We were desired to 
 give our piece a second time ; we obeyed, and I was 
 applauded even more than before. 
 
 ' At last we left the town, in order to be at a horse- 
 race at some distance from thence. I shall never 
 think of Tenterden without tears of gratitude and 
 respect. The ladies and gentlemen there, take my 
 word for it, are very good judges of plays and actors. 
 Come, let us drink their healths, if you please, sir. 
 We quitted the town, I say : and there was a wide 
 difference between my coming in and going out : I 
 entered the town a candle snuffer, and I quitted it a 
 hero ! — Such is the world — little to-day, and great to- 
 morrow. I could say a great deal more upon that 
 subject, something t>ruly sublime, upon the uf)s 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 oui 
 company; 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 be- 
 lieve I should have been the first actor in Europe, 
 had my growing merit been properly cultivated ; but 
 there came an unkindly frost which nipped me in the 
 bud, and levelled me once more down to the common 
 standard of humanity. I played Sir Harry Wildair ; 
 all the country ladies were charmed : if 1 but drew 
 
ESSAYS. 359 
 
 out my snuff-box, the whole house was in a roar of 
 rapture ; when 1 exercised my cudgel, I thought they 
 would have fallen into convulsions. 
 
 ' There was here a lady who had received an edu- 
 cation of nine months in London, and this gave her 
 pretensions to taste, which rendered her the indisput- 
 able mistress 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, any thing 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, pre- 
 vailed upon to go ; and it was privately intimated to 
 me what a judge was to be present at my next exhi- 
 bition : however no way intimidated, I came on in 
 Sir Harry, one hand stuck in my breeches, and the 
 other in my bosom, as usual at Drury-lane ; but, 
 instead of looking at me, I perceived the v/hole au- 
 dience had tlieir 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 trun- 
 cheon 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 ex- 
 cite at least a smile ; but the devil a cheek could I 
 perceive wrinkled into sympathy. I found it would 
 not do ; all my good-humour now became forced ; 
 my laughter was converted into hysteric grinning ; 
 and, while I pretended spirits, my eyes shewed the 
 agony of my heart ! In short, the lady came with an 
 intention to be displeased, and displeased she was ; 
 
 my fame expired : — I am here, and the tankard is 
 
 DO morel' 
 
360 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 un"dertook 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 apartments, 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 ren- 
 der them polite. An ordinance was therefore pub- 
 lished according to their notions of breeding, which, 
 as it is a curiosity, and has never before been 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 giving some other public notice, by way of ad- 
 vertisement, 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 
 company ; but though he is exempt from all this, he 
 is to find them chairs, candles, liquors, and all othei 
 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 ia 
 the assembly. 
 
ESSAYS. 361 
 
 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 likewise be sufficient, at entering or retiring, to 
 salute the company. 
 
 VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, superior of- 
 ficers, mercliants, and tradesmen of note, head work- 
 men, especially 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 foot- 
 men, except those of the house, that there may be 
 room enough in the apartments designed for the as- 
 sembly. 
 
 VIII. No ladies are to get drunk upon any pre- 
 tence whatsoever, nor shall gentlemen be drunk before 
 nine. 
 
 IX. Ladies who play at forfeitures, questions and 
 commands, &c. shall not be riotous : no gentlemen 
 shall attempt 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 
 clown, awkward but sincere. 
 
 THE GENIUS OF LOVE: 
 
 AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. 
 
 TuE formalities, delays, and disappointments, that pre- 
 cede a treaty of marriage here, are usually as numer- 
 ous 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 encouragements for propagating hemp, madder 
 E, 
 
362 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 har- 
 mony. 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 con- 
 sideration. If their goods and chattels can be brought 
 to unite, fheir sympathetic souls are ever ready to 
 guarantee the treaty. The gentleman's mortgaged 
 lawn becomes enamoured of the lady's marriageable 
 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 profes- 
 sions ; but, of late, all the little traffic of blushing, 
 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 dimple and smile, when the dimples and 
 smiles begin to forsake 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 himself leaves her in solitude to 
 bewail her virginity, and she dies even without benefit 
 of clergy. 
 
 Thus you find the Europeans likco'iv' '■■■■: /. .(- 
 
! .- .16. S63 
 
 with as much earnebtness as the rudest savage of So- 
 fala. 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 oppose his power, 'i'he Genius is cer- 
 tainly 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 re- 
 sidence and favour. 
 
 ' 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 
 tranquillity. His temple at first was crowded, but 
 every age lessened the number of his votaries, or cooled 
 their devotion. Perceiving, therefore, his altars at 
 length quite deserted, he was resolved to remove to 
 some more propitious region ; and he apprized the fair 
 sex of every country, 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 in- 
 vite him, and to display the superiority of their claims. 
 
 ' And, first, the beauties of China appeared. No 
 country could compare with them for modesty, either 
 of look, dress, or behaviour ; their eyes were never 
 lifted from the ground ; their robes, of the most beau- 
 tiful 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 
 immodest airs, and leading up a dance in the most 
 luxurious attitudes. Their dress was but half a cover- 
 ing ; the neck, the left breast, and all the limbs, were 
 
364 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 regard, since they exchanged 
 the duties of love, and made themselves not the pur- 
 sued, but the pursuing sex, 
 
 ' The kingdom of Kashmire next produced its charm- 
 ing deputies. This happy region seemed peculiarly 
 sequestered by nature for liis abode. Shady moun- 
 tains 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, tha* 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 express ; and their teeth whiter 
 than their own ivory. He was almost persuaded to 
 reside among them, when unfortunately 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 shew, that beauty 
 could be perfect, even with the seeming disadvantage 
 of a brown complexion. But their savage education 
 rendered them utterly unqualified to make the proper 
 use of their power, 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 Caf- 
 fraria ; the squab ladies of Lapland, three feet high, 
 and the giant fair ones of Patagonia. 
 
 ' 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 
 
. ESSAYS. 365 
 
 approaching, that they would prevail : and the geniua 
 seemed to lend them his most favourable attention. — 
 They opened their pretensions with the utmost mo- 
 desty ; but unfortunately, as their orator proceeded, 
 she happened to let fall the words, house in town, 
 settlement, and pin-money. These seemingly harm- 
 less terms had instantly a surprising effect : the genius, 
 with ungovernable rage, burst from amidst the circle ; 
 and, waving his youthful pinions, left this earth, and 
 flew back to those ethereal mansions from whence he 
 descended. 
 
 ' The whole assembly was struck with amazement . 
 they now justly apprehended that female power would 
 bene more, since Love had 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 relished and agreed to. An idol of gold was 
 formed by uniting the capricious gifts of all the as- 
 sembly, 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 i.n other false 
 religions, the adoration seems more fervent where the 
 heart is least sincere.' 
 
 HISTORY OF THE DISTRESSES OP 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 en- 
 larged upon in tones of declamation ; and the world is 
 called upon to gaze at the noble sufferers : the great. 
 
366 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 
 under the pressure of calamity, are conscious ot 
 several others sympathizing with their distress ; and 
 have, at once, the comfort of admiration and pity. 
 
 There is nothing magnanimous in bearing misfor- 
 tunes with fortitude when the whole vi'orld 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, acquaintances to pity, or even without 
 hope to alleviate his misfortunes, can behave with 
 tranquillity and indifference, is truly great : whether 
 peasant or courtier, he deserves admiration, and 
 should be held up for our imitation and respect. 
 
 While the slightest inconveniences of fh« 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 without murm.uring or regret; without 
 passionately declaiming against Providence, or call- 
 ing on their fellows to be gazers on their intrepidity. 
 Every day is to them a day of misery, and yet they 
 entertain their hard fate without repining. 
 
 With what indignation do I hear an Ovid, a 
 Cicero, or a Rabutin, 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 foolislily attached an idea of happiness ! Their 
 distresses were pleasures compared to what many of 
 the a-d venturing poor every day endure without mur- 
 muring. 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 acci- 
 dentally meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow, whom 
 
ESSAYS. 367 
 
 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 knew him to be honest and industri- 
 ous 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 misfor- 
 tunes, 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 
 history as follows: — 
 
 ' As for my misfortunes, master, I can't pretend to 
 have gone through any more than other folks : fot 
 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 regi- 
 ment, 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 la- 
 bourer, and died when 1 was five years old, so I was 
 put upon the parish. As he had been a wandering 
 sort of a man, tiie parishioners were not able to tell to 
 what parish 1 belonged, 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 for 
 my labour. It is true, 1 was not suffered to stir out 
 of the house, for fear, as they said, I should run away ; 
 but what of thatl 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 
 
368 ESSAYS. 
 
 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, desired 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 be- 
 lieve a syllable I had to say ; so I was indicted at 
 sessions, found guilty of being poor, and sent up to 
 LoD'^.on to Nev«gate, in order to be transported as a 
 vagabond. 
 
 ' People may say this and that oF tieing in jail ; but, 
 for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a place as 
 ever I was in in all my life.* 1 had my bellyful! to 
 eat 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, after five months, put on board a ship, and 
 sent off, with two hundred more, to the plantations. 
 We •iad but an indifferent passage ; for, being all 
 confined in the hold, more than a hundred of our peo- 
 ple 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, be- 
 cause 1 loved my country. I was afraid, however, 
 that I should be indicted for a vagabond once moie. 
 
ESSAYS. 369 
 
 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 mantier for some time, 
 till oile 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 
 troublesome, I listed for a landman in the East- India 
 company's 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 cor- 
 poral. But it was not my good fortune to have any 
 promotion, for 1 soon fell sick, and so got leave to re- 
 turn 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 1 could 
 set foot on shore. 
 
 • The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate 
 fellow : he swore he knew that I understood my busi- 
 ness 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 
 soitie comfort 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 ol 
 them died because they were not used to live in a jail 
 but for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was sea- 
 112 
 
370 ESSAYS 
 
 soned. One night as I was sleeping on the bed of 
 boards, with a warm blanket about me, for I always 
 loved to lie ivell, 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 1 I 
 don't care, says I, striving to keep myself awake, if I 
 lend a hand. Then follow me, says he, and I hope 
 we shall do business. So up I got, and tied my 
 blanket, which was all the clothes I had, about my 
 middle, and went with him to fight the Frenchmen. 
 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 harbour 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. How- 
 ever, 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 
 retaken 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 ofl^". 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 privateer, I should have been en- 
 titled to clothing and maintenance during the rest of 
 ray life ; but that was not my chance : one man is 
 
ESSAYS. 371 
 
 born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another 
 with a wooden ladle. However, blessed be God I I 
 enjoy good health, and will for ever love liberty and 
 Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England 
 for ever, huzza !' 
 
 Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admira- 
 tion at his intrepidity and content ; nor could I avoid 
 acknowledging, 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 BT THE ORDINARY OP 
 
 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 mstance 
 of the truth of this maxim, than Mr. The. Gibber, just 
 now gone out of the world. Such a variety of turns 
 of fortune, yet such a persevering uniformity of con- 
 duct, appears in all that happened in his short span, 
 that the whole may be looked upon as one regular 
 confusion ; every action of his life was matter of won- 
 der 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 discoverai an in- 
 clination to follow lewd courses ; he refused to fake the 
 advice of his parents, and pursued the bent of his in- 
 clination ; he played at cards on the Sundays, called 
 himself a gentleman, fell out with his mother and 
 laundress ; and, even in these early days, his father 
 was frequently heard to observe, that young The. — 
 would be hanged. 
 
 As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of 
 pleasure ; would eat an ortolan for dinner, though he 
 begged the guinea that bought it; and was once known 
 to give three pounds for a plate of green peas, which 
 
372 ESSAYS. 
 
 he had collected 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 ex- 
 plain 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, don'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 
 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. Tn this promise he is punctual ; and this is 
 repeat^ for eight or ten times, till his face is well 
 known, and he has got, at last, the character o'' a good 
 customer. By this means he gets credit for so;i.ething 
 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 ; lio 
 
ESSAYS. 373 
 
 loved ortolans and green peas, as before ; he drank 
 gravy-soup when he could get it, and always thought 
 his oysters tasted best when he got them for nothing, 
 or, which was just the same, when he bought them 
 upon tick ; thus the old man kept up the vices of the 
 youth, and what he wanted in power he made up by 
 inclination ; so that all the world thought that old 
 The. — would be banged. 
 
 And now, reader, 1 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 j 
 you expect an account of his coffin and white gloves, 
 his pious ejaculations, and the papers he left behind 
 him. In this 1 cannot indulge your curiosity : for, 
 oh, the mysteries of fate ! The. — was drowned. 
 
 '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 
 follow the dictates of some, this virtue, instead of being 
 the assuager of pain, becomes the source of every 
 inconvenience. Such speculatists, by expecting too 
 much from friendship, dissolve the connexion, and by 
 drawing the bands too closely, at length break them. 
 Almost all our romance and novel writers are of this 
 kind ; they persuade us to friendship, which v/e find it 
 impossible to sustaiu to the last ; so that this sweetener 
 of life, under proper regulations, is, by their means, 
 rendered inaccessible 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 pro- 
 duce 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 
 
374 ESSAYS. 
 
 for each other, when they were at first only in pursuit 
 of mirth or relaxation. 
 
 Friendship is like a debt of honour ; 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 en- 
 deavours. That circle of beings, which dependance 
 gathers round us, is almost ever unfriendly ; they 
 secretly wish the terms of their connexions 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 obli- 
 gations which are laid upon such minds, only increaies 
 their burden ; they feel themselves 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 pos- 
 sessed 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 depen- 
 dants was Musidorus, with a mind just as fond of 
 virtue, yet not less proud than his patron. His cir- 
 cumstances, 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 dis- 
 appointed ; 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 proud man was soon construed into ingratitude ; 
 and such indeed in the common acceptation of the 
 
ESSAYS. 375 
 
 world it was. Wherever MusiJcrus appeared, he was 
 remarked as the ungrateful man ; he had accepted 
 favours, it was said ; and still had the insolence to 
 pretend to independence. I'he event, however, jus- 
 tified his conduct. Plautinus, by misplaced liberality, 
 at length became poor, and it was then that Musidorus 
 first thought of making a friend of him. He flevv 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 inter- 
 ruption, till death, had not the good fortune of the 
 one alarmed the pride of the other, which was in his 
 prom-otioH to be a centurion under the famous John, 
 who headed a particular part of the Jewish malcon- 
 tents. 
 
 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 mo-re than two yeais, vowing mutual 
 revenge, and animated with an unconquerable spirit 
 of aversion. At length, however, that party of the 
 Jews, to which the mean soldier belonged, joininp^ 
 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 bis former 
 
3T6 ESSAYS. 
 
 friend, upon the batllements of the higliest tower, 
 looking; round with horror, and just ready to be con- 
 sumed 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 
 centurion from above heard and obeyed ; and, casting 
 himself 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 sustain in the concert. I dislike, therefore, 
 the philosopher who describes the inconveniences of 
 life in such pleasing colours, that the pupil grows en- 
 amoured 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 philosophic 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 undone. 
 
 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 
 
ESSAYS. 377 
 
 attachments, and steadfast in enmity, he treats every 
 creature as a friend or foe ; expects from those he loves 
 unerring integrity ; and consigns his enemies to the 
 reproach of wanting every virtue. On this principle 
 he proceeds ; and here begin his disappointments : 
 upon a closer inspection of human nature, he per- 
 ceives, that he should have moderated his friendship, 
 and softened his severity ; for he often finds the excel- 
 lences 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 now, therefore, but too late, perceives that his 
 regards should have been more cool, and his- hatred 
 less violent ; that the truly wise seldom court romantic 
 friendship with the good, and avoid, if possible, the 
 resentment even of the wicked ; every moment gives 
 him fresh instances that the bonds of friendship are 
 broken if drawn too closely ; and that those, whom he 
 has treated with disrespect, more than retaliate the 
 injury: at length, therefore, 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 consequence of the many enemies his conduct 
 has created, yet he is resolved to meet it without 
 shrinking ; philosophers have described poverty in 
 most charming colours ; and even his vanity is touched 
 in thinking he shall shew the world in himself one 
 more example of patience, fortitude, and resignation : 
 ' Come, then, O Poverty ! for what is there in thee 
 dreadful to the wisel Temperance, health, and fru- 
 gality, walk in thy train ; cheerfulness and liberty are 
 ever thy companions. Shall any be ashamed of thee, 
 of whom Cincinnatus was not ashamed 1 The running 
 brook, the herbs of the field, c-an amply satisfy nature; 
 man wants but little, nor that little long. Come then. 
 
378 ESSAYS. 
 
 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 fiiends 
 and relations had long described as a model of perfec- 
 tion, pays her first 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 pro- 
 cession. 
 
 The poor man now finds that he can get no kings to 
 look at him Nvhile he is eating: he finds, that in propor- 
 tio I as he grows poor, the world turn? its back upon 
 hi: 1, and gives him leave to act the philosopher in all 
 ihi.. 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 1 Thus is he forsaken of men, while his 
 fortitude wants the satisfaction even of self-applause ; 
 for either he does not feel his present calamities, and 
 that is natural insensibility; or he disguises his feel- 
 ings, and that is dissimulation. 
 
 Spleen now begins to take up the man ; not distin- 
 guishing in his resentment, he regards all mankind 
 with detestation : and, commencing man-hater, seeks 
 solitude 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. 
 
ESSAYS. 379 
 
 LETTER, 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WUIITEN BY A COMMON COUNCIIrMAN, 
 AT TJSE TIME OF THE CORONATION. 
 
 Sir, — I have the honour of being a common-council- 
 man, and am greatly pieased 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 
 nuptials by a magnificent turtle-feast. By this means 
 the gentlemen had the pleasure of filling their bellies, 
 and shewing 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 1 am an unvvorthy member. Instead of pre- 
 senting his majesty (God bless him) on every occasion 
 with our formal addresses, we might thus sit com- 
 fortably down to dinner, and wish him prosperity in a 
 sirloin of beef ; upon our army levelling the walls of 
 a town, or besieging a fortification, we might at our 
 city-feast imitate our br^ve troops, and demolish the 
 wails of a venison-pasty, or besiege the shell of a 
 turtle, with as great a certainty of success. 
 
 At present, however, we have got into a sort of dry, 
 unsocial manner of drawing up addresses upon every 
 occasion ; and though I have attended upon six caval- 
 cades, and two foot-proccisions, 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, JVIr. Printer, 
 I don't see what is got by these processions and ad- 
 dresses, except an appetite ; and that, thank Heaven, 
 we have all 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 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 
 powdering, through the streets, be agreeable enough 
 to many of us; yet, I would have my brethren consi* 
 
S80 KS^AYS 
 
 der whether the frequent repetition of it be so agree- 
 able 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 
 seldor'd ; but it may be a troublesome 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 Bartholo- 
 mew 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 pas- 
 times, drinking beer, eating shrimps, and smoking 
 tobacco. 
 
 Besides, what can we tell his majesty in all we say 
 on these occasions, but what he knows perfectly well 
 already 1 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 
 
 vrorth a hundred thousand pounds, and are possessed 
 of several other inestimable advantages. For thp pre- 
 servation of this money and those advantages we are 
 
 chiefly indebted to your m y. We are, therefore, 
 
 once more assembled, to assure your m y of our 
 
 fidelity. This, it is true, we have lately assured your 
 
 m -y five or six times; but we are willing once 
 
 more to repeat what can't be doubted, and to kiss youi 
 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 our- 
 selves of one hundred thousand pounds.' Should 
 we not, upon reading such an address, think that 
 people a little silly, who thus made such unmeaning 
 professions 1 Excuse me, Mr. Printer : no man upon 
 earth hath a more profound respect for the abilities ol 
 
ESSAYS. 381 
 
 the aldermen and common-council than I; but I 
 cou]"d 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 proba- 
 bly be followed by every other community in the 
 British empire. Thus we shall have a new set of ad- 
 dresses from every little borough with but foHr freemen 
 and a burgess ; day after day shall we see them come 
 up with hearts filled with gratitude, ' laying the vows 
 of a loyal people at the foot of the throne.' Death ! 
 Mr. Printer, they'll hardly leave our courtiers time 
 to scheme a single project for beating the French; 
 and our enemies may gain upon us, while we are thus 
 employed in telling our governor how much we intend 
 to keep them under. 
 
 But a people by too frequent use of addresses may 
 by this means come at last to defeat the very purpose 
 for which they are designed. If we are thus exclaim- 
 ing in raptures upon every occasion, we deprive our- 
 selves 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 unne- 
 cessary 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 pro- 
 posed. 
 
 I am, sir, &c. 
 
382 
 
 A SECOND LETTER, 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WniTTUN Br A COMMON-COUNCIIrMAN, 
 DESCRIBING THE CORONATION. 
 
 Sir, — I am the same common-council-man who tiou- 
 bled you some days ago. To whom can I complain 
 but to you "! for you have many a dismal correspon- 
 dent; 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 coro- 
 nation, and a fine sight it was, as I am told, to those 
 who had the pleasure of being near spectators. The 
 diamonds, I am told, were as thick as Bristol stones in 
 a show glass; the ladies and gentlemen walked along, 
 one foot before another, and threw their eyes about 
 them, on this side anfi 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 
 scaffolding, like sheep upon a market-day in Smith- 
 field ; but the devil a thing could I get to eat (God 
 pardon me for swearing) 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- 
 peuCe a-piece to go to Sudrick fair, to see the court of 
 the black Kin^ of Morocco, which will serve to please 
 children well enough. ^ 
 
 That we might have good places on the scafTolding', 
 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 resolu- 
 tion, 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 scaffold. You lemember what a cold you 
 got the last fast-day by rising but half an hour before 
 
ESSAYS. 383 
 
 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 in 
 spirits ; I don't want to go, not I, nor I don't care 
 whether I go at all ; it is seldom that I am in spirits, 
 but this is always the case.' In short, Mr. Printer, 
 what will you have on't? to the coronation we went. 
 
 What difficulties we had in getting a coach ; how 
 we were shoved about in the mob ; how I had my 
 pocket picked of the last new almanack, and my steel 
 tobacco-bos; 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 
 certainly a heart of oak ; I thought sitting up in the 
 damp nig!)t-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- 
 tide air,' towards one o'clock in the morninsr. How- 
 ever, with all their endeavours, I was as cold and as 
 dismal as ever I remember. If this be the pleasures 
 of a coronation, cried I to myself, 1 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 in- 
 clined me to rest a little. You must know, sir, that 
 I am naturally of a sleepy constitution ; I have often 
 sat up at table with my eyes open, and have been 
 asleep all the while. What will you have on t? just 
 
884 ESSAxS 
 
 about eight o'clock in the morning I fell asleep. I 
 fell into the most pleasing dream in the world. 1 shall 
 never forget it ; 1 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 
 dessert was brought in its room. Thought I to my- 
 self, if I have not got enough of venison, I am re- 
 solved to make it up by the largest snap at the sweet- 
 meats. Accordingly I grasped a whole pyramid ; 
 the rest of the guests seeing me with so much, one 
 gave me a snap, the otiier gave me a snap ; I was 
 pulled this way by my neighbour on my right hand, 
 and that way by my neighbour on the left, but still 
 kept my ground without flinciiing, and continued eat- 
 ing 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 inex- 
 pressible ; in fact, it broke my dream ; when awak- 
 ing 1 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 procession was going forward, 
 but that I still continued to sleep till the whole cere- 
 mony 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. 
 
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